A fighting chance

13

PLANET TREVIA, THE POONARA PROTECTORATE

Vanderveen was asleep when the com set began to beep. She fumbled for the handset and swore as it clattered to the floor beside her bed. Having retrieved it, she rolled over onto her back. It was daytime but just barely. Sunlight streamed down through the slats of wood over her head and threw long, narrow shadows across her blanket. “Hello? This is Christine Vanderveen.”

“It’s Missy,” Sayers said. “Sorry to call so early, ma’am, but we need to get to the hospital now.”

Vanderveen sat up and swung her feet over onto the tile floor. Her first thought was for her staff. “Why? What happened?”

“It isn’t one of our people, ma’am. Somebody tortured Hamantha Croth. Then they shot him and left him for dead. Except he isn’t dead. Not yet anyway. A neighbor saw some Ramanthians leave his place in the middle of the night and called the police. They brought Croth to the hospital. And he’s asking for you. I think this is important, ma’am. We need to hurry.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes,” Vanderveen replied. “And bring some sort of recorder.”

The diplomats entered the hospital twenty minutes later. There was a slight delay at the front desk. Shortly thereafter, a Ramanthian doctor arrived to escort them up to the second floor. He spoke standard with a heavy accent but could still be understood. “We must hurry. Citizen Croth is dying. We did everything we could, but it won’t be enough.”

Croth/Hoknar had a room to himself. He was belly down on a Ramanthian-style bolster bed. He was hooked to an IV, and there was machinery all around. His eyes were closed, and a rasping sound could be heard each time he took a breath. A patch of sealant marked the spot where he’d been shot, one of his wings was missing, as was a foot. To say that Croth/Hoknar had been tortured was an understatement. It made Vanderveen feel sick as she knelt next to him. “Citizen Croth? Or should I say Majordomo Hoknar? This is Consul Vanderveen. You wanted to speak with me?”

There was no response at first, and Vanderveen wondered if the Ramanthian was conscious. Then his eyes opened and seemed to roll into focus. Hoknar’s voice was so faint that Vanderveen had to lean forward in order to hear it. “Listen carefully… The Warrior Queen is still alive. And in hiding. But a cabal led by ex-Governor Parth managed to place their own Queen on the throne. Now, because of my weakness, they know where she is. Go to Sensa II, find the rightful Queen, and return her to power. Both sides will have to make concessions. But, if you do as I say, peace is possible.”

Vanderveen felt a rising sense of excitement. If what Croth, AKA Hoknar, said was true, the mere fact that the Warrior Queen was alive represented an important opportunity. Because by publicizing that fact, it might be possible to sow the seeds of dissent within the Ramanthian population. And, if the Warrior Queen would be willing to negotiate a truce in order to regain her throne, that could end the war. She glanced at Sayers and was relieved to see that she was aiming a camcorder at Croth/Hoknar. “Around my neck,” he rasped. “The royal seal. Take it. Tell the Queen what I said. She may not like your proposal, but she will listen.”

“I will try,” Vanderveen promised.

Croth/Hoknar closed his eyes, shuddered as if in pain, and opened them again. “Thank you. And one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“Tell the Queen I’m sorry. So very, very sorry. The pain was too much.”

Vanderveen started to reply but saw the light in the Ramanthian’s eyes start to fade and knew he was gone. A tone sounded and stopped as the doctor pinched a switch. He had been responsible for the Queen’s medical care during her short stay on Trevia and liked her. His eyes made contact with Vanderveen’s. “So you’ll help?”

“If I can.”

He nodded. “Please hurry.”

Two hours after Croth/Hoknar’s death, Vanderveen was seated at her desk staring at the hypercom in front of her. Assuming the device worked, it would allow her to have a real-time conversation with people on Algeron. Interestingly enough, the basic technology had been stolen from the Ramanthians by none other than Major Antonio Santana. And now, a year and a half later, it was revolutionizing interstellar communications. Because prior to the advent of the hypercom, it would have been necessary to send a message torp to Algeron and wait for a reply. A two-week process if everything went well.

Now she could make an FTL call. But would Assistant Secretary Holson take the opportunity seriously? And react to it quickly enough? She feared that he wouldn’t.

There was another way of course. And that was to try for Secretary of State Yatsu. Or the president himself. But if she went over her supervisor’s head, the move could be seen as further evidence of what her superiors perceived as a rebellious nature. Vanderveen sighed. There was no way in hell that she was going to call Holson and run the risk that the bastard would try to block her.

First, she had to enter a five-digit access code into an alphanumeric keypad. Then it was necessary to slip a finger into the ID port. The finger prick hurt. What seemed like a very long ten seconds passed as the device verified her DNA and opened an FTL link. Eventually it would become possible to call discrete locations from the field. But for the moment, all Foreign Service calls were routed through a computer on Algeron. Its female persona had black hair and brown skin. The image shivered, broke up into a thousand motes of light, and came back together again. “Good evening, Consul Vanderveen. Who are you calling?”

“The president.”

A human might have registered surprise, but the simulacrum’s expression remained unchanged. “Priority?”

“One.”

“Please hold.”

The operator, if that was the correct word, disappeared. A Confederacy seal appeared in her place. Vanderveen held and held some more. Fifteen long minutes passed. Finally, with no advance warning, Nankool appeared on the screen. He looked disheveled and had clearly been asleep. “I’m taking this call because of what we went through on Jericho,” he said grumpily. “But it had better be important. Because if you’re calling to whine about conditions on Trevia, this will be a very short conversation. Come to think of it, why call me? You report to Assistant Secretary Holson.”

Vanderveen felt sick to her stomach. Was the Croth/Hoknar thing real? What if he had been lying? But why would he do that? “I’m sorry to wake you, sir,” Vanderveen said, as she battled to keep her voice steady. “But I have evidence that a Ramanthian cabal forced the Warrior Queen into hiding on Sensa II-and replaced her with a monarch of their own choosing. Given how important such a development would be, and the urgent need to protect the Warrior Queen from a team of assassins, I thought it best to call you directly.”

Nankool looked stunned. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. Finally, having regained his composure, he was able to speak. “You mentioned evidence. What evidence?”

“The Ramanthian you are about to see is named Bebo Hoknar. He called himself Hamantha Croth while in hiding. He was the Warrior Queen’s majordomo prior to her supposed death. After being tortured, shot, and left for dead, he sent for me. Here’s what he had to say.”

Vanderveen’s right index finger stabbed a button. Video from Sayer’s camcorder followed the carrier wave through hyperspace to Algeron. She watched as Croth/Hoknar told his story all over again. Once it was over, Nankool reappeared. There was a frown on his face. “How long have you been there? A few weeks?”

It was actually considerably less than that-but Vanderveen could see where things were headed. “Something like that, sir.”

“And you’re already causing trouble.”

Vanderveen didn’t see it that way, but said, “Yes, sir.”

“We don’t have a consulate on Sensa II, do we?”

“No, sir.”

“And you want to go there. Am I correct?”

“It seems like an important opportunity, sir.”

Nankool grinned broadly. “Holson will be pissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to the navy. Hopefully, they have a suitable vessel in the area. They will contact you.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

At that point, Vanderveen expected Nankool to break off the conversation, but he didn’t. A serious expression appeared on his face. “Christine… There is a dispatch on the way to you via normal channels. And I’m sorry to say that it contains some very bad news.”

Vanderveen felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Santana. It had to be Santana. Nankool knew him, as did her father. She bit her lower lip in an effort to fight back the tears. “Yes?”

“It’s your mother, Christine… She was killed in action during a raid. The nature of the mission is classified, so I can’t give any details. But suffice it to say that a number of people owe their lives to her bravery. Margaret was an extraordinary woman.”

Vanderveen managed to say, “Thank you for letting me know,” though she was crying as the little screen went black. Her mother dead? It didn’t seem possible. Her father would be devastated.

Vanderveen wanted to retreat to her quarters but couldn’t do so without being seen. So she locked the door to her office and curled up on the couch. Sobs racked her body, shadows crept across the room, and the war continued.

ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY MINESWEEPER 10 IN ORBIT AROUND SENSA II

According to all of the information that Vanderveen had been able to get, the city of Heferi was a very dangerous place. For that reason, the Io ’s commanding officer, LTJG Craig Sullivan, insisted on going with her. Which should have been fine except that the diplomat couldn’t tell if Sullivan was going to be an asset or a liability. He looked as if he wasn’t a day over eighteen. But as his XO, a chief warrant officer named Lopez, had told Vanderveen during the trip out, “Don’t let the schoolboy looks fool you. It takes balls to disarm a mine. And brains, too. He’s a little uptight, but that will wear off.”

Except now, due to Vanderveen’s need to reach Sensa II quickly, the boyish officer was about to accompany her down to the surface of a very dangerous planet, a task that was very different from neutralizing mines. Was he up to it? There wasn’t any choice. He had to be.

The officer eyed her skeptically as First Class Petty Officer Mubu entered the Io ’s tiny mess and dumped an armload of weapons onto the metal table. “No offense, ma’am, but are you familiar with small arms?” Sullivan wanted to know.

“Never seen one before,” Vanderveen deadpanned as she chose a semiauto handgun and released the magazine. Then, with the expertise born of considerable practice, she began to slip cartridges into the clip. “This will do as a primary-assuming you have more magazines for it. But I’d like something smaller for a backup. Plus a decent flick-blade.”

Sullivan smiled wryly. “Who knew that diplomats were so familiar with weapons?”

Vanderveen smiled. “It helps to speak softly and carry a big gun. Speaking of which, what have we got for heavy artillery? From what I hear, the people on Sensa II are well armed.”

“That’s where this bad boy comes in,” Mubu said, as he cradled a pulse cannon in his arms. He had dark skin, broad cheekbones, and extremely white teeth. “I could stop a tank with this puppy.”

Vanderveen nodded. “I hope you won’t have to. Let’s get ready, gentlemen. The sooner we get dirtside, the better.”

It took all of three hours to complete their preparations, get the necessary landing clearances, and enter the planet’s frequently turbulent atmosphere. Rather than bring the navy minesweeper down and get the locals all stirred up, Sullivan had elected to use one of the ship’s two shuttles. He had the cockpit to himself, and the others were seated behind him in the multipurpose cargo compartment.

Heferi was on the dark side of the planet at the moment. And since it was the only city on Sensa II, Vanderveen found herself staring out a viewport into stygian blackness as the tiny vessel leveled out over what she assumed was desert. And that was how things remained until Sullivan’s voice came over the intercom ten minutes later. “I have visual contact with Heferi-and we’ve been cleared to land. Check your harnesses, say your prayers, and don’t soil my seats. You’ll clean ’em if you do.”

With that cheerful admonition, the shuttle began to slow, dropped down into the valley that lay between two mountainous dunes, and circled the cluster of lights below. As Vanderveen looked out through the viewport, she saw three red tracers blink into existence and curve toward the ship. Target practice perhaps? Or someone hoping to bring the shuttle down so they could loot the wreckage?

She could only guess as the cannon shells sailed past and vanished from sight. The shuttle seemed to pause in midair as Sullivan fired the repellers, and the ship settled onto a brightly lit “X.” Then, acting on instructions from air traffic control, Sullivan took off again and scooted the boat into a slot between a Thraki freighter and a disreputable-looking yacht. “Welcome to Heferi,” Sullivan said, as the skids touched down for the second time. “I hope we find the Queen quickly. The locals charge two hundred credits an hour to park here.”

Vanderveen wasn’t too worried about money, having signed for fifty thousand back on Trevia, but she was in agreement nevertheless. The Ramanthian assassins could have been on the ground for a full rotation already. She felt a rising sense of impatience as she came up out of her seat. “Let’s gear up and hit the dirt. We have work to do.”

After leaving a large cash deposit with the spaceport’s heavily guarded cashier, the threesome was free to leave the facility and enter the dimly lit streets beyond. They were dressed in civilian clothing to blend in with the local population.

A dozen would-be bodyguards were waiting to greet them as they emerged, along with a bevy of drug dealers, prostitutes, and guides. They rushed to surround the newcomers but fell back when the heavily armed Mubu stepped forward.

Vanderveen eyed the people arrayed in front of her, spotted a one-legged man on crutches, and pointed at him. “ You. Yes, you. We need a guide. I’ll pay fifty credits for the next five hours of your time.”

The man grinned broadly. His cheeks were unshaven, half his nose was missing, and his teeth were brown. “You chose well,” he cackled. “I know Heferi like the back of my hand.”

“Are you sure about this?” Sullivan wanted to know. “Why him?”

“Because he can’t outrun us,” Vanderveen replied.

Sullivan gave her an admiring glance as the newly hired guide hopped toward them. His clothes were ragged, and a sour smell surrounded him. Vanderveen wrinkled her nose. “What’s your name?”

“It’s William. But everybody calls me Billy.”

“Well, Billy… We’re looking for some bugs. Some of them arrived in the last day or so. Ring any bells?”

Billy shook his head. “No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am. But that don’t mean they ain’t here. I work nights. It’s cooler then. Maybe they landed during the day.”

Vanderveen nodded. “How ’bout bugs who have been here for a while? They would be secretive and well protected.”

“Nope,” Billy said. “I’m not aware of anything like that. But I know where we can find out.”

“Good. What have you got in mind?”

“It’s a bar called Homer’s. All kinds of people hang out there. If your bugs are in Heferi, someone knows.”

“Okay,” Vanderveen agreed. “Take us there.”

It was only a three-block walk-but a scary one nevertheless. There were no streetlights. Just the occasional internally lit sign, the momentary spill of light from an open door, or the glow of luminescent graffiti. Billy’s crutches made a rhythmic thumping sound as he led the visitors around a corner, past a group of dimly seen men, and toward the sign beyond. The H had gone dark so it read as OMER’S.

A scattering of locals were standing around outside. Some of them traded greetings with Billy. The rest eyed the trio in the speculative manner that predators reserve for their prey.

Two heavily armed Hudathan bouncers were on duty at the front door. One of them raised a large paw. “Hold it right there, Billy. Homer wants his twenty credits. You got it?”

Billy turned to look at Vanderveen, who removed a small roll of money from a pocket and subtracted a twenty. She gave it to Billy, who passed it along. “There,” he said triumphantly. “Billy always pays his debts.”

“Yeah,” the bouncer replied. “And it’s going to rain beer in the morning. Don’t skip out on your bar tab again. Not unless you want to lose the other leg, too.”

Billy made a face, waved his clients forward, and entered the bar. Vanderveen felt warm, fetid air wash around her as she and her companions were enveloped by a miasma of stale beer, mixed body odors, and the fumes from greasy food. There were twenty or thirty tables, and about half of them were in use. A brightly lit bar could be seen against the far wall-and a tired-looking stripper was orbiting a pole off to the right. The music had a prominent backbeat and was too loud for comfort.

Vanderveen scanned the crowd for Ramanthians, didn’t see any, and felt an insect land on her cheek. She slapped and it buzzed way. “Sand flies,” Billy said disgustedly, as if that explained everything. “Where would you like to sit?”

“In a corner,” Sullivan answered, and Vanderveen nodded. It would be good to put their backs against a wall if that was possible.

Having located an empty table and ordered a round of drinks, the threesome settled in to watch the crowd as Billy went out to speak with the people he knew. None of whom was likely to share information with strangers. And, because there was a constant flow of individuals in and out of the bar, that kept him busy for quite a while. But eventually he was forced to return to the table with nothing meaningful to report. A few Ramanthians had been seen here and there over the last month, but nobody was sure where they were or why they were in Heferi. And nobody cared.

So being tired, and with no leads to follow up on, Vanderveen had Billy take them to a nearby boxtel, where she paid him. In keeping with its name, the hostelry consisted of about fifty lockable cargo modules all stacked in tiers. They were located inside what might have been a Forerunner temple, judging from the vaulted roof, an altarlike structure at one end of the room, and rows of stone benches. Each box had an air vent with a mattress and clean bedding. The last was a welcome surprise.

Like the other two, the diplomat had little more than a toothbrush with her. So it didn’t take long to get ready for bed and crawl into her “room.” Then, after removing her body armor, it was time to curl up with a gun in her hand. That was when Vanderveen thought about her mother, father, and Santana. A sand fly was trapped inside the box, and it buzzed from time to time. Eventually, she fell asleep.

When Vanderveen awoke, the air was warm, she needed to pee, and she could hear the pop, pop, pop of gunfire in the distance. After pulling her gear together and crawling out of the box, the diplomat discovered that Billy was waiting on the floor below. He nodded respectfully. “Morning, ma’am. I found someone who can tell you about the bugs.”

Vanderveen jumped down onto the sand-scattered floor. “How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“One hundred.”

“One-fifty.”

“One-twenty-five. And that’s final.”

Billy nodded happily. “Done. But my source will want something, too.”

“Wait here.”

Having roused her companions, Vanderveen spent fifteen minutes in a rented shower stall, toweled off, and put the same clothes back on. When she returned to the main room, the others were ready. “Okay,” Vanderveen said. “Where are we going?”

“To a bar,” Billy announced.

“I like this job,” Mubu said approvingly.

The heat fell on them like a hammer as they left the boxtel and entered the streets beyond. Vanderveen could see the lead dune by looking left-and the back dune by looking right. Both had steep slopes and were hundreds of feet tall. The ground shook, and a dull thump was heard. “Tomb raiders,” Billy explained. “Fighting it out somewhere below us. That’s how I lost my leg. Follow me.”

Sand flies buzzed all around as the foursome picked their way through the debris-littered streets. Empty shell casings lay everywhere. Billy led them around a body at one point, and a horrible stench filled Vanderveen’s nostrils. The city was, she decided, the worst hellhole she’d ever been in. And that was saying something.

It took ten minutes to reach the ladder that led down into the bar called the Mummy’s Breath. “I’ll wait here,” Billy announced. “Just ask for Kai Cosmo. He’ll tell you what he knows.”

Vanderveen descended the ladder first and was surprised by the flow of cool air that rose to greet her. The mummy’s Is breath perhaps? Yes, she thought so. The air had a dry, musty quality-as if emanating from ancient chambers far below.

A human bouncer was positioned at the foot of the ladder. He nodded and pointed Vanderveen toward a rough-hewn passageway. It had been excavated by tomb raiders as part of their efforts to find Forerunner artifacts.

Vanderveen followed a series of dangling glow strips to a set of stairs that led down into what might have been a rectangular swimming pool thousands of years before. That’s where two dozen tables had been set up. It was early in the day, so most of them were empty. A badly dented one-eyed utility droid clanked over to greet them. “Good morning,” the machine said gravely. “A table for three?”

“We’re looking for Kai Cosmo,” Vanderveen responded.

“Of course,” the robot replied. “Please follow me.”

Vanderveen and her companions followed the machine to a table where a man was in the process of assembling a submachine gun (SMG) from the newly oiled parts laid out in front of him. He had a hard face, a dark tan, and was dressed in military-style body armor. There was an audible click as one assembly mated with another. “Mr. Cosmo?” the diplomat inquired. “My name is Vanderveen. Billy sent us.”

Cosmo directed a stream of ju-ju juice at a spittoon and nodded. “Have a seat. Sorry about the parts. It’s a good idea to clean your weapons once a day around here. The goddamned sand gets into everything.”

“You sound like a marine,” Sullivan said stiffly. “A deserter perhaps?”

“And you sound like a tight-assed navy officer,” came the reply. “And a junior one at that.”

Sullivan was seated by then. He looked offended. Or tried to. “A navy officer? What makes you say that?”

“The academy ring on your left hand,” Cosmo answered dryly.

Sullivan looked embarrassed and began to rotate the face of the ring inwards.

Cosmo jerked a thumb toward Mubu. “And, judging from the CSN tattoo on Mr. Plasma Cannon’s forearm,” Cosmo continued, “he’s one of your men. Not the play pretty though… She’s a civilian.”

Vanderveen smiled as the merc continued to put the SMG back together. “How so?”

“You’re wearing your sidearm in a cross-draw holster, your hair is too long, and you smell nice.”

Sullivan scowled and Vanderveen laughed. “You’re good. I’m impressed. Billy says you have some information for us.”

“Maybe,” Cosmo allowed warily. “I led a group of mercs who were hired to guard a complex occupied by some very snooty bugs. One of them was sick and confined to a cagelike apparatus. Sound interesting?”

“Yes,” Vanderveen replied, as her heart began to beat a little bit faster. “ Very interesting. Where are they?”

“Ah,” Cosmo said, as he slipped a magazine into the SMG. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Let’s talk price.”

“What do you want?”

“A ride,” Cosmo said simply.

“Why?” Sullivan wanted to know.

“Why not?” Cosmo answered. “Would you want to stay here? I made some money, and I’d like to live long enough to spend it.”

“You have a deal,” Vanderveen responded.

“What about sailor boy?” Cosmo wanted to know, as the wad of ju-ju migrated from one cheek to the other. “What’s to keep him and his swabbies from throwing me into the brig?”

“He takes his orders from me,” Vanderveen replied. “And you have my word.”

Cosmo looked from face to face. Sullivan scowled but didn’t deny it.

“Okay,” the merc replied. “The bugs took off for Orb I. That’s a space station in orbit around Long Jump in case you aren’t familiar with it.”

“You’re sure?”

Cosmo nodded. “One hundred percent. My team and I took the bugs to the spaceport. They had a Thraki in tow. He mentioned the name. And they left on his ship.”

Vanderveen was about to reply when a buzzing sound was heard and Cosmo made a grabbing motion. “Well, look at this,” the merc said, as he held the object up for the others to inspect. And there, rather than the sand fly that Vanderveen expected to see, was a tiny spy ball. It hummed and began to vibrate in a futile attempt to escape Cosmo’s grasp.

The diplomat felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach. Someone had been listening to the conversation. But who? Locals? Hoping to make money off what they heard? Or the assassins who had been sent to murder the Queen? “Come on,” she said grimly. “Let’s get out of here.”

Cosmo stood, placed the spy ball under his boot, and placed his weight on it. Electricity crackled, and there was a crunching sound.

As they left the bar, Cosmo paused to give the bouncer a couple of credits in exchange for a dusty backpack, which he hoisted up onto his shoulders. “I never sleep in the same place twice,” he explained. “It’s safer that way.”

The ladder shook as Vanderveen climbed up into the hot sun. Then, having stepped off to one side, she put on a pair of sunglasses. Billy had been waiting in a scrap of shade on the other side of the street. He waved and began to hop his way across the open area. A hundred and twenty-five credits was a lot of money, and he was eager to collect it.

Then a black shadow slid over him, Vanderveen heard a thrumming sound, and a rocket struck the street. There was a flash of light followed by a loud boom. And when the smoke cleared, there was nothing more than some bloodstains and a blackened crutch to mark the place where Billy had been.

There wasn’t time to think, much less duck. So it wasn’t until after the explosion that Vanderveen realized she’d been hit by tiny pieces of shrapnel. They stung as she looked up and saw the air car. Cosmo yelled, “Follow me!” and with no one else to rely on, Vanderveen obeyed.

The merc ran down the block with the others right behind him. Vanderveen realized they were heading in a northwesterly direction, toward the spaceport. The air car’s shadow caught up with her from behind, bullets kicked up puffs of dust all around, and Cosmo turned to fire the SMG at the attackers.

Then the air car was gone, and Cosmo was leading them through the ruins of a partially collapsed building. People were camped there, making it necessary to zigzag through a maze of tents, clotheslines, and fire pits. Some of the residents yelled obscenities but stopped as the tubby aircraft reappeared, and a stream of machine-gun bullets sent everyone diving for cover.

“This way!” Cosmo said, as he trampled someone’s meal and ducked into a doorway. The others followed, and Vanderveen found herself on the ground floor of a tower. They were safe for the moment. But she knew that if they ventured out, the car would pounce on them again.

“Who the hell is shooting at us?” Sullivan wanted to know.

“The people who sent the spy ball,” Cosmo answered pragmatically. “Hey, you… Cannon guy. Are you any good with that thing? Or do you carry it to look tough?”

Mubu frowned. “You’re starting to piss me off, jarhead. Yes, I’m good with it. What’s on your mind? Assuming you have one.”

Cosmo grinned. “Climb the stairs and get set. When the car comes, blow it out of the sky.”

Mubu looked quizzical. “But what if it doesn’t come?”

“Oh, it’ll come all right,” Cosmo assured him. “Now get up there.”

Mubu turned and began to climb the stairs. “Okay,” Cosmo said, as he replaced the SMG’s partially used magazine with a fresh one. “I’m going to invite the car to return. Feel free to shoot at it.” And with that, he was gone.

“Stay here,” Vanderveen said to Sullivan. “And guard the stairs. I’ll provide covering fire for Mubu.”

Sullivan opened his mouth to protest, but Vanderveen had already turned her back on him. She took the stairs two at a time. They turned, and turned again, before delivering her to the top of the tower. Judging from a corner heaped with trash and the strong odor of urine that hung in the air, someone had been camped there until very recently. But they were nowhere to be seen as Vanderveen drew her pistol and thumbed the safety off.

Mubu glanced her way before raising the cannon on his shoulder. “There’s Cosmo,” Vanderveen said, as she peered over the waist-high wall. “He’s standing in plain sight.”

“Crazy bastard,” Mubu mumbled, as he turned a slow 360.

“There it is!” Vanderveen said, as the car emerged from between two buildings and sunlight glinted off the driver’s windscreen. “To your left at two o’clock.”

Mubu swiveled as the aircraft appeared and opened fire on the ground below. Geysers of dust erupted all around Cosmo, who ducked behind a block of stone. That was when Mubu fired. Everything seemed to go into slow motion as the blob of coherent energy sailed toward the air car and missed by less than a foot. “Damn it!” the sailor said, as the shot blew a huge divot out of the building beyond.

“Uh-oh,” Vanderveen said, as the air car began to turn. “You pissed them off.”

Mubu made a slight change to his stance and took careful aim as the airborne vehicle turned and the bow-mounted machine gun began to chatter. Vanderveen swore and emptied an entire magazine into the car. That was when she saw the Ramanthians and knew Cosmo was correct. The bugs knew where the Warrior Queen was and were determined to reach the monarch first.

Bullets sang all around. But having missed once, Mubu was determined to score a hit this time. So he stood fast even as Vanderveen shouted, “Fire!” Then, at what seemed like the very last moment, he pressed the firing stud. The bolt flew straight and true. There was a flash as it hit. The car flipped onto its starboard side, and a Ramanthian fell free. He attempted to deploy his wings, but there wasn’t enough time. Dust exploded upwards as the body struck the ground.

Meanwhile, the engine screamed in protest as the air car slip-slid down into the plaza below, where it crashed and burst into flame. Black smoke poured up into the sky.

“Nice work, sailor,” Vanderveen said, as she patted Mubu on the back. “I owe you a beer.”

Cosmo and Sullivan were waiting when the twosome reached the ground. “You said you were good with that thing,” the merc said with a grin. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“The first round was a ranging shot,” Mubu replied with a straight face. “I’ll bet the driver shit himself.”

“I know I did,” Cosmo said, as he offered Vanderveen a scrap of fabric. “Here… I took it off the bug who landed on his head. He was wearing civvies-but look at what was stamped into his body armor.”

Vanderveen accepted the offering and removed her sunglasses in order to see it more clearly. A dark delta shape had been imprinted onto the bullet-resistant fabric. Cosmo’s eyes were waiting when she looked up. “A file leader?”

“An assistant file leader,” he responded. “But good for you. And it amounts to the same thing.”

“They were Ramanthian regulars. Not tomb raiders.”

“Exactly.”

Vanderveen put the glasses back on. “I wonder if we got all of them.”

“I don’t know,” Sullivan responded. “But I wouldn’t count on it. Once they’re in your house, bugs can be real hard to get rid of.”

Cosmo laughed, but Vanderveen didn’t. A sand fly landed on her arm. She slapped at it and was rewarded with a bloody smear. “We got what we came for. Let’s get off this crud ball.”