A fighting chance

15

PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

It was dark at the moment and so cold that President Nankool could see his breath fog the air as the Thraki shuttle lowered itself onto the VIP pad. He was standing on one of Fort Camerone’s ramparts looking downwards as the ship was enveloped by a cloud of steam. The entire area had been cordoned off, and security was extremely tight; all hell would break loose if word of the meeting were to leak out-both in the Confederacy and in the Ramanthian Empire. Because fanatics on both sides weren’t willing to settle for anything less than total victory. And in their minds, peace talks would equate to treason. Plus, there were those who were benefiting from the war and wanted the conflict to continue. They included arms manufacturers, senior members of the military, and the rapacious news combines, which continually fed off the conflict.

As for regular folks, if they heard that peace talks were under way, expectations would soar. Then, if the negotiations fell apart, Nankool feared that morale would sink even further. So rather than conduct preliminary conversations in the harsh glare of the public spotlight, he was about to meet with Chancellor Parth in private. And it pained him to do so because there was general agreement that the bugs were winning the war. And that meant he and his staff would be forced to negotiate from a position of weakness.

As the handpicked ground crew surged forth to service the shuttle, Nankool glanced to his right. Judging from all appearances, Charles Vanderveen was just fine. But Nankool knew that the death of the diplomat’s wife had hit him hard. So much so that there were reports he’d been drinking a lot lately. And the fact that his daughter had put herself back in harm’s way didn’t help either. All of which had a bearing on Nankool’s’s decision to include Vanderveen on the negotiating team. Maybe some hard work plus the passage of time would help him to heal. A rectangle of light appeared as a hatch opened, and half a dozen backlit figures shuffled down a ramp to the place where Secretary Yatsu and some of her staff were waiting to receive the Ramanthians. Vanderveen said, “Bastards,” under his breath, and Nankool pretended not to hear.

“Come on, Charles… We’re serving live grubs in hot sauce-and you wouldn’t want to miss out.”

Very few Ramanthians had been allowed on the surface of Algeron, and with the exception of a few POWs, all of their visits had taken place prior to the war. As Parth shuffled down the ramp onto the landing pad, he was struck by how cold the air was, the glare of the surrounding lights, and the alien feel of the place. There were members of the cabal, Admiral Tu Stik, for example, who felt that the trip to Algeron was a mistake. As a member of the Nira cult, he opposed any form of negotiation. But if overruled, he preferred that the meeting take place on a Ramanthian battleship, so the animals could feel the full weight of the empire’s military might.

But Parth was a politician. And a pragmatist. As such, he knew that while his willingness to visit Algeron could be viewed as a sign of weakness, there were potential benefits as well. The primary one was to place the animals in a receptive frame of mind. And that was important because even though the Ramanthian military had won battle after battle since the beginning of the war, there was a very real possibility that dark days lay ahead.

The burgeoning alliance between the Hudathans and the Confederacy was bad enough. But now that the Clone Hegemony had placed its genetically bred warriors under General Booly’s command, and some sort of horrible disease was spreading among the troops on Earth, Parth feared the military momentum was starting to swing the other way. So it made sense to negotiate a deal while in a position of undeniable strength. Besides, Parth thought to himself, we can always break the truce and attack the animals later on. Members of the Nira cult would object at first but ultimately go along.

Parth’s thoughts were interrupted as a small human with lots of black hair came forward to greet him. “Welcome to Algeron,” Yatsu said solemnly. “I’m Secretary of State Yatsu. It’s an honor to meet you. We often greet guests with a formal ceremony. But given the temperature and the need for security, I suggest that we go indoors.”

Parth bowed. “Chancellor Parth. The honor is mine. By all means, let’s put comfort before ceremony. We can continue the introductions inside.”

Both diplomats made small talk as a phalanx of cybernetic monstrosities led them through an open door into the brightly lit warmth within. The higher temperature felt good, but Parth’s sense of smell was quite acute and the mixed odors of human perspiration and food caused him to gag, a reaction he sought to conceal as he and his staff were escorted through a maze of hallways and into a large conference room.

A formally set table occupied the center of the space, round so as to put everyone on an equal footing. Even if that was a bit delusional where Parth’s hosts were concerned. Six saddle chairs were available as well, and he wondered where they had come from. A Ramanthian world perhaps? Where they had been looted along with everything else that wasn’t nailed down? Yes, he thought so.

Nor did the preparations end there. In place of the offensive odors encountered earlier, the reassuringly familiar scent of Ramanthian cooking hung in the still air. And Parth could see a row of gleaming warmers sitting on the tables that lined one wall. It seemed that the humans had gone all out in an effort to please their superiors. A propitious sign indeed.

But before refreshments could be served, introductions had to be made on both sides. A tiresome business that had just concluded when President Nankool entered the room with another human at his side.

Parth felt a sudden flush of pride. Because rather than meet with the Queen, who was technically his peer, Nankool had been forced to negotiate with a lesser power instead. That was a sure measure of Ramanthian dominance. Although, had the human been aware of it, the two of them were actually equals since the Warrior Queen was in hiding and her successor was at Parth’s beck and call. Secretary Yatsu made the necessary introduction. “President Nankool, please allow me to introduce His Excellency, Chancellor Parth.”

Having been briefed by Charles Vanderveen, Nankool knew that a bow was in order, and delivered one as Parth bent a knee. Then it was time to meet the Chancellor’s staff and prattle about the weather, even as the Ramanthians continued to slaughter the Confederacy’s citizens. And that was the crux of it. Which was better? To negotiate a peace deal of some sort? And trade sovereignty for safety? Or to refuse and fight to the last man, woman, and child?

It would have been a difficult decision regardless. But now, based on the information that Christine Vanderveen had submitted, there was a very real possibility that the Warrior Queen was still alive. That would make the sitting Queen a pretender who, according to Christine Vanderveen, was being controlled by Parth and a group of his cronies.

So what to do? Make some sort of deal on the theory that even if she was alive, the Warrior Queen wouldn’t be able to regain the throne? Or refuse whatever terms were offered in hopes that the current government would fall? Millions of lives hung in the balance as Yatsu spoke.

“It’s lunchtime for us, and on the chance that you might be hungry after your long journey, we took the liberty of preparing some Ramanthian delicacies. Fortunately, from our perspective at least, a prisoner of war named Inbo Haknu is being held on Algeron. He, if I’m not mistaken, is a master chef. We asked chef Haknu if he would be willing to cook for you, and he agreed. He was quite demanding where the ingredients were concerned, and though unable to fulfill all of his requests, we did the best we could.”

Parth felt a combination of anger and grudging respect. Here, clad in the form of a diplomatic nicety, was both a compliment and a boast. Because even as the animals went to considerable lengths to please their guests, they were sending a not-so-subtle message: “We may be losing the war, but we have hundreds of thousands of Ramanthian POWs, and their fates hang in the balance.”

“You are very kind,” Parth lied. “The food smells wonderful. And you are correct. Chef Haknu is very well-known and highly respected. I look forward to eating whatever he prepared.”

As Nankool’s guest of honor, Parth was the first person to sample what the buffet had to offer. The human food came first. And revolting though it was, Parth forced himself to take a few small samples. Then came the warmer filled with sauteed grubs, all of which were still wiggling, and there were more favorites, too.

After filling his plate, it was off to the round table, where waiters stood ready to serve a variety of liquids. Having been seated next to Nankool, Parth tied the Ramanthian-style napkin around his neck and speared one of the grubs with a single-tined fork. It was still struggling as he held it up for Nankool to inspect. “Have you ever had one? They’re quite active-but a single bite is sufficient to subdue them.”

Having opened his beak, Parth placed the morsel in his mouth. Then, having flipped the extra-large napkin up over the top of his stubby antennae, the Ramanthian bit the morsel with his beak. Parth heard the characteristic popping sound as a mixture of blood and intestinal matter spurted against the inside surface of the napkin. The rich, fatty taste combined with the hot sauce was on a par with the best cuisine available on Hive. The food was, all things considered, an unexpected pleasure.

Prior to the war, when the Ramanthians had been part of the Confederacy, Nankool had been present when grubs were served at ceremonial dinners attended by a dozen sentient races. So he was ready for the napkin ritual. But what about the statement that preceded it? Was Parth’s comment what it seemed? A simple observation? Or was there something more to it? A warning perhaps… A veiled way of saying that, struggle as the Confederacy might, the empire could consume it with ease.

Nankool wasn’t sure. But when Parth’s napkin came down, the human was waiting. Secretary Yatsu, Charles Vanderveen, and the rest of the Confederacy’s staff members watched in horrified fascination as Nankool placed a grub between his front teeth and held the wiggling creature there for a full three seconds. Then, rather than flip a napkin over his head, he held it in front of his face. There was no mistaking the loud pop or the blood on the formerly pristine cloth. He swallowed, and a big grin appeared on his face. “That was yummy.”

The rest of the meal was polite if not pleasant as both sides sought to avoid any sort of faux pas, knowing that the real discussion was to follow. And Nankool was pleased to see that regardless of whatever emotions were churning inside of him, Vanderveen had been able to maintain his composure.

Finally, once the dishes were cleared away, it was time for the talks to begin. And, since the Ramanthians were the ones who had suggested the meeting, it was agreed that they would go first. Nankool took note of the fact that Parth spoke without notes. Was that because he’d gone to the trouble of memorizing them? Or was that an indication of how powerful the Chancellor was? So powerful that he could say whatever he pleased. That would line up with the information provided by Christine Vanderveen.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with representatives of the Ramanthian Empire,” Parth began. “Sadly, for those on both sides of the conflict, millions of sentients have lost their lives or been injured. In fact, my mate, the War Parth, fell during the opening days of the war. So my surviving mate and I are in an excellent position to understand the terrible price that families on both sides have paid.

“That makes our task all the more urgent,” Parth said earnestly, as his space black eyes roamed the faces around him. “So, acting in the best interest of our people as well as yours, we would like to propose the outline of a treaty. Of course the devil, as humans like to say, is in the details. But I think you’ll agree that there can’t be any details without the creation of an overarching accord.

“Now,” Parth continued, “I know that this is a delicate and very difficult subject. But the facts are clear. Given the strategic realities, we are winning the war.”

Secretary Yatsu started to object, but Parth raised a pincer. “Please… Allow me to finish. Let’s begin with the human home planet. We conquered Earth and presently occupy it. I’m sure that’s very painful for you. Just as it would be for me if the situation was reversed. So as a gesture of goodwill and to signify the beginning of a new relationship, we are willing to withdraw our troops from the surface of the planet. That would limit casualties and allow your citizens to resume their normal lives under the protection of the Ramanthian fleet.”

Nankool frowned. “ ‘The protection of the Ramanthian fleet’? What does that mean?”

“It means,” Parth replied evenly, “that the citizens of Earth will be confined to their planet for the time being. But that could change later on depending on how they behave and the structure of the final treaty.”

Nankool felt a sense of barely contained rage. Parth’s proposal would reduce Earth to a virtual prison planet. So his first instinct was to slam his fist down on the table and say, “No!” But, unfortunately, he couldn’t allow himself to show any emotion whatsoever. And, like it or not, Nankool had to consider the Ramanthian proposal. Especially since the bugs were winning the war-and getting them off Earth would represent a victory of sorts. One likely to appease a large part of the electorate. He battled to keep his voice level. “And the rest of the Confederacy’s planets? What about them?”

Parth delivered the Ramanthian equivalent of a shrug. “A great deal of staff work would be required to establish some appropriate criteria. But I think it’s safe to say that if we are able to reach an agreement regarding Earth, the same sort of arrangement could be extended to other worlds as well, the exception being those designated as nursery planets. They would remain under Ramanthian control.”

At that point, Charles Vanderveen produced an inarticulate cry of rage, stood, and threw himself across the table. A water carafe tipped over, hand comps flew sideways, and Parth uttered a squawk of fear as Vanderveen’s hands closed around his throat.

Pandemonium broke out as Parth’s staff came to his defense, security people rushed to intervene, and Vanderveen took three stunner bolts in quick succession. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his muscles seized up, but the diplomat’s fingers were still locked around Parth’s scrawny neck. So as the Ramanthian battled to get enough air, it was necessary for a military policeman to pry the offending digits loose one at a time.

Finally, as Vanderveen was carried away, order was restored. In a perverse sort of way, Nankool was grateful for the attack on Parth since it provided him with an excellent opportunity to declare a break. Parth was still in the process of recovery as Nankool spoke. “Please accept my deepest apologies for Undersecretary Vanderveen’s unforgivable actions. But, having lost a mate yourself, perhaps you will be able to empathize with his situation. It was only a few days ago that Secretary Vanderveen received news that his mate had been killed during a battle on Earth. I suggest that we adjourn, and if you’re willing, resume our discussions in ten hours. Lieutenant Hiro will escort you to your quarters.”

In spite of the fact that the last part came across as a command rather than a request, neither Parth nor any member of his party offered an objection. Once they had been led out of the room, Nankool turned to Yatsu. “Round up General Booly, Admiral Chien-Chu, and Madame X. We have a very important decision to make.”

The meeting took place in Nankool’s well-appointed office. Legion General and Military Chief of Staff Bill Booly was seated to the president’s left. He was a legendary figure by then, a man who had fought countless battles on behalf of the Confederacy and had the scars to prove it. He had his mother’s gray eyes and his father’s lean body, but his hair was almost entirely white. Deep lines were etched into his face, his skin was pale, and he looked tired.

The woman seated to Booly’s left was generally referred to as “Madame X,” by government insiders. But her real name was Margaret Xanith. She had a head of well-coiffed gray hair, and despite the perpetual frown that she was known for, her face was surprisingly youthful. As head of the Confederacy’s Intelligence organization, she knew most of the things worth knowing and had long been one of Nankool’s most trusted advisors.

Admiral and industrialist Chien-Chu sat elbow to elbow with Xanith. Rather than the youthful vehicle chosen for trips to Earth, he was wearing a slightly portly body similar to the way his bio body had appeared at age fifty-five. He never wore a uniform unless forced to do so although his dark business suit was so similar to the rest of his attire that it was equally predictable.

Secretary of State Yatsu was present as well. And Nankool could see the strain around her eyes. “How’s Charles?” he inquired.

“He’s better now,” Yatsu answered. “The worst effects of the stunner bolts have worn off. He wanted me to apologize on his behalf. He’s very sorry.”

“Tell him to squeeze a bit harder next time,” Nankool said with a grin. “And tell him I can see why Christine is such a troublemaker.”

“A rather useful troublemaker,” Xanith observed. “She filed a report while you were meeting with Chancellor Parth. Not only was she able to find the Warrior Queen, the two of them met, and we have the makings of a deal. The Queen’s throne in exchange for peace.”

Nankool gave a low whistle. “That is very interesting. Of course, Parth is offering peace as well. But at a high price.”

“According to Christine, the Warrior Queen is willing to accept something close to a complete reset,” Xanith explained. “Meaning a return to prewar conditions, boundaries, and relationships. The exception is the nursery planets. They would continue to be part of the Ramanthian Empire.”

“Most of them were largely unsettled prior to the war,” Yatsu observed. “And now that they’re infested with Ramanthian nymphs, I’m not sure we want them.”

“True,” Booly agreed soberly. “Although one-third of those nymphs will grow up to be Ramanthian warriors. And that means trouble in the future.”

“The general makes a good point,” Chien-Chu said flatly. “But the Warrior Queen’s proposal would give us time to prepare. And, with support from both the Hudathans and the Hegemony, our military should be strong enough to counter the potential threat.”

“That’s true,” Nankool allowed cautiously. “But let’s flip this over. All of you know that I have a soft spot for Christine Vanderveen. But it sounds like she’s out there cutting deals all by herself again. So will her verbal agreement with the Warrior Queen hold up? Or will her ‘supreme buggyness’ suddenly decide to disavow it? We’re talking about an outcast here. Someone who’s on the run from her own people.

“Then there’s the question of feasibility. Let’s say Christine is correct-and the Warrior Queen keeps her word. What’s to say that an attempt to put her back on the throne would be successful?”

“I can answer that,” Xanith replied. “To some extent anyway. Thanks to our resistance people, the effort to infect Ramanthian troops with Ophiocordyceps unilateris has been a tremendous success. Thousands of troops have been killed, thousands are sick, and thousands are tied up caring for those who are ill. In fact, it’s my guess that has a lot to do with Chancellor Parth’s willingness to pull their troops off the planet. The truth is that the Ramanthian command structure has very little choice. And don’t forget… so long as the bugs have ships in orbit, they can not only watch everything that takes place on the surface but glass the planet anytime they feel like it. So, in a weird sort of way, we’re better off with soldiers on the ground. Or, put another way, this offer is no offer at all.

“Furthermore,” Xanith continued, “there’s reason to believe that hundreds of thousands of so-called denialists refuse to believe that the Warrior Queen is dead. So if we could give them hope, they might rise up against the pretender. Or, failing that, offer passive support. All of which leads me to believe that even if our efforts fail, we can still sow seeds of dissension throughout Ramanthian society. And that would be fun.”

It was as close to a joke as any of them were likely to hear from the Intel chief, so Nankool smiled. “An excellent summary. Thank you. However, I feel it’s my duty to point out that, attractive though such a strategy might be, the cabal controls all the levers of power. That includes not only the government but the military. So we might be better off with the bird in hand, so to speak. General Booly? You’ve been relatively quiet up to this point. What’s your opinion?”

Booly looked up from the tabletop. His expression was bleak. “We’re losing the war. We got our asses kicked on Earth, Gamma-014, and a dozen other planets as well. The resistance is making remarkable progress on Earth, but it would take a fleet to force the bugs out of the solar system. Thousands of ships are under construction deep inside the Hegemony. But it will be months before they’re ready. And we will continue to be very vulnerable in the meantime. And if the Ramanthians think we’re about to make a comeback, there’s an excellent chance they will glass some of our worlds as part of a last-ditch attempt to avoid defeat.”

“Of course, that’s why we’re going after their nursery planets,” Chien-Chu put in. “Once we control one or two of them, the Ramanthians will think twice before using nuclear weapons against us.”

“Okay,” Nankool said. “So, given all that has been said, what should we do? Continue on? Accept Parth’s proposal? Or back the Warrior Queen?”

There was a moment of silence followed by a voice vote. Secretary Yatsu had the last word. “So there you have it. God help us if we’re wrong.”

In spite of all the efforts that had been made to provide the Ramanthians with comfortable quarters, Parth was very unhappy as he looked out through a floor-to-ceiling window. The sun was obscured by a thick layer of gunmetal gray clouds. He had been attacked, his personal dignity had been violated, and his request to have the offender beheaded had been refused. That was bad enough.

But all the members of his party had been restricted to their quarters. That made it next to impossible to gather intelligence regarding Fort Camerone. And the final outcome of the mission was still in doubt. Well, it’s up to them, Parth thought grimly. If they want to die, all they have to do is say, “No.”

Parth’s thoughts were interrupted as an aide shuffled into the room. “It’s time, Excellency.”

Hail rattled against armored glass, causing Parth to wonder why the humans would bother to colonize such an unpleasant planet. They were welcome to it. “Thank you. Has everything been packed? I will want to depart the moment the meeting is over.”

“Yes, sire. All is ready.”

“Excellent. Please lead the way.”

But it was a squad of legionnaires who actually led the way, and Parth felt very vulnerable as he and the members of his party were led back to the same room where negotiations had broken off ten hours earlier. Thankfully, there was no sign of the animal who had attacked him-and Secretary Yatsu apologized all over again. Parth interpreted that as a positive sign.

A round of greetings followed, and food had been served by the time Nankool arrived. He made a point of greeting each Ramanthian by name before taking his seat. A droid poured some caf into his cup, and he eyed Parth over the rim. “I believe you had the floor when our meeting was interrupted. Is there anything you’d like to add?”

“No,” Parth replied. “In spite of the barbaric attack on my person, we remain open to a bilateral cessation of hostilities followed by what might be called local sovereignty for some of the Confederacy’s more populous planets. The exact list would be subject to negotiations carried out under the supervision of Thraki intermediaries-but would exclude nursery planets. Space travel, if any, would be conducted with prior approval from our government and would be subject to supervision by the Imperial navy. These are nothing more than rough outlines, of course. But if they are generally agreeable, the effort to formalize them can begin.”

“Thank you,” Nankool replied. “We appreciate the empire’s willingness to enter into discussions-even if we can’t agree to the initial terms that you laid out. So, in the spirit of good-faith negotiations, we would like to propose an alternative plan.”

Parth didn’t want to listen to Nankool’s plan but forced himself to do so. Perhaps the animals were hoping to save face in some minor way. If so, he would be willing to consider their offering so long as they agreed to the essence of his proposal. He nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Under the treaty we have in mind,” Nankool responded, “the empire would agree to an unconditional surrender. All of your military personnel and civilians would be protected by Confederate law and treated with respect.”

Parth could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Is this some kind of human joke?”

“No,” Nankool replied firmly. “It’s a serious offer. And the best one you’re going to get.”

Parth was stunned. The response made no sense. Not unless the animals were crazy. Or knew something he didn’t. His eyes flicked from face to ugly face. Then it came to him. He spoke impulsively. “You have the Warrior Queen.”

Nankool looked surprised. “The Warrior Queen? That’s impossible. She’s dead. You had a state funeral. Remember?”

“It won’t help you,” Parth said as he stood, and his staff did likewise. “The real Queen sits on the throne-and you’re losing the war. Nothing will change that. In weeks, months at most, you will be forced to surrender. And when that day comes, I will take your head myself.”

“Perhaps,” Nankool allowed. “But in the meantime I suggest that you get your pointy ass off this planet. Lieutenant, show the bugs out.”

Parth was furious. And remained so as he and his companions were escorted out of the fort and onto the VIP landing pad, where their shuttle was waiting. A few minutes later, they were on board, cleared for takeoff, and strapped into their seats. Shortly after that, repellers roared, and they were pushed down into their seats.

Parth wanted to make the hypercom call immediately but felt he should wait, lest the animals mange to intercept it. So all he could do was sit and fume until the shuttle entered orbit, where it was taken aboard the Thraki ship Rift Runner. The larger vessel got under way twenty minutes later. Once free of Algeron’s gravity well and secure within his private cabin, Parth made the call. It took a couple of tries, and what seemed like an agonizing ten minutes passed before the War Ubatha appeared on the tiny screen. He raised a pincer to speak, but Parth cut him off. “Where are you?”

There was a slight lag followed by a burst of static. “On the planet Long Jump, sire.”

“And the Warrior Queen? Is she there?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Then why haven’t you killed her?”

“We tried, sire. But the animals attacked just as we were about to break into the building where she had taken refuge.”

“So, they have her?”

“Yes, sire. Or so it appears.”

“Then kill all of them. And one more thing…”

“Sire?”

“Should you fail, be sure to kill yourself. There will be no place for you in the empire.”

The image of Ubatha shivered. “Yes, sire. It shall be as you say.”