A fighting chance

4

ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY TRANSPORT GALAXSIS IN HYPERSPACE

The Galaxsis was more than three miles long and had once been a very posh passenger liner. But with the coming of the war, she’d been taken over by the navy for use as a transport. That meant most of the fancy cutlery, dishes, art, furniture, and expensive carpets had been replaced with less expensive equivalents. But even without all of the finery, there was no doubt as to the ship’s pedigree. The Galaxsis was all about class, which was apparent in her glossy wood trim, solid brass fittings, and marble decks.

The ship’s official capacity was fifty-four hundred passengers. But by assigning three people to cabins intended for two, and converting the space formerly occupied by an onboard shopping arcade into stacked berths, the navy had been able to cram another five hundred passengers aboard. And Foreign Service Officer-2 (FSO-2) Christine Vanderveen was among them.

But thanks to her status as a high-ranking civil servant, plus some good luck, she had been slotted into a cabin with only one other occupant. Captain Marcie Jones was a doctor and a member of the Legion’s 2 ^ nd REI (2 ^ nd Foreign Infantry Regiment) currently conducting training exercises on Algeron. The planet that had long served as the Legion’s home-and was the current seat of the Confederacy’s government.

Both women were getting ready for their final dinner aboard the Galaxsis. No one expected the sort of lavish meal that had been typical before the war. But the food promised to be a welcome change from the monotonous cafeteria-style meals of the last week. And, as Jones had put it moments earlier, the dinner was likely to be “… a very good hunting ground.” By which she meant an opportunity to meet men.

But as Vanderveen put on her red lipstick, she was only interested in one man. And he wasn’t on the ship. The woman who looked back at her from the mirror had shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes. They were bracketed by the beginnings of tiny wrinkles. It was the price paid for her service on planets like LaNor and Jericho, not to mention the shortage of good skin creams. She sighed. “So what are you after? A colonel perhaps?”

“Don’t be silly,” Marcie replied from inside their tiny bathroom. “Colonels are too old! A major perhaps… Or a handsome lieutenant.”

“But you’re a captain,” Vanderveen objected. “Captains can’t date lieutenants.”

“For the moment,” Jones agreed as she stepped into the stateroom. “But not forever. Once the war is over, most of us will go back to whatever we were doing before it started. And some lieutenants were doing very well indeed! How do I look?”

Jones was petite, with military-short brown hair and a pretty face. Her uniform looked as if it had been sprayed on. “You’re the hottest captain in the Legion,” Vanderveen replied. “Bring your sidearm. You’ll need it.”

Jones laughed. “Look who’s talking! That’s a very nice black dress

… And those diamond earrings. Someone likes you.”

“Yes, he does,” Vanderveen replied. “And I call him ‘Daddy.’ Are you ready? Let’s go.”

A side corridor led the women out onto what was still called the Galactic Promenade. Even if the majority of the beings strolling along it were wearing uniforms rather than fancy evening dress. Vanderveen wasn’t the only civilian, however. Far from it. The crowd included business types, a delegation of nearly identical clones, a group of Thrakies, and a pair of brightly plumed Prithian merchants.

Foot traffic slowed as those assigned to the second sitting jammed the approaches to the dining room. But not for long, as identical androids scanned ID bracelets and led the passengers to their tables. The dining room occupied a duraplast blister on the ship’s skin. While in orbit around a planet, passengers could look out upon the world below. And when in hyperspace, as they were at the moment, a sensaround was projected onto the curving viewport to give the impression of a starscape. That was why the spectacular Horsehead Nebula appeared to be all around them.

As Vanderveen followed the formally attired robot down one of the spokelike corridors toward the center of the wheel-shaped room, she saw that the ship’s social director was still doing her job. Those tables located on the outer rings were traditionally occupied by relatively-lower-status beings. In this case, enlisted personnel from all the various branches. Junior and midlevel officers came next. That included Jones, who waved gaily as a waiter led her over to a table occupied entirely by men.

Vanderveen envied the doctor in a way since military officers were a known quantity, and one could tell who outranked whom by looking at their uniforms. Her world was a good deal more complicated. Was the ambassador the one to court? Or was the title more honorary than real? Perhaps the less flashy Adjunct for Interspecies Communications had the real clout. One rarely knew when meeting foreign dignitaries for the first time.

So as Vanderveen was led to a six-person table only three rings from the center of the room, she felt a mild sense of apprehension. Though not on duty, she was never truly off duty either. And that made it difficult to relax. At her approach, three of those seated at the table rose to greet her. The nearest and therefore the first to introduce himself was a Legion general named George Tuchida. Judging from the chromed plate set into the right side of his skull, and the whirring noises that accompanied his movements, Tuchida was a “partial.” Meaning a cyborg who was still using significant parts of his original body. He turned to announce her name and title to the rest of those seated at the table.

And even though she hadn’t seen him in many years-it turned out that Vanderveen already knew the second man who came forward to greet her. His name was Rex Soro, the eventual heir to the Soro computer fortune and a classmate from her college days. He looked a bit older, but still handsome, and was impeccably dressed. She caught a whiff of expensive cologne as he leaned in to hug her. “Vanders! What a wonderful surprise. You look gorgeous. And no ring. Let’s mate.”

“I never mate prior to dinner,” Vanderveen said primly, “but thank you for the invitation. I see you haven’t changed.” Soros laughed.

“My name is Hambu Tras Gormo,” the frail-looking Dweller said. His sticklike body was supported by the high-tech exoskeleton that made it possible for him to leave his low-gravity home world and travel to other planets. The device emitted a soft whining sound as the Dweller offered a formal bow.

Vanderveen recognized the name. “ Senator Tras Gormo? It’s an honor to meet you.”

Tras Gormo bowed again.

“And this,” Soro said, as he gestured to the only other female present, “is the famous Misty Melody.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Vanderveen said, as the woman in question looked up from a gold compact. She had shoulder-length silver hair and had been poured into a matching dress. Her breasts were not only unnaturally large but almost entirely exposed. “I have all of your albums,” Vanderveen said truthfully. “You have a beautiful voice.”

Melody’s smile was unexpectedly genuine. “Why, thank you… It’s the only part of me that’s real.”

The comment was so unexpectedly honest that Vanderveen had to laugh. “Miss Melody is going to perform for the troops on Algeron,” Tuchida put in. “And we’re very grateful.”

“We’ll see if the general feels the same way once the screeching is over,” Melody said with a grin.

“And last, but not least, we have Trade Representative Imbia,” Soro intoned.

The plainly dressed Thraki was sitting on a booster seat and apparently enthralled by the antics of his robotic “form.” It was doing cartwheels across the table in front of him. Vanderveen knew the six-inch-high machine was a technical work of art that had probably been assembled by its owner. Such toys were something of a passion where the Thrakies were concerned. The Thraks claimed to be neutral but had been caught providing support to the Ramanthians and clearly expected them to win the war.

But because President Nankool and his advisors had no desire to push the Thrakies into open conflict, especially given the strength of their navy, they were allowed to travel freely inside the Confederacy. It was a constant source of concern for Madame X-Nankool’s chief of intelligence.

The Thraki looked up to acknowledge the introduction with a curt nod. So Vanderveen allowed Tuchida to seat her and let the social process carry her along. There was a menu to choose from, the usual small talk about the war, the hand that Soro placed on her left knee. Vanderveen removed it and turned to Tuchida. It didn’t take long to discover that they had numerous acquaintances in common, something Vanderveen was quick to capitalize on. “So,” she said, as the first course arrived, “do you know Captain Antonio Santana by any chance?”

Tuchida was no fool and sensed that the question was something more than a casual inquiry. He had black eyebrows, and they rose slightly. “I know a Major Santana. Not well, mind you-but both of us were on Gamma-014. He was one of the last people to make it out. Aboard a ship owned by Chien-Chu Enterprises if I’m not mistaken. General Kobbi thinks highly of him.”

“Yes,” Vanderveen agreed. “If anyone deserves a promotion, he does. I wonder where he is now?”

Tuchida smiled gently. “If I knew, I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

Vanderveen felt herself color slightly and was grateful when an android requested permission to pour some wine. The next hour passed comfortably enough and was capped off by a variety of desserts and a performance by Misty Melody. There was thunderous applause as she left the table and made her way up onto the platform at the center of the room. The lights dimmed, the stage began to rotate, and a huge holo of the planet Earth appeared. It was transparent and seemed to encapsulate the performer. Then, as Melody began to sing “My Home,” Earth morphed into Gamma-014, which dissolved to another planet and so on until all of the worlds ravaged by the Ramanthians had come and gone.

There was a standing ovation as Melody hit the final plaintive note, and Imbia’s miniature robot somersaulted across the table. Senator Tras Gormo caught the form, closed a power-assisted fist round it, and crushed the toy. Electricity crackled around his hand, which didn’t bother him in the least. When the applause was over, the Dweller dropped the mangled object onto the table. It landed with a thump.

Imbia stood on his chair and was clearly going to object, when General Tuchida leaned in to speak with him. It was impossible to hear the exchange. But once it was over, the Thraki jumped to the floor and stalked away. Vanderveen turned to Tuchida. “What did you say to him?”

Tuchida grinned. “I told the little bastard that if he said a single word, I would shove what’s left of that form up his ass. Was that a breach of diplomatic protocol? If so, I apologize.”

Vanderveen laughed. “No apologies required insofar as I’m concerned. Well done.”

People were streaming out of the dining room by then. And as both of them stood, Tuchida took a look around as if to make sure that no one could hear him. Then his eyes swung back to Vanderveen. “O-Chi 4. The major is on O-Chi 4.” And with that he was gone.

PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

The Galaxsis was far too large to pass through a planetary atmosphere and take off again. So, having dropped out of hyperspace and into orbit, it was necessary to shuttle passengers down to the planet’s surface. Though classified as “earthlike,” Algeron was a very different planet, primarily because it completed a full rotation every two hours and forty-two minutes. The rotation was so fast that centrifugal force had created a mountain range around the equator. The indigenous Naa called them “the Towers of Algeron,” some of which were higher than Everest on Terra or Olympic Mons on Mars.

The once-obscure Fort Camerone was located in the northern hemisphere. It had been destroyed many years before, and a larger structure was built to replace it. Even so, the complex had been too small to accommodate the Legion and the sudden influx of civilians that took place after the ship housing the Confederacy’s space-going capital was destroyed. There were other planets, of course. Hundreds of them. But none wanted to be elevated to the status of target number one.

So Naa Town had been leveled to make room for the addition commonly referred to as “the new fort.” A full-scale spaceport was under construction west of the old fort, and a huge training complex was taking shape twenty miles to the north. All of which could be seen as Vanderveen’s shuttle circled the area before coming in for a landing.

Vanderveen had been there before, of course. But everything looked strange as she entered baggage claim. That was where she spotted her father, who forced his way through the crowd to greet her. Charles was tall, slim, and had a long, narrow face framed by a full head of silvery hair. Vanderveen hadn’t seen him for a year or so. But it looked as though he had aged five in that period of time, and she knew why. Because as the war continued to drag on, there was a never-ending temptation for the more vulnerable races to declare neutrality or align themselves with the Ramanthian Empire. That meant diplomats like her father were locked in a continuous struggle to strengthen alliances, pave over differences, and hold the network of existing relationships together.

There was a happy collision as father and daughter came together. Vanderveen took comfort from the familiar smell of him, the strength of his arms, and the sound of his voice. “Welcome to Algeron, sweetie

… It’s been too long.”

Vanderveen pulled back in order to take a second look at him. “You need a haircut. How’s Mom?”

Charles smiled. “I haven’t actually spoken with her. Hypercom time is way too scarce for that. But, based on what Sergi Chien-Chu tells me, she’s working with the resistance. I asked how, but he wouldn’t say.”

Vanderveen felt a stab of concern. Even though her mother might look like a helpless socialite, she was an active horsewoman and possessed an inner toughness. But working with the resistance? Shooting Ramanthians? That was hard to imagine.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Charles said as he took control of her rolling suitcase. “Because I made dinner. It may be humble, but my cooking beats the Foreign Service mess. You’re staying with me by the way. I scored a one-bedroom apartment back when such a thing was still possible. And the couch is yours.”

“Sounds good,” Vanderveen said as she took his arm. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

The apartment was located in the so-called old fort. It was small but included a kitchenette, bathroom, bedroom, and a sitting area. A far cry from the one-room “boxes” that were presently being constructed. And while the decor would never have passed muster with her mother, Vanderveen thought the comfortable mix of Naa artifacts, outdoorsy paraphernalia, and leather-covered furniture was just right for a bachelor dad.

The main course had been simmering for hours. It consisted of a hearty dooth stew, chunks of fresh bread purchased in New Town, and a bottle of Napa Valley red that had been given to Charles as a gift six months earlier. The whole thing was delicious and took nearly two hours to consume as they told stories and caught up.

Eventually, it was one such story that led Vanderveen to mention the issue foremost on her mind. “So you’re plugged in. What have you heard? Where am I headed?”

Charles looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know, hon. For some reason, people don’t talk about you when I’m around.”

Vanderveen could see the concern in his eyes and felt a sudden sense of apprehension. “Come on, Dad… Level with me. You know something.”

Charles shrugged. “No, I don’t. Not really. But I can make an educated guess. Odds are that Nankool and senior members of his team are rather conflicted where you’re concerned. And that’s understandable,” he said clinically. “The way I hear it, you formed a relationship with members of the Clone underground on Alpha-001 during a state visit. And after meeting with them, you came to the conclusion that their efforts to overthrow the government might be successful.

“So you shared that opinion with your superiors and recommended that they agree to some sort of a deal. They said ‘no.’ So you went AWOL. Ultimately, your judgment was proven to be correct. And thanks to your relationship with the rebels, the new government became part of the Confederacy. But, had the revolt failed, your actions could have done considerable damage to our relationship with the Alpha Clones. Is that a fair summation?”

Vanderveen could see the disapproval in her father’s eyes, and it hurt, largely because she knew he was correct. Her actions had been very dangerous indeed. And she had come to regret her relationship with the rebel leader, Alan Freeman. An affair that might have influenced her judgment-and violated the implicit agreement that she had with Santana. It was difficult to meet her father’s eyes. “Yes, that’s a fair summation.”

Charles leaned back in his chair. “Okay, then. So you can see the president’s dilemma. Should he punish you for disobeying a directive? Or reward you for bringing a powerful ally over to our side?”

“Which means?”

“Which means that your fate is probably up in the air. But that’s just a guess.”

There was a long moment of silence as Vanderveen looked away. Finally, when her eyes came back, his were waiting. “So I screwed up?”

Charles nodded. “I would break you down to file clerk 1.”

Vanderveen forced a smile. “Mom wouldn’t let you.”

Charles laughed. “No, she probably wouldn’t.”

“I’ll check in first thing tomorrow. Or four days from now, as the case may be.”

Charles laughed and raised his glass. “Confusion to the enemy.”

Vanderveen wondered which enemy he was referring to. The Ramanthians? The Foreign Service? Or something inside of her? She took a sip of wine. It was anything but sweet.

Her father’s couch wasn’t all that comfortable. And she had a lot to think about. So about three hours passed before Vanderveen was able to fall asleep. And when she awoke, it was to find that her father had already eaten breakfast and left for work. That made her feel guilty. Because she was used to working and working hard.

So she showered, put on a conservative suit, and made herself a light breakfast. Then, with a mostly empty briefcase in hand, Vanderveen locked the door behind her and went looking for the so-called government block, where Secretary of State Mary Yatsu’s office was located. Not that she would get to meet with the secretary. Because while Vanderveen was fairly senior, especially for a person her age, she wasn’t that senior. No, chances were that she would be handed off to an assistant secretary of state. And that was fine so long as it wasn’t Richard Holson, who had been in charge of negotiations on Alpha-001 and been very upset with what he referred to as her “antics” there.

The corridors were eternally crowded, and even though Vanderveen thought of it as morning, it was dark outside. Just one of the things Vanderveen would have to adjust to as she made a series of wrong turns and was forced to ask for directions. Ten minutes later, she arrived at the suite of offices assigned to the Foreign Service.

Blastproof duraplast doors sensed her presence and slid out of the way. The lobby was equipped to meet the needs of a wide variety of races and was already full of sentients who wanted someone to grant them a favor, explain an obscure law, or stroke their egos.

Vanderveen navigated her way around a table and the vase of flowery branches that sat on top of it, made her way over to the reception desk, and waited for the gray android to look up from the screen in front of him. The name CHET was stenciled across the center of his chest. “Yes? How can I help you?”

“I’m FSO-2 Vanderveen,” the diplomat replied. “I was ordered to report to Algeron from Alpha-001.”

“Welcome to Algeron,” Chet said tonelessly. “One moment please.”

A few seconds passed as the robot consulted his screen. “Ah, yes, here we are. You have an appointment to see Secretary Yatsu at 1500 hours local, five standard days from now.”

Vanderveen was surprised to hear that the appointment was with someone so senior and disappointed regarding the date. “ Five days? You don’t have anything earlier than that?”

“No,” the machine said unapologetically. “Will there be anything else?”

Vanderveen considered pitching a fit but knew it would be pointless. So all she could do was to say, “Okay, thank you,” and leave the office.

Disappointed, but determined to accomplish something, Vanderveen took the opportunity to visit the Foreign Service’s research library, where employees could access data on every known planet and culture. It was a long, rectangular room with partially screened workstations to either side, about half of which were occupied.

Having been told that Santana was on O-Chi 4, she sat down at a terminal. Once Vanderveen verified her identity, she was free to read about the planet, the products it was known for, and a rather superficial analysis of O-Chi civilization. There was a military summary as well, but it had been written in the immediate aftermath of a disastrous attack on a Ramanthian base and was badly outdated. Further efforts to find out what was taking place on O-Chi 4 were met with a polite, “The information you requested is not currently available,” which was govspeak for “mind your own business.”

All of which led Vanderveen to believe that Santana was on a special-operations mission of some sort. To attack the Ramanthian fortress mentioned earlier? The diplomat feared that was the case. She wanted to cry and bit her lower lip to prevent herself from doing so.

The walk to her father’s apartment was long and depressing. And when Vanderveen entered, it was to discover that an envelope with her name on it had been slipped under the door. She tore it open. The note was written in what looked like a feminine hand.

Dear Christine,

My uncle Sergi has known your parents for a long time and my husband has mentioned your service to the Confederacy more than once. I know from personal experience that Algeron can take some getting used to. I have some errands to run at 1300 hours. Perhaps you would like to join me? I could show you around.

Sincerely,

Maylo Chien-Chu

Vanderveen had agreed to meet Maylo Chien-Chu in the old fort at the entrance to the Hall of Honor. It was a corridor really, both sides of which were lined with photos of the Legion’s heroes, along with descriptions of what they had done. Having arrived a few minutes early, Vanderveen followed the hall all the way to the end, where two legionnaires stood guard over a wooden display case. Their backs were ramrod straight and their eyes were fixed on the other end of the corridor as Vanderveen paused to look down through clear duraplast.

The wooden hand had once been worn by Captain Jean Danjou. Arguably the Legion’s most important hero. A man who, like most of those in the Hall of Honor, had been killed in action. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” a female voice inquired. “I’ve been married to a legionnaire for years, and I still don’t understand.”

Vanderveen hadn’t heard any footsteps. But when she turned, Maylo Chien-Chu was there. She was one of the most photographed people in the Confederacy. So there was no mistaking the glossy black hair, the high cheekbones, or the full lips. But she was thinner. Some observers said gaunt. And Vanderveen thought she saw something like sadness in Maylo’s eyes. Because she was married to General Bill Booly? And, therefore, to the Legion? Probably. “Yes,” Vanderveen replied. “It’s both wonderful and horrible at the same time.”

“Ah,” Maylo said understandingly, “so you have one, too.”

Vanderveen was astonished by the speed with which Maylo had uncovered her relationship with Antonio Santana. “Yes,” she said. “If he’s still alive.”

Maylo winced and nodded. “These are very difficult times. I’m Maylo Chien-Chu.”

“And I’m Christine Vanderveen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Come,” Maylo said as she took the younger woman’s arm. “You’ve been to Algeron before?”

“Yes, but it has been a while.”

“Well, I’m sure you remember Naa Town.”

Naa Town had originally been little more than a collection of Naa dwellings that had grown up next to the old fort. A place where legionnaires could have a meal, get drunk, and blow off some steam. There were dangers, too, because the relationship between the Naa and the Legion had traditionally been a tumultuous one although things were better now that the locals had a measure of independence. “I remember it well,” Vanderveen said. “It was easy to get lost down there.”

“Yes, it was,” Maylo agreed, as they left the hall. “I think you’ll find that New Town is far easier to navigate now. My job, our job, is to wander about and see how things are going. You’re a diplomat, so you understand the importance of staying in touch with the local population. Especially those who live and work near an installation like this one.”

Everyone knew that Maylo was an ex-officio member of the administration, a philanthropist, and a patriot. The kind who would actually pitch in and do something rather than simply stand around and talk about it. So Vanderveen wasn’t surprised to learn that Maylo was an unofficial ambassador to the local business community. “That makes sense,” Vanderveen agreed.

The women continued to chat as they took an elevator down to a brightly lit subsurface walkway. A moving sidewalk carried them a quarter of a mile north, to the point where they could board an escalator. That conveyed them and a scattering of other people up to a heated lobby. It had transparent walls that let in the dim sunlight.

“We could have built everything underground,” Maylo said, as they stepped out into the frosty air. “But that would make New Town like thousands of other malls. The goal was to reimagine a Naa village in a way that would look and feel genuine while introducing some modern elements.”

The next hour was spent walking through well-marked streets, window-shopping, and pausing to speak with small-business owners. And, judging from the way many of the Naa came rushing out of their stores to greet her, Maylo was a very popular figure.

The final stop was a restaurant called the Gor’s Head. Stairs led down into a generously sized room. A large Naa-style fireplace dominated the center of the room, where all of the guests could see it and feel at least some of the surrounding warmth. Light fixtures fashioned from gor antlers hung over each table, and the air was heavy with the odors of good food. “This is Bill’s favorite restaurant,” Maylo explained. “My husband is something of a carnivore-so we come here when we can.”

Was there a wistful quality to Maylo’s voice? As if such occasions were all too rare? Vanderveen thought so, as the restaurant’s proprietor came bustling out of the kitchen to greet them. She was middle-aged, somewhat plump, and her brown fur was shot through with streaks of black. There was a smile on her vaguely catlike face. “Madam Chien-Chu! This is an honor.”

“I brought you a new customer,” Maylo said, as they embraced. “This is Christine Vanderveen. Christine, this is Bakewell Goodeat. She owns the restaurant.”

Having collected a hug of her own, Vanderveen followed Maylo and a solemn-looking waiter, who led them to a table next to the fire. What followed was an excellent meal. There was a salad made from assorted marsh greens, a meat pie with a wonderfully flaky crust, and a generous slice of cake. Vanderveen was still in the process of finishing her dessert when a female Naa arrived at the table.

A good deal older than Goodeat, she was slightly stooped over, and her eyes were somewhat rheumy. Her fur had once been jet-black but was now shot with gray. It was clear that Maylo knew her. “Christine… This is Dreamsee Futurewalk. She can throw the Wula Sticks. And, more importantly, read them. Let’s move our plates. She’ll need some room.”

Vanderveen didn’t believe in fortune-tellers, but it appeared that Maylo did. Or was this a simple act of charity? A way to help an aging female make some money? It was impossible to tell as Futurewalk placed a one-legged stool next to the table and rested her weight on it. She upended a tube and black Wula Sticks came pouring out. They were about twelve inches long and wound up in an untidy pile.

Then Futurewalk began to remove sticks in what looked like random order, sliding each one back into the brightly decorated tube as she did so. Two or three minutes passed before she began to speak. Her voice was surprisingly youthful and melodious. “Your fates are bound together,” she announced. “But not here. The moment of truth will occur in a distant place, where fire rules the sky, and death dances the land. One of you will gain everything, and the other will lose everything, as billions of lives hang in the balance.”

The words, and the way they were said, sent a chill down Vanderveen’s spine. And as Maylo’s eyes came up off the tangle of sticks, Vanderveen saw fear in them. And that was even more troubling. Because if Maylo Chien-Chu had reason to be afraid, what about her?

“Well,” Maylo said with a grim smile, “to hell with the calories. We might as well finish our desserts.”

With nothing productive to do, and her fate hanging in the balance, Vanderveen had been forced to wait for what seemed like an eternity. But finally, for better or for worse, the day of reckoning had arrived. So Vanderveen was dressed in a conservative suit, and ready for just about anything, as she entered the reception area and made herself known to the android named Chet. “FSO-2 Vanderveen. I’m scheduled to meet with Secretary Yatsu.”

A suspenseful moment followed as Chet consulted the screen in front of him. What if Yatsu was ill? Or had been called away? Or any of a dozen other possibilities?

Vanderveen felt a rising sense of apprehension as the seconds ticked by, and she confronted the possibility that it might be necessary to wait for another week. Then came a feeling of relief as Chet spoke. “Here we are… The secretary is running about ten minutes late. Please take a seat. I’ll call your name as soon as she becomes available.”

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Eventually, after more than half an hour of watching people come and go, Vanderveen heard her name. She stood and made her way up to the desk where a flesh-and-blood person waited to meet her. The woman had carefully coiffed hair, dark eyes, and coffee-colored skin. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “I’m Nanci. Secretary Yatsu’s assistant. Please accept our apologies. The meeting with the Prithian delegation ran over. I’m sure you understand.”

Being an FSO-2, Vanderveen did understand. Even if the wait had been painful. She forced a smile. “Of course. Thank you for squeezing me in.”

“Please follow me,” Nanci said, and Vanderveen did so. Their heels made clicking sounds as they made their way down a corridor and past more than a dozen offices. Eventually, they entered an open area, rounded a desk that had Nanci’s name on it, and passed between a pair of large double doors. It was a nice office by local standards. There was a circular conference table, which was made out of local wood and was intended to put everyone on an equal footing. A massive desk could be seen beyond that, backed by a large Confederacy seal and flanked by appropriate flags. Just the thing for official photos.

“Please have a seat,” Nanci intoned. “The secretary will be back shortly-and Assistant Secretary Holson will be joining you as well. Can I get you anything? Some caf perhaps?”

Vanderveen had been feeling slightly positive about the meeting up until that point. Because even though Yatsu was tough, she was also known to be fair. But Holson had been very angry about her activities on Alpha-001. Partly because of her refusal to follow orders, which was perfectly understandable, but also because of the way that he had been left standing on the sidelines when the rebels took over. It was a grudge he would have an opportunity to settle. So as Vanderveen sat down, she could feel the world closing in around her. If her own father would reduce her to file clerk-what would Assistant Secretary Holson do? “No, thank you. I’m fine.” Nanci nodded pleasantly and left the office.

Vanderveen was still mulling her fate when Yatsu and Holson entered the room two minutes later. Yatsu was a tiny birdlike thing, with a mop of black hair and bright, inquisitive eyes. Her teeth were very white and flashed when she smiled. But there was strength lurking behind the girlish charm, which was why Yatsu was referred to as the “Iron Maiden” behind her back.

Holson had brown hair, some of which flopped down over a high forehead. His wide-set eyes were slightly hooded, as if to conceal what he was thinking, and a carefully trimmed mustache served to emphasize a slashlike mouth.

Vanderveen stood and found herself on the receiving end of a warm handshake from Yatsu and a cold stare from Holson, who had chosen to sit across from her. “There will be one more participant,” Yatsu said, “and here he is now.”

Vanderveen turned toward the door and was astonished to see President Marcott Nankool enter the office. Having shed thirty pounds on Jericho and a few more as Earth fell to the Ramanthians, it appeared as though his weight had stabilized. His face still had a gaunt appearance, however, and the smile was in marked contrast to the sadness in his eyes. It was no secret that the never-ending stream of bad news was taking a toll on him. “Christine!” he said warmly. “I heard about this meeting and asked Secretary Yatsu if I could sit in. I hope you don’t mind.”

Vanderveen didn’t mind. Nankool was upset with her. She knew that. But the fact that they had survived the horrors of Jericho together meant there was a bond between them. One that Holson was clearly aware of judging from the way he frowned when Nankool gave her a hug.

But Vanderveen wasn’t out of the woods. She knew that. In spite of the relationship that existed between them, Nankool couldn’t allow his diplomats to do whatever they pleased. So as they took their seats, her future was still in doubt.

All eyes went to Yatsu. She consulted a hand comp before looking up again. Her expression was serious. “I must say that in all my years of Foreign Service experience I haven’t run into anyone quite like you. On the plus side, you more than distinguished yourself while serving on LaNor during the Claw uprising. Then there was the partnership with His Excellency Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, which resulted in an important intelligence coup. That was followed by your imprisonment on Jericho, where the president described your actions as ‘heroic.’ All capped off by the recent one-diplomat effort that culminated in a historic agreement with Clone Hegemony. It’s a very impressive record, and that’s why you’re the youngest FSO-2 in the Foreign Service.”

Yatsu paused at that point, formed a steeple with her fingers, and frowned. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that while you were stationed on Alpha-001, you disobeyed a directive, which, had things gone the other way, could have been disastrous.”

Holson smiled thinly. And there was no mistaking the hostility in his half-shuttered eyes.

“Nor was that the first time,” Yatsu added sternly. “For example, your work with Triad Doma-Sa was unauthorized, and your superior put a letter to that effect in your P-1 file.”

“Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Wilmot was later convicted of treason, Madam Secretary,” Vanderveen put in.

“She has you there,” Nankool said, as he spoke for the first time.

“With all due respect, Wilmot’s conviction came well after the time the letter was written,” Holson commented darkly.

Yatsu nodded. “The point is that discipline is important to an organization such as ours. Just imagine if all our FSO-3’s and 2’s were running about cutting deals on their own! Say what you will about our bureaucracy-but it exists for a reason.”

Vanderveen felt there had been extenuating circumstances associated with all of the situations that Yatsu had mentioned, but knew the secretary was correct where the need for a disciplined approach was concerned. She nodded contritely. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Good,” Yatsu replied. “So with all of that in mind, we are faced with a very difficult decision. And, given what we do for a living, you won’t be surprised to learn that we settled on a compromise.” It was a joke, and Vanderveen managed to produce a weak smile.

“The president wants to reward you for bringing the Hegemony into the Confederacy,” Yatsu added. “So, effective today, I’m promoting you to FS-1. But Richard feels that it would be inappropriate to reward your behavior by posting you to one of the core worlds. And I agree.”

“As do I,” Nankool added sternly.

“So we’re sending you to Trevia,” Yatsu announced. “It’s a rim world, which is located outside the boundaries of the bug empire but has a significant population of Ramanthian expatriates. Eccentrics mostly, plus a scattering of political exiles and members of other races.”

Vanderveen felt a crushing sense of disappointment. They were sending her to prison. A place far from civilization, where she could be left to rot for who knew how long.

Nankool saw the look in her eyes. “It’s more than a holding cell,” he assured her. “We need eyes and ears out there. So make a lot of contacts. And who knows? Once the war begins to go our way, one or more of your new friends might prove to be useful where negotiations are concerned.”

“Or, depending on how things go, you may find yourself living inside the Ramanthian Empire,” Holson said unsympathetically. “But I’m sure you’ll manage given your well-known capacity to take care of yourself.”

That earned Holson a dirty look from Nankool. But if the diplomat regretted his comment, there was no sign of it on his face.

“I guess that handles it,” Yatsu said blithely. “Congratulations on your promotion-and have a nice trip.”