A fighting chance

8

THE CITY OF HEFERI, THE PLANET SENSA II, THE RIM

The first flush of dawn was barely visible in the east, so the air was still cool and relatively untainted by the stench of the city’s open sewers as Chancellor Ubatha shuffled up a ramp onto the building’s flat roof. A human lookout heard the sound and turned. The merc was wearing a sand-blasted helmet with a reflective visor and a one-of-a-kind uniform made out of secondhand body armor. There was no way to tell if the animal was male or female. All he could do was hope that he or she was competent.

“Good morning, sir,” the guard said. Ubatha returned the greeting before making his way over to the spot where he liked to drink his morning Ta. The hot drink was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself.

His vantage point gave Ubatha a commanding view of the surrounding buildings, none of which was more than four stories tall. The city was very old, having been constructed hundreds of thousands of years earlier by the mysterious Forerunner race, then abandoned for reasons unknown. It was cradled in a valley between two gigantic sand dunes. According to the locals, the wind-driven mountains were traveling from west to east at a rate of about one mile per year. It was a phenomenon that forced residents of Heferi to constantly move east and led to never-ending violence.

Most of the residents made their livings as tomb raiders or by guarding tomb raiders or by stealing from tomb raiders. And the chaos meant that Heferi was a place where fugitives, even a royal fugitive, could hide. Not forever, but long enough to find someone who could either repair the Warrior Queen’s broken body or provide her with a new one. And, after negative reports from more than a dozen highly qualified doctors, the second possibility was looking like the best one.

That was why Ubatha had to leave the fortresslike compound and make the dangerous trip to the spaceport, where he was scheduled to pick up a human geneticist. Unfortunately, that would make it necessary to take at least three bodyguards with him-thereby reducing the number of individuals available to defend the Queen. Of course, those who remained behind would have the benefit of four extremely expensive gun balls to help defend the complex, along with computer-controlled weapons positioned to fire on the most likely points of attack. As Ubatha sucked the last few drops of Ta through a straw, he heard the pop, pop, pop of distant gunfire and knew the day had truly begun.

It took the better part of an hour to ready what the animals referred to as “the gun truck.” It was a thirdhand all-terrain vehicle that had been brought to Sensa II for some long-forgotten purpose years earlier. Since that time, a larger engine had been installed, along with a stiffer suspension and armor thick enough to stop anything short of an antitank round. The roof turret could traverse 360 degrees and the twin fifties could be depressed far enough to kill anyone more than ten feet away. All of which made for a very formidable vehicle indeed.

Even so, Chancellor Ubatha thought it wise to wear armor and carry a Negar III rifle himself. That was partly because the gun truck could attract trouble as well as deal with it, and there was always the chance that his mercs would turn on him. There hadn’t been any signs of that. But there hadn’t been any advance warning that a cabal including one of his mates was about to supplant the Queen either. The thought reminded him of the Egg Ubatha, and he felt a pang of regret. It had been a mistake to leave her on Hive. He prayed that she was safe but feared she wasn’t.

“We’re ready,” Vasakov said, and gestured to the plank that led up into the gun truck. The animal had a prominent brow, a flat nose, and the rubbery lips typical of his race. Like most senior officials, Ubatha spoke excellent standard. “Thank you. And remember… Be careful.”

Vasakov made a face. “Let’s go.”

Ubatha had spoken to Kai Cosmo, the animal in charge, regarding Vasakov’s disrespectful manner the day before. The conversation had been far from satisfactory. After listening to Ubatha’s complaints, Cosmo looked away, aimed a stream of black ju-ju juice at an iridescent beetle, and scored a direct hit. “Sorry about that, sir. But Vasakov was a Confederacy marine before he punched that lieutenant in the face. And he don’t like bugs. Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

So with no recourse except to fire the mercs and hire another band of equally dubious animals, all Ubatha could do was shuffle up the ramp and sit on the saddle chair that had been installed for his benefit. The lower half of Katika’s body was visible below the turret. The mount made a whining noise as she stomped on a foot pedal, and the guns began to rotate.

Ubatha heard doors slam, felt the truck jerk into motion, and took the opportunity to peer out through the gun port immediately to his right. He caught a glimpse of the open gate, felt a jolt as the big tires rolled through a pothole, and heard Katika give a whoop of pure joy. According to Cosmo, she liked to shoot people. A desire Ubatha found hard to fathom. While he understood the need to kill for reasons of political expediency, he took no joy in it.

Given how restricted his view was, Ubatha couldn’t see much other than sand-smoothed stone walls, the occasional glimpse of a barred doorway, and blips of color as the truck passed some laundry that had been hung out to dry. Then the shooting began. Nothing serious. Just target practice really, as guards stationed on rooftops took the opportunity to test their skills and break the monotony.

Thanks to the fact that most of them were pretty good shots, there was a series of loud clangs as bullets flattened themselves on armor plating. Large-caliber ammo was hard to come by, so Katika was supposed to hold back unless the truck came under a serious attack.

Holby shouted, “Roadblock!” from the front passenger seat as the vehicle screeched to a halt.

Vasakov was behind the wheel. He swore and put the truck into reverse.

The roadblock gave Katika the excuse she’d been looking for. As the fifties began to chug, empty casings cascaded down from above and clattered on the floor.

Roadblocks were common and shifted from day to day, making it impossible to choose a safe route in advance. The idea was to stop the vehicle and take possession of it and everything inside. That included passengers, who were typically held for the ransom. A very unpleasant prospect indeed. “Hold on!” Vasakov shouted, and Ubatha barely had time to obey before the massive back bumper crashed into a barrier. An old wreck, probably, that had been pushed out into the street to bar their escape and might serve the same purpose the next day.

There was a screech of tortured metal as the obstacle was pushed out of the way-followed by a fusillade of bullets as the would-be bandits made a last-ditch attempt to trap their prey.

The gun truck jerked to a halt, surged forward again, and shell casings rolled to the right as they turned a corner. The first battle was over. There were others. But none that was quite so harrowing as Vasakov threaded his way through Heferi’s deadly streets.

Fifteen minutes later, the gun truck left the sand-strewn streets of old town and sped up a ramp that channeled them into the heavily guarded parking area under the city’s only spaceport. The component parts had been brought to Sensa II by a mining company more than half a century before. That operation had been forced to fold in the face of the planet’s difficult environment. But because the self-propelled spaceport was large enough to crush whatever ruins lay in front of it, the facility was still in service.

The entrepreneur who owned the spaceport was said to be a Drac. No one knew much about the reclusive business being other than the fact that he made it a point to keep the spaceport open to anyone who had the ability to pay his exorbitant fees, and he could be quite violent when threatened.

That was evident as Vasakov parked the truck and half a dozen uniformed guards moved in to surround it. They were human. And as Holby deployed the ramp and Ubatha shuffled down onto the steel deck, one of them took the opportunity to brief the newcomers. “Leave all weapons other than sidearms in your vehicle,” she said in a singsong voice. “And post a guard. If you attempt to interfere with our personnel, or another customer, we will smoke you. Any questions?”

The last was delivered in a cheerful manner, as if to follow up after a string of pleasantries rather than threats. “Yeah, yeah,” Vasakov growled. “You eat steel and shit fire. Give me a fucking break. Katika, lock yourself in and stay on the fifties. Holby, you’re with the bug and me. Okay, Mr. Ubatha… Let’s go.”

Ubatha surrendered the Negar III to Katika and sighed. Vasakov was hopeless. Then, with an animal on either side of him, Ubatha followed a clearly marked path to a lift. The elevator carried them upwards to a small but pleasantly furnished lounge. Huge plastasteel windows enabled them to look out on the blast-scarred landing pad, old town, and the sunlit back dune beyond. If one watched for a while, it was possible to see the occasional avalanche of sand slide down onto the west end of old town. Would the same buildings reemerge someday? There was no way to know.

The landing surface that occupied the foreground wasn’t very large but didn’t need to be given the limited number of ships that came and went. Two were visible at the moment. One was a beat-up shuttle from which cargo modules were being removed. The other was a courier ship with the sleek lines typical of Thraki vessels.

Ubatha watched as a hatch cycled open, stairs unfolded, and a Thraki named Bec Benjii appeared. He was dressed in a summer-weight mesh jacket, three-quarter-length trousers, and sturdy boots. Benjii paused for a second to look around before turning to speak with the person behind him. Then, as he made his way down the stairs, the human appeared. She was a tiny thing. A hood covered her hair, her eyes were invisible behind a pair of sun goggles, and her body was swathed in white fabric that billowed when the early-morning breeze hit it. Ubatha had never seen the animal before but knew he was looking at a renegade geneticist who styled herself as Carolyn Anne Hosokawa 1.3.

Was she really an illegal one-off of the female credited with creating the Clone Hegemony? Or an opportunistic pretender? Ubatha didn’t care so long as she was competent. And Benjii swore that she was.

Doors slid open, admitting not only Benjii and Hosokawa but a wave of heat. Benjii was a diplomat, albeit a shadowy one, whose function had been to provide back-channel communications between the Ramanthian and Thraki governments prior to the Queen’s injury.

So when Ubatha had been forced to evacuate the royal from Hive, he thought it best to contact Benjii rather than risk betrayal by cabal supporters like the War Ubatha. Since then, the Thrakies had been of considerable assistance. Not out of the goodness of their hearts but in order to curry favor with whatever Queen wound up on the throne. That meant they were probably working with the cabal as well. So Ubatha would have to come up with a counterbalance of some sort. “Please allow me to introduce Dr. Hosokawa 1.3,” Benjii said, as his robotic form peeked out of a pocket. “Dr. Hosokawa, this is Chancellor Ubatha.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Ubatha said, and delivered a formal bow.

Hosokawa threw the white hood back to reveal a head of bowl-cut black hair and the solid horizontal mark on her forehead. Ubatha knew it had been a bar code at one time, a standard practice inside the Hegemony prior to the revolution but currently out of favor. Especially for any scientist brave or foolish enough to work for the Confederacy’s enemies. Her voice had a husky quality. “The pleasure is mine, Chancellor. I’m sorry it’s necessary for us to meet under such trying circumstances.”

It was artfully said, and Ubatha allowed himself to relax a little bit. At least Hosokawa came across as civilized as compared to Vasakov.

The trip back to the compound was less eventful than the journey out had been. Benjii had been through the process before. So he looked reasonably composed as bullets pinged against the truck’s armor and a rocket-propelled grenade sailed past to explode against a building.

Not Hosokowa, however, who maintained a grim expression throughout the entire journey. But once the vehicle entered the compound, and the incoming fire stopped, she became more relaxed. “If you would be so kind as to follow me,” Ubatha said, “we will visit the Queen. I know she has been looking forward to your arrival.” The decision to reveal the Queen’s true identity had been Benjii’s. The Thraki felt that nothing less than the prospect of working with the royal would be sufficient to bring the geneticist all the way to Sensa II. And since he was willing to guarantee her silence regardless of how the meeting went, Ubatha had agreed.

The Queen’s apartment was on the second floor, where the royal physician and a retinue of Ramanthian females took care of her daily requirements. The residence was roomy but sparsely furnished because it had been impossible to bring anything more than the bare necessities from Hive. A lady-in-waiting met the party at the door, bent a knee, and welcomed the visitors on the royal’s behalf.

The aristocrat led them through a doorway into a large room. The metal sand shutters were open to the hot, dry air. It was thick with the odors of sewage, rotting garbage, and exhaust fumes from a nearby factory. The Queen was in a horizontal position and supported by a framework designed to immobilize her exoskeleton. Her body was paralyzed, but her mind was clear. “There you are,” she said, as the group approached, and Ubatha bowed. “Pardon me if I don’t get up.”

It was a joke, but none of them laughed. “As you can see, the Queen’s sense of humor remains unimpaired,” Ubatha said dryly.

“But everything else is numb,” the monarch put in.

There was polite laughter this time. “Your Majesty, it is my pleasure to introduce Dr. Carolyn Hosokowa 1.3,” Ubatha said. “As you know, the doctor is here to consult with you regarding the possibility that she and her associates might be able to grow a new body for you.”

The ensuing conversation lasted for more than three standard hours. There were all sorts of issues to discuss, not the least of which was what would become of the clone’s brain were the Queen to commission a copy of herself.

During that time, the sky darkened, the wind began to pick up, and it became necessary to close the sand shutters. A storm was brewing. But what kind? A class one, two, or three? The last being very serious indeed. The discussion continued as Ubatha went to find out.

Cosmo was up on the roof. The air was already brown with blown sand, and Ubatha had to lean into the wind as he shuffled over to where the animal was standing. The grit soon found its way into his clothes and the crevices between the plates of chitin that served to support him. Cosmo was wearing a helmet and full armor. He nodded. “The folks at the spaceport say we’re in for a class-two blow, sir. And we have another problem as well.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Based on video from the gun balls, it looks like people are closing in on the building,” Cosmo replied. “I figure they plan to attack during the height of the storm. That’s when visibility will be at its worst.”

Ubatha felt a sinking sensation. There were sixteen mercs in all. Enough to protect the structure under normal circumstances-but far short of what would be required to repel a massed attack. “We’ve got to protect the Queen, her staff, and both of our visitors. Put two of your best people in her quarters and make sure they have plenty of everything. Then we’ll close the blast doors and seal them inside.”

Cosmo nodded. “Yes, sir. Where will you be if I need you?”

Ubatha could see a distorted image of himself reflected in the visor’s mirrorlike surface. “I’ll be right next to you,” he answered. “If you’re correct, we’ll need every gun we can muster.”

Cosmo said, “Hoo-rah,” and Ubatha wondered what the words meant.

The storm grew steadily worse over the next twenty minutes. The wind made a persistent howling sound as it explored the streets of Heferi, searching for any signs of weakness. Sand slanted in sideways, and Ubatha was especially grateful for the goggles he wore since his eyes were the most vulnerable part of his chitin-covered body. And, true to Cosmo’s prediction, hazy forms could be seen dashing from one hiding place to the next as they closed on the compound. Some of the shadowy figures were carrying ladders. And that made sense if they hoped to divide the defender’s fire by coming up over two or three walls at once.

Fortunately, Cosmo had a plan that, if successful, could disrupt the attack. From his command post on the roof, Cosmo was monitoring both the squad-level push and a bank of four monitors, each of which represented what one of his gun balls could “see.” The truck was parked in the open courtyard below.

Seconds ticked by and eventually became minutes as Cosmo waited for what he believed to be exactly the right moment. Then, on his command, Vasakov pushed the main gate open. And left it open.

That was a completely unexpected development insofar as the bandits were concerned. So the better part of two minutes passed before they attacked. The opportunity to go through an open gate was too good to ignore. But the thieves weren’t stupid. They knew that some sort of trap lay within. So rather than charge the gap on foot, they sent a sand crawler in first. Most of the machine was armored. The exception was the machine’s belly. Or that was Cosmo’s theory as he triggered the remote.

The IED (improvised explosive device) went off with a loud roar. The explosion lifted the tracked vehicle half a foot off the ground before allowing it to fall back. A secondary explosion rocked the machine from side to side. It was hard to say how many animals had been inside the crawler. But Ubatha figured three or four as more bandits rushed in to take cover behind the smoking wreckage. A gun ball opened up on them, and they blew the sphere out of the air.

But things were about to get even worse for the bandits as Katika opened fire with the twin fifties. As she traversed the courtyard, the. 50-caliber shells left craters in the stone pavers and caused the wreck to tremble as the animals hiding behind it were torn to ribbons.

But even as Vasakov pushed the gate closed and another animal rushed in to place a bar across it, an urgent call came in over the radio. The rattle of automatic fire could be heard in the background. “Hey, boss… Holby here. We might have as many as three ladders against the east wall. Monson went to take a look, and they nailed him.”

Cosmo swore. “Sounds like they’re getting ready for a push. But remember… They can only come up three at a time. I’ll send the bug over to replace Monson.”

Ubatha didn’t like being referred to as “the bug” but knew it wasn’t the right moment in which to object and turned away. It was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead as he shuffled across the roof. And just in time, too, as a blurry Holby appeared on the right. A Hudathan named Fala-Ba was on the left and slightly more visible thanks to his size. Both mercs fired as dimly seen figures materialized in front of them.

But there was a middle ladder. And as Ubatha raised his rifle, a bandit came up over the waist-high wall, quickly followed by another. So Ubatha pinched the trigger, the rifle butt pummeled his shoulder, and a hail of bullets hit the surface of the roof. He was low! Too low.

But two factors conspired to save him. Some of the projectiles bounced up to hit their targets-and when fired on full automatic, the Negar III had a natural tendency to rise. So both animals jerked spastically and fell. “Nice work,” Holby said admiringly. “Not bad for a chit.”

Strangely, given its source, Holby’s comment elicited a feeling of pride. Then Ubatha’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a human voice. “Strider at eleven o’clock! Let’s put some fire on that thing.”

Ubatha looked up. The sun was little more than a yellow bruise in the sky. And there, like a shadow within a brown haze, a sixty-foot-tall machine could be seen. The walker looked like a human skeleton as it stepped over a neighboring building, and its rocket launchers belched fire.

Both missiles hit the roof. Ubatha was knocked off his feet, and Fala-Ba was blown to pieces. That left Holby, who ran to get the rocket launcher, which was resting next to the reserve ammo supply. But another bandit came up over the wall and shot the merc in the back. The impact threw Holby facedown as Ubatha brought the Negar to bear. A short burst sent the man on top of the ladder windmilling back to land somewhere below.

Another salvo of rockets struck. Explosions shook the building, and Cosmo was yelling over the radio. “Holby? Can you hear me? Kill that thing!”

Ubatha scuttled forward, put the assault rifle down, and was fumbling with the launcher when Holby returned from the dead. “Armor is important,” he said as if lecturing a recruit. “Never buy the cheap stuff. Give me that thing and watch my six.”

Ubatha didn’t know how the number “six” played into the situation, but the need to protect the human was obvious. So he made a grab for the Negar III as Holby fired a rocket up into the sky. It struck one of the Strider’s knobby knees and exploded with a bright flash.

“Good one!” Cosmo shouted, as the walker came to a stop. “Feed him another.”

The second shoulder-launched missile was fired by someone down in the courtyard. It streaked upwards, hit the control cab dead on, and blew up. Ubatha watched in fascination as the Strider swayed, fell over backwards, and landed on two side-by-side buildings. A cheer went up from the mercs, and Ubatha clacked his approval as the machine broke into pieces. “Get back to your posts,” Cosmo ordered sternly. “They may come after us again.”

But as the minutes went by and the wind began to die down, it became apparent that the battle was over. It seemed the destruction of the Strider had been the deciding factor. They would never know who had organized the attack or why. Except that the size of the complex and the presence of guards probably led them to believe that something very valuable lay within.

Ubatha turned to Holby. “I’m sorry about Fala-Ba,” he said, and shuffled away. And, strangely enough, he meant it.

THE SPACE STATION ORB I, IN ORBIT OVER PLANET LONG JUMP, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

The planet Long Jump was located inside of the Confederacy’s original borders. But just barely. Like Sensa II, where the Queen and her retinue had been hiding previously, Long Jump was a rim world. And one that was strategically located near a key nav point. But rather than force wayfarers to waste time and fuel landing on the surface, local entrepreneurs constructed an orbiting space station called Orb I, where customers could refuel before venturing out into the unknown. Or returning to the core worlds.

Over time, the space station had expanded to become more than a fuel stop. Now it was a mostly law-free zone in which just about anything that didn’t threaten the habitat’s well-being could be bought and sold. And thanks to some very robust defenses, Orb I had been able to defend itself against pirates, Sheen raiders, and-most recently-a Ramanthian destroyer.

In the wake of the attack, Ubatha knew it would be necessary to sneak aboard the space station, which loomed beyond the viewport next to him. Farther back, beyond Orb I, the planet Long Jump could be seen. It was mostly blue, with patches of brown. Not the sort of planet that Ramanthians preferred, but strategically important nevertheless.

The trip from Sensa II had been made aboard a Thraki vessel called the Dark Star. The ship was fitted out to look like a freighter-but carried enough armament to be classified as a corvette. The perfect vessel for transporting a small but very important cargo. A royal cargo, which could be quite demanding at times. “You’re sure that no one will be able to see me?” the Queen inquired. “I wouldn’t like that.” The metal cage that protected her now-frail body had been bolted to the deck in case the vessel’s argrav generators failed.

Ubatha felt a tremendous desire to please the monarch and knew that the air within the cabin was thick with psychoactive chemicals. Something that could have an effect on his objectivity if he wasn’t careful. “No, Majesty,” he said patiently. “You and one of your ladies-in-waiting will be concealed inside a specially equipped cargo module. The rest of us will be put aboard the space station in the same fashion.”

“And you’re sure that this Tomko animal can help me?”

Ubatha had answered the question many times before. But the chemicals plus the sense of compassion he felt for the royal helped keep his annoyance under control. “Yes, Majesty, assuming you’re willing to make the necessary sacrifice.”

And that was the problem. Because prior to her injury, the Warrior Queen had been known to refer to human cyborgs as “freaks.” It was a view shared by nearly all the Ramanthian population and frequently reinforced by the priesthood, who feared that the use of artificial bodies might disrupt family bonding and the race’s reproductive cycle.

But with the entire empire at stake and no other options, the royal had been forced to consider what had previously been unthinkable. “My body is broken, but I don’t know if I can give it up,” the Queen said uncertainly, giving Ubatha a rare glimpse of the person behind the royal facade. She was a very real female, not that different from the Egg Ubatha. He felt the usual pang of regret and made an effort to redirect his thoughts.

“Well, that’s why we’re here. Once you’ve had a chance to consult with Dr. Tomko, you’ll be in a position to make that decision. However, as you know, the cloning process that Hosokowa recommends would take a significant amount of time. And this approach would allow you to return to the throne more quickly.”

There was a gentle bump as the ship made lock-to-lock contact with one of the many berths located around the disk-shaped space station. That was the cue for the unloading process to begin-and Ubatha could tell that the royal persona was back in place. “Don’t let them drop me,” she said crossly. “Or you’ll be sorry.”

Ubatha knew that the Queen would be helpless without him-and that he was the one in a position of power. But he bowed, and said, “Yes, Majesty, of course, Majesty.” Not so much for the Queen as the empire. Because, for better or worse, Ubatha was a patriot.

After being unloaded onto Orb I ’s “A,” or cargo deck, the specially designed containers were placed on floating power pallets and towed onto a spacious lift. The elevator carried them up to “B” deck where the robo tug hauled them out onto the utility track that circled the space station’s core.

Horizontal air slits had been cut into the cargo module that Ubatha was sharing with five other members of the Queen’s retinue. So rather than focus on the uncomfortably close quarters and a growing sense of claustrophobia, Ubatha chose to peer through a nearby slot instead. He could hear announcements over the PA system, see the “zip” ads that slid across the electroactive walls, and smell the strange amalgam of body odors, perfumes, and lubricants that filled the air. Foot traffic had been relegated to a path farther out, and it was crowded with humans, Prithians, Hudathans, Dwellers, Thrakies, and androids. But no Ramanthians. Not a single one.

It was frightening to see how isolated the Queen and her retainers were. What if Benjii had betrayed them? What if they were about to be given over to the humans in exchange for a trade agreement? And what about Dr. Tomko? Could he be trusted?

There were so many dangers that Ubatha felt a great sense of foreboding as the robo tug took a right-hand turn-and towed the containers down a side passageway into a lift that was smaller than the first. It carried them up to “C” deck where, much to Ubatha’s relief, Benjii was waiting to meet the royal party. Ubatha caught a glimpse of the Thraki and heard him say, “Follow me.”

The tug started up again, passed a succession of numbered hatches, and took a hard right. That took the short train into what looked like a storage space with racks all around.

Moments later, some white-suited animals appeared, opened the containers, and went about the delicate task of moving the Queen into what one of the technicians referred to as “the clinic.” Ubatha was in attendance throughout, doing the best he could to comfort the royal and satisfy her more reasonable requests.

Eventually, once the process was complete, the Ramanthians found themselves inside a high-tech lab. It looked like a combination operating theater and research laboratory, with adjustable lights overhead and workbenches against the bulkheads. All of which was intimidating and reassuring at the same time.

Moments after the Queen was positioned under the lights, a human entered the room. Though no expert on such matters, Ubatha was sufficiently acquainted with animal culture to know that the individual who introduced himself as Dr. Tomko was both handsome and well dressed. Perhaps too well dressed, given how elaborate the clothing was. “Welcome!” Tomko said jovially as he went over to stand where the Queen could look up at him. “I understand you are interested in acquiring one or more electromechanical vehicles.”

According to the cover story established by Benjii, the Queen was a wealthy Ramanthian who had been paralyzed as the result of a terrible hunting accident. And, if Tomko thought otherwise, there was no sign of it on his handsome face. “Yes,” the royal replied, “I am. But before we proceed further, I have a question.”

“Of course,” Tomko replied. “Please ask it.”

“Have you performed what I believe you refer to as a ‘transfer’ on a member of my race before?”

Tomko shook his head. “No, madam, I haven’t. So that means there is some additional risk. But, should you decide to go forward with the operation, two highly qualified Ramanthian surgeons will be present to assist me. Plus, it may interest you to know that we will first practice the procedure using virtual-reality technology. Then, having perfected our techniques, we will perform simulated operations on a custom-built animatronic surrogate. So by the time we effect the actual transfer, the team will have had lots of relevant experience.”

The Queen was silent for a moment, as if considering what had been said. Then she spoke. “Forgive me… My standard is less than perfect. But I believe there is a saying in your culture. Something regarding the possibility of human error.”

Tomko grinned, reached up, and removed his head. Then, having been tucked under an arm, the object continued to speak. “There is always an element of risk, madam. But we will do everything in our power to reduce it. And, as you can see, I am living proof of how good the technology is.”

The Queen scented the air with chemicals that made her retainers feel good. “You are most persuasive, Doctor. But, if it’s all the same to you, I would like to keep my head firmly in place.”