By force of arms

The Legion

Book III

William C. Dietz

ACE®

ISBN: 044100735X

Dedication

For my dearest Marjorie ...

Here’s to the Lizard!

Acknowledgments

My thanks go to Joel Davis, coauthor of Mirror Matter for the concept of “White Holes,” and how to harness them, to Dr. Sheridan Simon for his help in building this particular universe, and legionnaires past, present, and future. Vive la Legion.

Chapter 1

Distasteful though it may be, one stroke of the assassin’s axe may have an effect greater than that produced by a large number of troops.

Grand Marshal Nimu WurlaKa (ret.)

Instructor,HudathanWarCollege

Standard year 1957

Planet Earth, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The assassin moved quietly, as if her life depended on it, which it definitely did. The house had been constructed more than five hundred years before, back whenPortugal was a nation rather than an Administrative Region (AR), and the floorboards had a tendency to squeak. The killer paused for a moment, assured herself that it was safe to move, and gestured to her companions. They wore black hoods, black bodysuits, and black slippers. They glided over the hardwood floor.

A shaft of sickly yellow moonlight came down through the transparent bubble roof to pool on the rumpled bed. Maylo ChienChu was awake, staring up through the plastic, listening to her lover breathe. He was asleep and had been for an hour now.

The sex had been good, very good, but something was missing. Was it her? Was it him? Or, and this was what she feared most, was it them!

Something creaked—and her thoughts continued to chum.

The hallway was long. wide and dimly lit. Huge pieces of furniture and statuary lurked in the heavily anchored gloom.

In spite of the fact that Earth’s legally constituted government had been restored, and most of the mutineers had been placed in prison, where they awaited military trials, there were still plenty of renegades, outlaws, and psychopaths who would like nothing better than to assassinate Legion General William “Bill” Booly IFI, who, along with Admiral Angie Tyspin and a number of civilian resistance groups was credited with winning the battle for Earth. That being the case, Naa commandos, the best special ops troops the Legion had to offer, were assigned to protect him night and day. Corporal Hardswim had served with Booly in Africa, where the officer had not only managed to restore discipline to the 13thDBLE, but had won a number of battles against the mutineers, and led the famous raid onJohannesburg . A raid the Naa had been part of—and had a medal to prove it. The legionnaire grinned at the memory, looked down the dimly lit hall, and turned to the window. It was a likely point of entry and a way to break the boredom. There wasn’t much to see outside, just the moon, and the lights of Sintra.

The assassins glided from one pool of shadow to the next, careful to make no sound, weapons at the ready.

Each and every Naa was gifted with a supersensitive sense of smell. The invaders knew that and had gone to considerable lengths to counter it. Each assassin had bathed repeatedly prior to the mission, used scentless soap, donned specially prepared clothing, and been sprayed with an essence derived from the house itself, A not altogether unpleasant combination of furniture polish, fresh flowers, and a touch of mold.

Protected by their clothing and carefully honed skills, the assassins continued to advance. Maylo turned onto her side, felt Booly stir in response, and examined his face. She couldn’t really see it—the moonlight wasn’t bright enough for that—but didn’t need to. The short hair. steady gray eyes, and determined chin were etched in her memory.

He was intelligent, romantic, and very, very brave. When a member of me cabal had imprisoned her inJohannesburg it had been Booly who led the mission to rescue her. She would never forget the moment when light spilled into her cell, when he spoke her name, when he swept her into his arms. Just like in her childhood story books except for one very important thing: He might be me one, and they might live happily ever after, but she wasn’t sure.

Hardswim looked down on the lights of Sintra, imagined the interior of his favorite bar, and cursed his luck. The general got laid, his buddies got drunk, and what did he get? The stinkin* shaft that’s what... Hardswim paused in midthought as his nose tried to tell him something. A scent that shouldn’t be there?

No, too much of the scent that should be there!

The Naa was already drawing his sidearm and turning toward me light switch when the assassins took him down. One hit the back of his knees, a second pulled his head back, and the third slit his throat. The blood looked black in the moonlight. It took less than three seconds. The body made a soft thump as it hit the floor.

Moving quickly, lest the body cool, the diminutive killers towed the Naa over to the bedroom door, raised him up, and pressed a palm against the print sensitive lock. The mechanism made a soft but distinctive click.

Maylo heard the door lock click and frowned. Hardswim never entered the room without requesting permission first—not to mention the fact that it was the middle of the night. Having been awake for some time, the executive’s eyes were fully adjusted to the half darkness that pervaded the room. She saw the door open a crack and made up her mind. There had been a time when she would have laughed at the notion of assassins, but that was before she had spent months as a political prisoner, and been forced to shoot a man at close range. Better to look stupid than dead. Booly felt a hand cover his mouth, came instantly awake, and felt for the handgun. It had a tendency to migrate during the night, especially when they made love, but it happened to be in the spot where he’d left it. His fingers closed around cool metal as lips brushed his ear. “Someone opened the door.”

The officer nodded, nudged Maylo toward the far side of the bed, and nicked the safety to the “off’

position.

Someone else might have yelled something like “Who’s there? I have a gun’” but Booty didn’t believe in that sort of nonsense. He figured that anyone who mistakenly entered a locked room during the middle of the night deserved to die. He rolled to the left, saw motion, and opened fire. The first assassin staggered as two bullets ripped through her body, but the second and third made it through the door, and opened fire with handheld flechette throwers. The dans sampled the air, identified epithelial cells that matched the DNA they were programmed to seek, and steered themselves accordingly.

Booly continued to fire, saw two additional shadows fall, and felt rather than saw the missiles that accelerated past his torso. Smart darts! Targeted to Maylo!

The officer turned, threw himself out over the bed, but knew it was too late. Having rolled off the right side of the bed, Maylo sensed the attack and raised the pillow out of reflex more than anything else. She felt the darts hit the foam rubber, fell backward in an attempt to reduce the extent to which she was visible, and saw Booly throw himself into the line of fire. The bed creaked as the officer landed on it, three heavily armed legionnaires burst through the door, and the lights flashed on.

Maylo, surprised to learn she was still alive, lowered the pillow. Nine flechettes protruded from the opposite side. The previously white linen was yellow where some sort of liquid had started to spread. Booty yelled, “Poison!” and Maylo threw the object away.

Booly rolled off the bed, stood, and approached the bodies. He was naked, which meant that anyone who cared to look could see the mane of silvery gray fur that began at his hairline and ended at the base of his spine. Proof that he was one-quarter Naa—and a matter of pride for his bodyguard. Sergeant Armstrong had gold fur streaked with white, a bald spot on his right biceps where a bullet had ripped through it, and carried an assault weapon in his right hand. He knelt by one of the bodies. “They murdered Hardswim.”

Booly swore, bent over, and tugged at one of the black hoods. It came off rather easily. The small almost feline head bore large light-gathering eyes, pointed ears, and horizontal slits where nostrils might have been. Maylo peered down across her lover’s shoulder.

“Thraki.”

“Yes,” Booly agreed. “But why?”

Maylo frowned. The Thraki race was but one element in a very complicated political picture. Humans, along with a number of alien species had founded a star-spanning government called the Confederacy of Sentient Beings. First conceived as a military alliance, the Confederacy had become much more than that, and me key to interstellar peace and prosperity. Not that all of its members could or should be trusted. The Clone Hegemony along with the Ramanthians and others had agendas of their own and had been at the very center of the effort not only to subvert Earth’s duly constituted government but to destabilize the Confederacy as well.

A rather complex situation made all the more difficult by the arrival of the Thraki, who dropped out of hyperspace, formed a relationship with the conspirators, and took possession of a world called Zynig47. Other planets had been colonized as well, most with permission from the Hegemony, but some without it. All during a time when the Confederacy’s armed forces were not only suffering from the cumulative effects of serial downsizings but were divided by the recent mutiny. Then, as if those problems were not enough, Maylo’s uncle, a businessman-politician named Sergi ChienChu, had learned that the Thraki were on the run from something called “the Sheen,” and hoped to use the Confederacy for what amounted to cannon fodder. All of which was extremely important—but didn’t begin to answer Booty’s question. What did the Thrakies hope to gain? And which Thraki were behind the attack since their society included at least two opposing groups. The Runners and the Facers. There was no way to know.

One thing was clear, however, her uncle might be targeted too, and she needed to warn him. “I’ll need a ship . .. the fastest one you can find.”

Booly smiled and dropped a robe over her shoulders. “I’ll put someone on it. In the meantime, you might want to consider some clothes.”

Chapter 2

Thou shalt have no gods before me.

Holy Bible, Exodus 20:3

First printing circa 1400

Somewhere Beyond the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

One moment they were there, thousands upon thousands of shimmery spaceships, all seemingly motionless in space, then they were gone, absorbed by the strange dimension called “hyperspace,” and launched toward a distant set of coordinates.

The Sheen fleet was comprised of approximately 1,300 separate vessels, all controlled by the computer intelligence known as the Hoon, and, with the exception of a human named Jorley Jepp, a navcomp called Henry, and a robot named Sam, was entirely crewed by nonsentient machines. Not that Jorley Jepp and the AIs who attended him could properly be referred to as “crew,” since their actual status hovered somewhere between “prisoner” and “stowaway.” A situation that Jepp sought to exploit, since he viewed the fleet as the manifestation of Divine Providence and the means by which to enact God’s plan. Well, not God’s plan, since it was difficult to know what that was, but his idea of what God’s plan should be.

All of which was fine with the Hoon so long as the human continued to support the computer’s overriding purpose, which was to find the Thraki and eradicate them. Why was anything but clear. Not to Jepp anyway. Still, why worry about something when you can’t do anything about it?

The prospector cum messiah straightened his filthy ship suit, stepped out onto the improvised stage, and raised his arms. Like the ship it was part of, the onetime storage compartment was huge and stank of ozone.

Jepp’s first convert, a nonsentient robot named Alpha, sent a radio signal to more than a thousand of his peers. All of them bowed their heads. It was more dignified than the shouts of adulation that Jepp had required of them the month before. He was pleased and the sermon began. The world called Long Jump was pleasant by human standards, having only slightly more gravity than Earth did, plus a breathable atmosphere, a nice large ocean, and plenty of raw unsettled land. Real estate, which like vacant lots everywhere, was available for a reason. This was partly due to the fact that Long Jump was not only on the Rim, but on the outer edge of the rim, which meant that goods such as grain, refined ore, and manufactured products would have to be shipped to the center of the Confederacy where they would be forced to compete with similar commodities that were more expensive to produce, but had a shorter distance to travel. A competitive reality that the citizens of Long Jump had never managed to compensate for. All of which helped to explain why Fortuna, the only city of any real size, was home to thieves, prospectors, renegades, bounty hunters, organ jackers, drug smugglers, stave traders and every other sort of villain known to the broad array of sentient races.

It was like so many frontier towns, a city of contrasts in which mansions stood shoulder to shoulder with sleazebag hotels, animals toiled next to jury-rigged robots and the often muddy streets wandered where commerce took them.

But Fortuna was civilized, and, like mostly human civilizations everywhere, was host to a complex social structure. The very top layer of this society was occupied by three different beings, all of whom liked to think that they owned the very top slot, although none of them really did. One individual came close, however, and his name was Neptune Small. The fact that he weighed approximately 350 pounds was an irony of which he was well aware, and no one chose to joke about. No one who wanted to live.

Small’s offices were located over one of the restaurants he owned, which was rather convenient, since he considered it his duty to sample the establishment’s wares at least four times a day. So that’s where he was, sitting at his favorite table, when a functionary named Hos McGurk left the city’s dilapidated corn center, ignored the pouring down rain, and ran the three blocks to the aptly named Rimmer’s Rest. He could have called, could have asked for Small, but the businessman didn’t like corn calls. He preferred to deal with people face to face, where he could see their fear, and smell their sweat. McGurk pushed the doors open, ignored the robotic hostess, and headed for the back. All sorts of junk had been nailed, wired, screwed, or in at least one case welded to the walls. There were nameplates taken off long-dismantled ships, a collection of alien hand tools, the shell from a five-hundred-pound land mollusk, a mummified hand that someone found floating in space, and a wanted poster that not only bore Small’s somewhat thinner likeness, but announced the possibility of a rather sizeable reward. Some of the clientele thought it was a joke—others weren’t so sure.

McGurk had started to pant by the time he arrived in front of Small’s table. The entrepreneur, as he liked to refer to himself, always wore immaculate black clothing, and affected a specially made cane The handle resembled the head of an eagle and the shaft doubted as a singleshot energy weapon. It leaned against the table only inches from it owner’s well-dimpled hand. Small dabbed his fat puffy lips, raised an eyebrow, and spoke in what amounted to a hoarse whisper. “Good afternoon, Hos—what brings you out on such a miserable day?”

Thus encouraged McGurk began to babble. His eyes bulged with pent-up emotion, his hands washed each other, and the words emerged in spurts. “Ships! Hundreds of them! Maybe more! All dropping hyper.”

Small frowned. Given Long Jump’s location, five ships would be notable, ten would be extraordinary, and a hundred was impossible. He stabbed a piece of meat. “Have you been drinking? I thought you gave it up.”

“No!” Hos said emphatically. “I ain’t been drinking, and here’s proof.”

Small accepted the note, read the corn master’s barely legible scrawl, and saw that the messenger was correct.

Assuming that the orbital sensors were functioning correctly, and there was no reason to think otherwise, hundreds of alien ships had dropped into the system and more were on the way. Some, the majority from the sound of it, had adopted a long elliptical orbit around the sun, while six vessels, big honkers judging from the message, were in orbit around Long Jump. Small removed the crisp white linen from his chest, folded the napkin along the creases, and put it aside. It was important to maintain a front, to signal how unflappable he was, in spite of the inexplicably empty feeling mat claimed the bottom of his considerable gut. What was going on? A Confederate raid? Or just what the message claimed it was? Aliens out of nowhere? Neither possibility suggested an opportunity for profit.

Those thoughts were still in the process of flickering through Small’s mind when something twittered. McGurk hauled a pocket corn out of his coat and held the device to a badly misshapen ear. He listened, nodded, and turned to Small. “It’s Hawker... He claims to have one of the ships on the horn—and says Jorley Jepp wants to speak with you.”

The businessman felt his face flush red. He knew Jepp all right. Plenty of people did and would love to get their hands, tentacles, or graspers on him. A sometimes prospector, he owned a ship named the Pelican, and was eternally broke. One hundred and sixty-five thousand two-hundred and ten credits plus interest. That’s how much the slimy, no good, piece of space crap owed Small. But Jepp had disappeared more than a year back, which meant some stupid bastard was having him on. Small was about to say as much, about to rip McGurk a new asshole, when the idiot in question offered the corn set. “Here, it’s Jorely Jepp.”

In spite of the fact that his relationship with the Hoon was basically cordial, it was hardly collegial, which meant the computer never bothered to announce what the fleet was going to do next. A fact that bothered the human no end. That being the case, Jepp usually gathered information through his robots or via his own senses.

The human had lived on the Sheen ship for quite a while by then, and was used to the way air whispered through the ducts, the hull vibrated beneath his feet, and the push of die engines. So when the fleet dropped hyper, slowed, and dropped into orbit, Jepp sensed the change and sent his minions to investigate.

The Thraki robot was called “Sam,” short for “Good Samaritan” and, though small, was able to assume a variety of configurations. Some of which came in handy from time to time. The fact that it served as a translator made the machine even more useful.

Henry, the only surviving component of the good ship Pelican, was a navcomp by trade and currently trapped within a body that looked like a garbage can. Though sentient and capable of speech, the host mechanism wasn’t. That left the computer dependent on Sam.

The two robots, along with the ever-obedient Alpha, left Jepp’s self-assigned quarters, passed an example of the religious graffiti that the prospector liked to spray paint onto the ship’s bulkheads, and made for the nearest data port. Sam plugged in, sampled the flow, and found what the master was looking for. With that accomplished, it was a relatively simple matter to transmit the data to Henry, who possessed superior analytical abilities, and who if the truth be told was just plain smarter. The navcomp scanned the data, registered the machine equivalent of surprise, and checked to ensure that it had arrived at the correct conclusion. Then, certain that the information was correct, Henry experienced a profound sense of horror. What were the odds? Millions to one? That the Hoon would randomly choose that particular set of coordinates?

No, much as the AI might want to believe such a hypothesis, it couldn’t. Henry’s memory had been plundered shortly after capture. Now, for reasons known only to it, the alien intelligence had approached Long Jump. The navcomp had witnessed similar visitations during the previous year, and none of them had been pleasant. Entire civilizations had been snuffed from existence, species left near extinction, and natural resources looted to feed the fleet. Slowly, reluctantly, Henry returned with the news. Jepp listened to the report, asked to hear it again, and felt an almost overwhelming sense of joy. He’d been right! God had a plan. Why else would the Supreme Being direct the fleet to Long Jump? The very planet from which Henry and he had lifted so long ago?

The human literally danced around the compartment, chortled out loud, and slapped the robot’s alloy back. “Here’s our chance. Alpha! We’ll minister to the godless and build the flock! Praise be to the lord.”

“Praise be to the lord,” Alpha echoed dutifully.

Henry was silent.

The Hoon transferred a portion of its consciousness from one ship to another, scanned the orb below, and considered its options. Yes, it could consume the metal on the planet below, and thereby fuel the

,fleet, or, and this was more intriguing, allow the soft body to interact with its peers and take the food afterwards.

Evidence had been found suggesting that the AI’s quarry had traveled into that particular sector of space—and it wanted confirmation. If the soft bodies knew anything about the Thraki, they would tell the one called Jepp, and he would tell the Hoon. Or would he? Based on data gleaned from the biped’s navigational entity, this was the biological’s planet of origin. Perhaps he would run. No great loss, the Hoon concluded, none at all.

Jepp boarded the Sheen shuttle, followed by his robots, each one of which progressed by its own means of propulsion, which meant that Alpha walked. Henry rolled, and Sam scampered about. The human had been given grudging use of smaller ships in the past, but this felt different, as if the Hoon actually wanted him to go. Form has a tendency to follow function—so the control room looked like what it was. The presence of two pedestal style chairs confirmed the fact that the ship’s architects, whoever they might be, liked to sit down once in awhile.

There was a view screen, a stripped-down control panel, and a joystick. Did that mean the creators had a preference for simplicity? Or that the controls were regarded as little more than an emergency backup?

Jepp favored the second theory but had no way to know if he was correct. The ex-prospector sat down, wished the chair was more comfortable, and felt the ship lift off. It hovered for a moment, scooted out through the enormous hatch, and fell into orbit. The sight of Long Jump brought a lump to his throat. It looked like a chocolate ball dusted with powdered sugar. There were people down there, lots of them, and he hungered for the sound of their voices Could the ship patch him through? There was only one way to find out. “Contact the surface,” Jepp ordered, “and tell them I wish to speak with Neptune Small.”

Three minutes passed while the robots communicated with the ship and the ship communicated with someone on Long Jump’s surface.

Then, much to the human’s amazement. Alpha touched a section of the control panel, waited for a small cover to whir out of the way, and removed a curvilinear tube. “Here, you can speak into this.”

Jepp recognized the device as some sort of handset and heard a voice issue from a hole. “Jepp? Is that you?”

The sound of the merchant’s voice was enough to trigger unpleasant memories. The prospector remembered what it had been like to wait for hours while Small sat in his office. And then, he was very, very lucky, to be given five minutes in which to make his case. Why the existing loan should be extended, why he would strike it rich, why Small should be patient. And how, when the whole humiliating ritual was over. Small would part with a tiny fraction of the money he’d made during the last five minutes, and Jepp would slink away. But not this time Jepp thought to himself. “Yes,” Jepp said out loud. “It certainly is. How do you like my fleet?”

Small, who had taken the precaution of draping a handkerchief over McGurk’s less than sanitary corn set, gave a grunt of derision. “I don’t know who owns those ships . .. but it certainty isn’t you.”

“Oh really?” Jepp replied, eyeing the huge doughnut-shaped space hab that had appeared on the shuttle’s viewscreen. “How’s that refueling station doing? You know, the one that charges twice the going rate, just for being out on the Rim?”

Small felt something gnaw at his gut. He made it to his feet, grabbed the cane, and walked toward the door. Maybe the folks down at the corn center could tell him what the hell was going on. “Now Jorley ... there’s no reason to get all excited . .. let’s talk.”

A mob had formed in front of the corn center but parted to let Small through. Voices babbled and questions flew, but the merchant ignored them. People scattered as Small barged into the main office and eyed the wall screen. There were ships all right, lots of them, more than he could count. And there, right between some red deltas was his pride and joy, the largely automated refueling station he called “Halo.”

The computer-generated likeness of the station was gold and glistened in the sun. Then, as if by magic, the Halo was gone. Small yelled “No!” but it was too late. Instructions had gone to the Hoon, weapons had been fired, and the hab ceased to exist.

Jepp tried to remember how many people lived on board but wasn’t sure. He should have checked first—should have known the answer. What was wrong with him anyway? Would he go to hell? No, not so long as he furthered God’s plan. His voice was filled with steel. “Prepare to receive God’s servants. Make them welcome or suffer my wrath.”

Small started to reply, started to ask “What servants?” but realized the connection had been severed. All other air traffic was turned away as a procession of shimmery shuttles landed at Fortuna’s much-abused spaceport. Neptune Small, his flunkies, a crowd of townspeople, and spaceport staff all watched in amazement as dozens of smooth-faced robots filed out of the alien spaceships and made their way into the slums that bordered the port.

Many feared that the machines would suddenly turn violent, but there was no sign that any of them bore weapons, and none of the robots did anything to offend. What they did do, however, was take up positions on street corners, enter bars, and invade houses of prostitution. There were objections, of course, along with various attempts to eject them, but to no avail. Even after being physically accosted and thrown out into the streets, the robots simply picked themselves up and marched back in. Eventually, after the bouncers tired of trying to stop them, the machines were allowed to stay. That’s when they launched their carefully prepared sermons. Long rambling affairs that borrowed from a number of sects, denominations, and traditions, but were faithful to none. It was only after walking around for a bit and sampling a number of presentations that Small realized the robots were speaking in unison!

Jepp, self-styled messiah that he was, had constructed the perfect cult. Each and every member thought the same thoughts, had the same beliefs, and babbled the same nonsense. Including the need to eradicate the Thraki. Whoever they might be.

People listened at first, curious as to what the silvery machines had to say, but soon grew bored and drifted away.

Three of the robots were machine-napped but set free the moment that the orbital barrage began. The buildings were chosen at random and destroyed one at a time till the Sheen were released. Small lost two properties during the attack, and his peers lost structures as well. Finally, at their urging, the businessman was forced to go looking for Jepp. The self-styled messiah was easy to locate. Every streetcomer robot seemed to know exactly where their master was.

The prefab warehouse catered to the sort of misfits that used Long Jump as a base of operations, and was subdivided into a labyrinth of heavily screened cubicles. It was difficult to see in the murky corridors, but most of the compartments seemed to crammed with semi-worthless junk. The owner, a weasel nicknamed “Pop,” dogged the merchant’s steps. He was as small as the other man was large and dressed in property confiscated from his nonpaying customers. A two-thousand credit spydersilk robe napped around his tiny body as he walked. “He’s down this way Mr. Small... along with some of his infernal machines. They just walked in and took over.”

The twosome turned a comer, passed under a dangling light wand, and located their quarry. Jepp was there all right—along with a clutch of robots. A silver globe bumped into Small’s wellshad feet, transformed itself into something that resembled a spider, and attempted to scale the merchant’s right leg. He bent over to peel the device off. Sam took exception. “Hey1 Watch it buster! Hands off.”

Startled by the robot’s use of standard, the merchant took a step backward. The robot lost interest and dropped free. Jepp, who had chosen to ignore the businessman up till then, scanned the title of a holo disk and dropped it into a box. “Don’t mind Sam . .. he’s harmless enough. I wondered when you would show up.”

Small, who felt inexplicably nervous, was shocked by the sound of his own voice. He sounded weak, and a little bit subservient, like those who worked for him. “Really? Yes, I suppose you did.”

“Of course I did,” Jepp said matter-of-factly. “So what did your friends say? Get rid of him? And do it fast?”

“Something like that,” Small admitted lamely.

“So what will you give me?” Jepp demanded, hands on hips.

Small shrugged. “Whatever you want. So long as you leave and take the machines with you.”

“ ‘Whatever I want,’ “ Jepp mused. “I like the sound of that. . . One can imagine all sorts of things. The sort of worldly garbage that a man like you would ask for.

“But God has no interest in such things . .. and neither do his servants. I ask only two things, one for the Hoon, and the other for myself.”

Small felt a small, hard lump form in his throat He had no idea who or what the Hoon was ... but wasn’t sure it mattered. As with all business deals, the price was what mattered. “Yes? What do you want?”

“The Sheen are looking for a race known as the Thraki.

Have you heard of them?”

The merchant shook his head. Chins jiggled. “No, but we don’t get much news out here. You know how it is ... The Feddies don’t care about us, and we don’t care about them.”

Jepp looked unimpressed. “You have contacts ... use them. Talk to the smugglers. They know what’s going on ... they have to. I want a report by this time tomorrow.”

Small nodded weakly “It shall be as you say. And the second request?”

“Five years’ worth of the best ship rations you can lay your hands on, fifty thousand gallons of purified water, a class one autodoc with plenty of supplies, ten dark blue ship suits, ten sets of underwear, two pairs of size twelve boots and ten thousand bibes. At the spaceport by tomorrow night.”

The fact that the list didn’t involve large quantities of money or other valuables granted Small a tremendous sense of relief. ‘That sounds doable . .. Everything but the Bibles. I doubt there’s more than 100 on the entire planet.”

“Then print some more,” Jepp replied sweetly, “or Judgment Day may arrive a little bit early.”

The Hoon was both annoyed and amused by the supplies that the soft body wanted to bring aboard. Not that it made much difference since there was plenty of room.

Of greater significance was the fact that the biological had clearly decided to stay. A thoroughly disagreeable prospect except for one thing: Prior to quitting the planet’s surface, the human had acquired some valuable intelligence. It seemed that this particular world was little more than an outpost for a much larger multicultural civilization. A society still struggling to cope with the fact that the Thraki armada had dropped out of hyperspace, seized control of a planet, and taken up residence there. An extremely important development—assuming it was true.

The information had been culled from soft bodies that Jepp considered unreliable, nonfunctional, and in some cases outright hostile. In fact, based on observations the computer intelligence had carried out while monitoring its robots, some of the data had been obtained under physical duress. Still, the claims were consistent with each other plus other data stored in Hoon’s banks, and not to be ignored. The Sheen would proceed, albeit cautiously, to avoid any sort of trap. As for the planet below, well, there were ships to feed, and even though the city would offer little more than a snack, something is better than nothing.

The shuttles landed with monotonous regularity. Larger units this time, loaded with self-propelled machines, each protected by one of the shimmery force fields that gave the Sheen their name. Fortuna had no military as such, just criminal gangs, none of whom were willing to cooperate with each other. That being the case, the three-story crawlers were free to go about the business of consuming every bit of metal they could lay their graspers on without any interference other than the occasional shoulder-launched missile.

Neptune Small knew he should run, should head out into the bush like most of the others had, but continued to hope for some sort of miracle. The machines threatened everything that he had worked, stolen, and fought for. He was both too old and too fat to start all over again. That’s why the merchant stood out in front of the Rimmer’s Rest, why he fired his cane as a crawler rounded a corner, and why Small, along with the entire facade of his building, vanished in a single flash of light.

Chapter 3

Thus the highest form of generalship is to balk the enemy’s plans; the next best is to prevent the junction of the enemy’s forces; the next in order is to attack the enemy’s army in the field; and worst policy of all is to besiege walled cities.

Sun Tzu

The Art of War

Standard year circa 500 B.C.

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Originally christened as the battleship Reliable, the Friendship filled an entirely different role now, but still looked like what she was: one of the most powerful ships the Confederacy had. Her hull was five miles long and covered by a maze of heat exchangers, tractor beam projectors, corn pods, and weapons blisters.

The planet Arballa hung huge behind her. The poles were white, but the rest of the world appeared as various shades of brown. Oh, there was water all right, but it was locked deep below where lake-sized aquifers had been sealed into bubbles of volcanic rock. That’s where the wormlike Arballazanies took shelter from the sun’s dangerous heat, spun their delicate cocoons, and built the optically switched computers for which they were justifiably famous. The Friendship had served the Confederacy as a traveling capital for more than fifty years now—and it was their turn to play host. All of which was little more than a backdrop for coconspirators, who, in an effort to escape the nonstop surveillance typical of shipboard life, boarded a Ramanthian shuttle, and used it to slip away. The interior bore an intentional resemblance to the sort of underground cavern that Ramanthians preferred, which meant that it was not only dim but hot and extremely humid. The Hegemony’s ambassador to the Confederacy, Harlan Ishimoto Seven, sought to surreptitiously loosen his collar, and regretted the decision to come. Could the Ramanthian tell how uncomfortable he was? There was no way to be sure.

The Ramanthian resembled a large insect. He had multifaceted eyes, a parrotlike beak. tool legs in place of arms, and long narrow wings. They were folded at the moment, and nobody the clone knew had ever seen them deployed.

The clone and the Ramanthian were both members of the cabal that attempted to subvert Earth’s government and thereby weaken its influence. The effort had failed, but just barely, and through no fault of their own. After all, who would have predicted an alliance between Ambassador Hiween DomaSa, the sole representative of the Hudathan race, and Sergi ChienChu, wealthy industrialist, past President of the Confederacy, and functional cyborg? Nobody, that’s who.

Earth Governor Patricia Pardo had been a member of the original conspiracy but now languished in prison. Also missing was Legion Colonel Leon Harco, who had betrayed the Confederacy, the cabal, and ultimately himself.

His court-martial was scheduled for later that year. Of less importance, in Ishimoto Seven’s opinion at least, was Leshi Qwan, a corporate type who had pushed his luck too far, and allowed Maylo ChienChu to shoot him.

The conspirators had some new allies however, including Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna, the most senior officer in the Thraki fleet. He looked every bit as uncomfortable as Ishimoto Seven felt. Also joining the cabal was Senator Haf Noother, the duly appointed representative of the reclusive Drac Axis, who was clad from head to toe in a dull black pressure suit. His breathing apparatus, if that’s what it was, made a sort of gurgling sound. Seven did his best to ignore it. Omo noted the human’s discomfort and took pleasure in how stupid the humans were. Especially this one. Little did he or the rest of the conspirators know, but the tricentennial birthing was only two and a half annums away, which meant his race would have an additional fifty billion mouths to feed. Reason enough to obtain some additional real estate. The Ramanthian made use of his tool legs to preen the areas to either side of his beak. His words were translated by the computer woven into his iridescent robes. The syntax was slightly stilted. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules. Let’s start by providing each of our representatives with the opportunity to report Ambassador Ishimoto Seven ... let’s begin with you.”

The clone was ready. “Thank you. My efforts have centered on recruiting the votes necessary to admit the Thrakies to the Confederacy. In spite of the fact that my clonebrother. Senator Samuel Ishimoto Six continues to drag his feet where our initiative is concerned, he will follow orders, and cast his ballot accordingly. That being the case the Hegemony is well on the way to building a proThraki coalition.”

“Excellent,” Omo purred, “truly excellent. Once their membership has been approved, our Thraki brothers and sisters will bolster our strength. How many votes do we have?”

“Quite a few,” Seven allowed cautiously, “but less than we had hoped for. Governor ChienChu and Ambassador DomaSa have formed an alliance of their own, A strong group that seeks to block our initiative.”

Admiral Andragna listened with a strange sense of detachment. His race was split into two main camps: the “runners,” who believed the best way to deal with the Sheen was to run from them, and the “facers,”

who wanted to face the enemy and fight. The facers were in the majority—so plans had been laid for the inevitable battle. A battle in which he and his staff planned to use the Confederacy as a shield. A strategy that would be greatly enhanced if they were covered by the mutual defense pact that attended membership.

Still, in his heart of hearts, Andragna was a runner and saw the present machinations as a waste of time. He couldn’t admit that, however, not to the committee or to those around him. The Drac spoke for the first time. Maybe it was the synthesizer, or maybe it was his voice, but the result was less than melodious. “Bribery, what of?”

Seven shrugged. “We could buy DomaSa with freedom for his race, assuming there was a way to deliver, but what happens after that? The Hudathans were confined to their home system for a very good reason. They killed millions during the first and second Hudathan wars.”

“And Governor ChienChu?”

“Hopeless,” Omo concluded. “The governor is so wealthy that money holds no meaning for him. There are other possibilities however—and the Thraki are working on them. Admiral?”

The robot that rested on the Thraki’s lap was part toy, part pet, and part tool. It morphed into a globe and assumed the role of translator. “Our priesthood includes a branch focused on the martial arts. A team of assassins was dispatched to Earth with instructions to kill Maylo ChienChu. We haven’t heard from them as yet... but they seldom fail.”

“Point is what?” the Drac inquired flatly.

“Intimidation,” Ishimoto Seven replied easily. “If ChienChu’s niece can be killed then no one is safe. Not his wife, not his associates, and not him.”

“Good it is,” Noother concluded. “Next what?”

Omo glanced at the viewscreen. Special electroactive contact lenses took hundreds of separate images and combined them into one. The Friendship looked small and potentially vulnerable against the great blackness. “Isolated though he is, the Hudathan has proven far too effective for his own good. I plan to eliminate him . .. and do so in a very public manner. With DomaSa dead—the votes we require will hurry to find us.”

“How?” the Drac demanded.

“Patience,” the Ramanthian counseled. “You must have patience. Isn’t that right, Horgo?”

The War Omo stepped forward into the light. Like all of his kind, the Ramanthian’s vital organs were protected by an extremely hard brown-black exoskeleton. He possessed an elongated head, short antennae, a parrotlike beak, and a pair of seldom-deployed wings. He wore black body armor secured by bright metal links. A sword had been strapped across his back, and Horgo wore two hand weapons, butts forward. His rarely heard voice was deep and menacing. “Yes, lord. That is correct.”

The Starlight Ballroom could handle up to one thousand guests, all protected by an immense transparent dome. The planet Arballa hung like a jewel beyond the armored plastic. Only one comer of the vast space was currently in use. About sixty beings, who represented more than a dozen different races, stood in conversational clumps where they sipped, sucked, snorted, and otherwise ingested a wide variety of mildly intoxicating substances, snacked on a variety of exotic hors d’oeuvres, and told each other lies.

All except for one lonely figure who knew he should mingle—but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. He stood with his back to a durasteel bulkhead, his feet planted firmly on the deck, wishing he were dead. Ambassador Hiween DomaSa had rendered many services to his now beleaguered race—but none involved more personal sacrifice than his presence at President Nankool’s cocktail party. He not only hated such occasions but hated them with every fiber of his 350pound body. The food was disgusting, by his standards at any rate, and the conversation was highly political, which was to say full of poorly disguised flattery, outrageous gossip, and carefully calculated untruths. All of which went against the Hudathan’s instincts.

Still, that was the price that had to be paid if he ever hoped to gather the support necessary to lift the blockade that currently confined his people to their home world. A chaotic place where a Trojan relationship with a Jovian binary caused the planet Hudatha to have a wildly unpredictable climate, and threatened the survival of the race. Just as humans threatened it, Ramanthians threatened it, and every other sentient race threatened it. Not because of anything they had done, but because they existed, and might cause harm.

All of which explained why Triads long dead had considered it necessary to attack and destroy the very races with which DomaSa now mingled. Stupid races for the most part, who, had they truly understood the nature of his race, would have killed every Hudathan they could find and sterilized the planet from which they came. But they were incapable of such pragmatism, which was good for him.

“So,” a voice said, “which ones would you like to kill most, and in what order?” The joke, because the Hudathan had learned enough about humans to recognize it as such, demonstrated an almost scary understanding of the way he felt. Was he that transparent? The possibility frightened DomaSa as he turned to face Sergi ChienChu.

The industrialist’s biological body had expired many years before. That’s why his brain and a length of spinal cord were housed in an otherwise synthetic body. A vehicle quite similar to the original. The face had a rounded, slightly Asian cast to it, the body was pleasantly plump, and the clothing was simple verging on plain. A look that was nearly Hudathan in its simplicity. DomaSa’s expression changed only fractionally, but the human recognized the alien equivalent of a smile. “I would leave you till the last.”

ChienChu laughed in spite of the fact that the jest contained a strong element of truth. DomaSa had a large humanoid head, the suggestion of a dorsal fin that ran along the top of his skull, funnel-shaped ears, and a rigid mouth. His skin was gray, but would turn white should the temperature drop, and black were it to rise.

ChienChu glanced to his left and right, assured himself that they were as free from surveillance as one could be on the Friendship, and took the opportunity to share his news. “My niece came aboard three hours ago. The Thraki tried to assassinate her.”

DomaSa liked Maylo, as much as he liked any non-Hudathan, and his face grew hard. “Then they must die.”

“They already have,” ChienChu said gravely, “thanks to General Bill Booty. The larger problem remains, however. Who sent them? And why?”

“The cabal,” DomaSa answered with certainty. “The Thraki were used.”

“Yes,” the cyborg agreed. “Albeit willingly—as part of their own grand scheme. Even though you exposed their intention to use the Confederacy as a shield—they continue to move the plan forward. There was a time when we could have forced them to leave, but that was prior to the mutiny, and the subsequent rebellion. They have five thousand ships, not counting what the cabal can bring to bear, which leaves Earth badly outnumbered.”

The Hudathan offered a human-style shrug. “I am aware of these facts ... why review the obvious?”

“Because,” ChienChu said, “I have an idea. A solution nearly as dangerous as the threat itself... but one that.. .”

The human never got to finish his sentence. A body brushed past his, stepped forward, and sprayed what looked like red paint onto the front of the Hudathan’s robe.

ChienChu took a step backwards, realized who the interloper was, and heard the War Omo speak. The words had a rehearsed quality. “You have not only slandered the Ramanthian race, but sullied the house of Omo, and taken liberties with our private communications. Honor has been lost... and honor must be restored.”

Had the room fallen silent a fraction of a second before the challenge was issued? ChienChu thought that it had, which would mean that at least some of the bystanders had been warned, and were waiting for the confrontation to unfold A quick check confirmed that Senator Omo, flanked by Ambassador Ishimoto Seven and Grand Admiral Andragna, were watching from a hundred feet away. First Maylo, the industrialist thought to himself, now this.

DomaSa looked down at the stain on his chest then up into the Ramanthian’s hard insectoid eyes. The entire room held its breath as the Hudathan allowed the silence to build. Finally, when some doubted his capacity to speak, the diplomat gave his response. “Challenge accepted.”

There was a sucking sound as the oxygen breathers inhaled. The War Omo bowed and straightened again. “The choice of weapons is yours.”

The silence built once again. What would the Hudathan choose? What would any of them choose?

Energy weapons? Slug throwers? Dart guns? Each had merit.

DomaSa smiled but very few of them recognized the expression as such. Most saw what looked like a predatory grin. “Swords.”

There were gasps of surprise, the quick buzz of commentary, and a variety of stares. Horgo was taken aback. Though something of an expert with the sword, he had assumed that if the diplomat agreed to fight, it would be with something less personal. A weapon that would put some distance between the combatants and serve to even the odds. This was good news indeed The duel would be short. Pleased by his good fortune, the War Omo bowed for the second time and backed away. “The surface of Arballa—two days from now.” DomaSa nodded. ‘Two days from now.”

ChienChu sighed. The trap had been set and sprung.

Would the quarry escape? Only time would tell.

It was a small compartment, just off President Nankool’s living quarters, and frequently used for gatherings such as this one. Candlelight glinted from real silver, a Turr symphony could be heard in the background, and the meal was half over. President Marcott Nankool was a rather bland man who took too much pleasure in ceremonial meals, and looked a bit bloated.

The guests included Sergi ChienChu, Maylo ChienChu and Hiween DomaSa. The President gestured toward the Hudathan’s large and rather ornate bowl. “So, Ambassador, how are you doing? Ready for another serving?”

The Hudathan eyed his second bowl of cooked grain. It was hearty stuff—full of nuts and dried fruit. Not bad for shipboard cuisine. “Thank you, Mr. President, but no. This is more than sufficient.”

Nankool looked at Maylo. “And how ‘bout you my dear? Some more of the fish perhaps?”

Maylo flashed back to the illicit swim that she and Senator Samuel Ishimoto Six had shared in one of the onboard aquaculture tanks, and wondered where he was. Why did she care? And what about Booly?

The silence stretched uncomfortably long, and she hurried to fill it. “No, thank you.”

“Well,” Nankool continued, dabbing at his lips, “let’s get to it. So, Sergi, what’s on your mind?”

ChienChu had very little need of nourishment, and what he did require was delivered by other means. He toyed with his wineglass. The dinner was his doing ... so the question made sense. He looked from one face to the next. “I would like to submit a proposal, a proposal that many of our colleagues would consider to be insane, but, given our present circumstances, may represent the only real chance we have.”

Nankool finished one glass of wine and poured himself another. Light gleamed as he raised the glass.

“To Sergi ChienChu! Author of the outrageous! Please proceed.”

The most fleeting of smiles touched ChienChu’s plastiflesh lips. “You may feel differently in a moment. My proposal is this: Given the fact that the Sheen are hunting for the Thraki, and we lack the clout to force them to leave, the Confederacy is in need of allies. Allies with military clout.”

“Yes,” the President agreed. “But who? All the players have chosen sides. None remain.”

“Ah, but that’s where you are wrong,” the industrialist insisted. “One player remains, and he’s here, sitting at this table.”

Nankool frowned, looked to DomaSa, and back to ChienChu. “I’m sorry Sergi... I don’t understand.”

“It’s really quite simple,” ChienChu replied. “After the last war ended, in an effort to prevent still another, a blockade was established. Since that time Ambassador DomaSa and his people have been free to do whatever they pleased so long as they remained on the surface of the planet Hudatha.”

Maylo wondered what her uncle was driving at, looked at the Hudathan, and took note of his expression. Though no expert, the businesswoman had spent a considerable amount of time with the diplomat, and thought she detected a strange sort of intensity ... As if the alien thought he knew where ChienChu was headed . .. but was afraid to hope.

“I have no way to know,” the industrialist continued earnestly, “but it’s my guess that the Hudathan military has been anything but inactive during the last fifty years, and are at the very peak of readiness. All of which points to a reserve of warriors, fierce warriors, who have every reason to fight the Sheen and nothing to lose.”

Nankool went pale. His hands started to shake. “My apologies to the Ambassador—but have you taken leave of your senses? Have you forgotten the death of your own son? The deaths of more than two million Confederate soldiers? The deaths of a billion civilians? All at the hands of the Hudathans? I’m sorry, Sergi... but what you propose is out of the question. Even if the Hudathans agreed, even if they fought the Sheen to a standstill, they would turn on us in the end.”

Though not as responsive as his flesh and blood face had been, the highly malleable plastic did its best to reflect what the cyborg felt, and there was no mistaking the extent of his emotions. A hand slammed down onto the surface of the table, and wineglasses jumped in response. Maylo, who had never seen her uncle lose his temper in all the years she had known him, felt suddenly afraid.

“You think I haven’t considered those things? Damn your impertinence! Not a day passes that I don’t think of Leonid, of the fact that I sent him to Spindle, where the Hudathans killed him.

“But what of the billions for whom we are responsible? How many will the Sheen slaughter? Once dead, we have no means to bring them back. Should we defeat the Sheen, and go on to face the Hudathans, they have a chance. No offense to Ambassador DomaSa—but we defeated his race on two previous occasions. I believe we can do so again.”

Though confused by conflicting emotions Maylo came to her uncle’s assistance. “Sergi has a point. . . Perhaps the Hudathans could change, if they wanted to change, and integrate themselves into Confederate society. Still, even if they can’t, limits can be imposed.”

“Yes!” ChienChu added gratefully. “Limit the size of their navy! Troops mean nothing without the means to move them around.”

“Spoken like a true admiral,” Nankool said dryly. “I see what you mean ... but I still find the concept more than a little frightening.”

The President turned to DomaSa. So, Ambassador, what do you think? Would you and your people fight alongside the Confederacy in exchange for limited freedoms? And to what extent could your race be trusted? Realizing that you are a bit biased of course.”

DomaSa fought to control the unseemly feeling of joy that threatened to overwhelm the rest of his faculties. At last! Here was the opportunity he had dreamed of, . . An opening to exploit. But at what cost? The Thrakie hoped to use the entire Confederacy as a shield—and ChienChu wanted to employ his people as a spear. Oh, how he hungered for something clean and pure. The diplomat chose his words with care.

“The governor’s assumption is correct. Though not permitted to leave the surface of Hudatha, my people have been able to maintain a high state of military readiness. A fact that in no way violates the terms of our surrender and subsequent imprisonment.

“As for our willingness to fight the Sheen, well, anyone who has carried out even the most superficial analysis of our racial psychology knows that we have a strong, some would say overdeveloped sense of survival. Given the opportunity to neutralize a threat, we will always seek to do so.

“Such decisions lie beyond the scope of my authority, but, I believe the answer would be ‘yes.’ If we were allowed some additional freedoms—and the right to settle new worlds. Hudatha grows less stable with each passing year, and time grows short.”

“And then?” Nankool demanded. “If we defeat the Sheen? What could we expect then?”

The silence built as DomaSa considered his answer. He could lie, or try to, but doubted his ability to carry the deception off. Not with ChienChu present. No, the Hudathan decided, the truth was best. “I cannot honestly say that my people will ever be able to fully merge with the Confederacy. Given too much freedom, and the opportunity to build a fleet, our instincts would take over. If the Confederacy allows my race to fight, (I we are allowed some additional freedoms, it would pay to be vigilant. We are what we are.”

There was another moment of silence followed by Nankool’s nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you Ambassador DomaSa. I have come to rely on your honesty. No one could represent you race or its interests more ably. Come, let’s eat, the food grows cold.”

It took the better part of an hour to finish the meal, complete the usual pleasantries, and prepare to leave. Nankool saw them to the hatch. It was he who raised the topic again. “Thank you for coming . .. Terrifying though Sergi’s proposal is, I promise to give it some thought.

“In the meantime I suggest that all three of you direct your energies to the upcoming vote. The attempt on Maylo’s life is a sure measure of how desperate our opponents are. Once admitted, the Thraki would represent more than another vote—they would demonstrate how powerful the cabal has become. Many beings would align themselves accordingly, and a great deal would be lost, including any chance of approval for a scheme as wild as the one Sergi put forward.”

Nankool turned to the Hudathan. “They intend to kill you... I wish you had refused.”

The Hudathan shrugged. ‘Thank you, but such a course is impossible.”

“But why swords?” the President insisted. “Have you any experience?”

“I hope to give a good account of myself,” the Hudathan answered mildly. “Please notify my people should I fail to do so.”

Nankool’s guests left after that—but the politician was far from alone. Ghosts haunted his dreams. Many screamed in anguish. In spite of the fact that it would have been more convenient to conduct the duel on board the ship, there were laws that prevented the combatants from doing so, which left Arballa’s hot rather unpleasant surface. A fleet of high puffy clouds sailed across the land. Each threw a separate shadow. They drifted like night over broken ground.

And so the politicos arrived, their shuttles shattering the silence, landing in sloppy groups. There wasn’t much vegetation, which meant that oxygen was in short supply. Many of those who had chosen to come, and that was almost everybody, required supplemental air. They hiked in from wherever they happened to touch down with all manner of exotic breathing gear attached to their mouths, snouts, beaks, and other related organs.

All except for DomaSa that is, whose body could handle a wide range of atmospheric conditions, and who walked unencumbered from his shuttle. A fact that attracted no small amount of notice and fueled the speculation. Would the War Omo win? He certainly looked dangerous ... Or would the Hudathan carry the day? Opinions were offered, odds were given, and bets were placed. DomaSa’s robe snapped in the breeze, dust exploded away from his boots, and he walked with purpose. Bystanders scattered at his approach, wondered about the bundle tucked under his arm, and some even felt sorry for him. Had anyone else been challenged seconds would have accompanied him down to the planet’s surface, but the Hudathan was all alone. The onlookers followed, marveled at the size of the alien’s footprints, and felt a delicious sense of anticipation. The arena consisted of a bowl-shaped depression, scoured by the relentless globe-spanning winds, and rimmed by a circle of heavily weathered rocks. Someone, it wasn’t clear who, had seen fit to stick long whip-style poles into the soil, each topped by a colorful pennant. They seemed oddly gay, given the nature of the occasion, and flapped back and forth.

The rocks offered a sort of rough and ready seating and were half occupied by the time the Ramanthian party made its way down from the hill on which they had landed and entered the crater. The War Omo had been there before, on three different occasions, to test the surface on which he would fight. Yes, he knew each dip, each patch of gravel, and each pocket of sand. Critical knowledge, given the fact that good footing is one of the most critical components of good swordsmanship. The Hudathan was big, very big, and that meant slow. Slow and potentially clumsy. There was power in those shoulders, however, the kind of power generated by an internalized skeleton, and a mistake could be fatal.

Senator Alway Omo removed his counterpart’s cape, took pride in the way he looked, and stepped out of the way.

A buzz ran through the crowd. Balanced on his powerful retrograde legs, his chitin shiny with oil, the Ramanthian was very imposing. There was the rasp of high grade steel as Horgo drew his weapon, slashed the air into four equal sections, and restored the blade to its scabbard. The odds changed again. The cabal and its champion were favored to win.

Maylo made an adjustment to her nose plugs and spoke to her uncle. The words had a nasal quality.

“That was impressive.”

“Ceremonial displays usually are,” the industrialist observed. “It’s what happens when blade meets blade that matters.”

The sun was hot, but Maylo shivered.

DomaSa looked strangely vulnerable as he entered the arena. His robe flapped around his knees, and he carried a bundle bound with twine. He paused, turned a long slow circle, and nodded as if satisfied. Then, with the care of a surgeon preparing her instruments, he gave a tug on the string, and flicked the roll toward the east. Dust spurted up around the edges of the fabric as the quilt-like material hit the orange-red dirt. Sunlight rippled along the surface of the thousand-year-old blade It was called Head Taker and had been handed down through DomaSa’s family the way all things of value were allocated: by force. Like all such weapons, it had two edges, one straight, one with razor-sharp teeth.

Another buzz ran through the crowd. Did the Hudathan know how to use the weapon? Why have such an implement if he didn’t? The odds turned and surged the other way. That’s when DomaSa dropped his robe, the audience watched his skin shift toward white, and realized how big he truly was. Leather crossstraps bulged where they sought to span his chest, muscles rippled along massive arms, and his legs looked like tree trunks. The diplomat bent to take the sword. Light danced the length of the blade and more bets were placed.

A robot named Harold had been designated to officiate the event. His day suit had been painted on. A hover cam appeared. Once shiny metal had been dulled by hard use. Maylo knew who the device belonged to. Though unwilling or unable to venture out onto the surface of their planet, the Arballazanies were interested nonetheless. Somewhere, far below, they watched as Harold made his way to the center of the arena.

Harold motioned the duelists forward. His voice was amplified. “Before the duel begins, before blood is shed, the President begs both parties to reconsider. The Confederacy is built on the rule of taw, not violence, and there are equitable ways in which to solve our differences. Will one or both parties yield to reason? No? Then let the contest begin.”

There was no salute, no words of respect, since neither one of the opponents was willing to honor the other’s traditions. They circled to the right. The Hudathan held his weapon in the onguard position, his torso turned slightly inward, his rear arm touching his hip.

The Ramanthian shuffled sideways, watching the way DomaSa held himself, and waited for the attack. Though too young to fight in the last war, Horgo had studied it, and drawn certain conclusions. Hudathans were aggressive, impatient, and overly reliant on brute force. All of which suggested that DomaSa would come to him.

DomaSa watched the sun, waited till his shadow pointed at his opponent’s feet, and launched a head cut.

The War Omo flicked his head to the right, waited for the moment of full extension, and made the forward lunge.

The Hudathan took note of the other being’s speed, parried the incoming blade, and recovered his ground.

Encouraged by the small retreat, the Ramanthian brought his left foot forward, and timed the chest cut to coincide with the end of the movement. Steel flashed past his face, something tugged at his air mask, and his lungs sucked hot thin air.

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd, and Senator Omo displayed the equivalent of a frown. Ambassador Ishimoto Seven and Senator Haf Noother stayed where they were, but others edged away. The combatants continued their slow deliberate dance. The War Omo found that it was hard to breathe. Time was running out. He backpedaled as if afraid, waited for DomaSa to commit, and opened his wings. The wind rushed in, his feet left the ground, and the Ramanthian was airborne. His sword fell, found the Hudathan’s shoulder, and cut to the bone. Blood flowed and Senator Omo whistled his shrill approval.

DomaSa cursed his own stupidity, shifted his sword from the right hand to the left, and parried the next blow. The bug could fly! How could he miss that? Gravel slipped out from under his boots as he fell. The Ramanthian beat his way forward—leg spurs at the ready. Shaped like claws, and razor sharp, they could rip through chitin. Still lying on his back, the Omo’s wings pushing air down into his face. the Hudathan slashed with his sword. Steel sliced through the outer surface of a leg, and the Ramanthian flinched.

This was the opportunity DomaSa had been waiting for. The bug couldn’t land—not and stand upright. That would keep him in the air... or so the diplomat hoped. He rocked forward, found his feet, and surged upwards.

The War Omo responded, or tried to, but discovered that his belly was exposed. Head Taker stabbed upwards, the Ramanthian screeched in agony, and Maylo closed her eyes. The War Omo fell, the Hudathan jerked his weapon free, and the body hit the dirt. A cloud of blood-red dust rose, the crowd fell silent, and the duel was over. Androids rushed to dress DomaSa’s wound and peers hurried to congratulate him.

Senator Omo felt a terrible sense of sorrow and shuffled his way forward. The War Omo and he had been hatched within seconds of each other, had courted the Egg Omo as a pair, and promised many things. Visions, dreams, things that might someday be. Now they were gone, snuffed like cave candles, forever destroyed.

Maylo actually felt sorry for the Ramanthian as he knelt on alien soil, gathered his loved one into his arms, and made his way up the hill.

Haf Noother looked at Harlan Ishimoto Seven. The clone shrugged. The Drac walked out into the arena, located the Ramanthian’s sword, and tested the heft Then, aiming for soil still damp with the Omo’s blood, drove the blade into the ground.

Later, long after the visitors had left, night came, and the stars danced on steel. The vote came two days later. The result was never in doubt. Thraki membership was rejected,

“pending further investigation,” and the cabal suffered a setback. Grand Admiral Andragna, his plans frustrated, left for Zynig47.

Sergi ChienChu witnessed the vote, made his way back to his quarters, and palmed the lock. Once inside, the fold down desk sensed his presence, dropped into position, and spoke. “You have six messages waiting—one of which carries the designations ‘urgent,’ and ‘private.’ “

“Play it,” ChienChu said, dropping into his chair.

“Congratulations,” Nankool said, as his likeness filled the holo tank. “The vote went just as we hoped it would. The cabal lost, and you won.”

The President formed a steeple with his fingers. “All of which is good except that it won’t last, won’t mean anything, if the Sheen destroy the Confederacy as part of their effort to reach the Thrakie. “That’s why I’m going to name you as my secret envoy, give you more power than any one being should rightfully have, and let you enter talks with the Hudathans.

“Sell them what you sold me, attach all the conditions you can. and do it quickly. Time is short—and the clock is ticking.”

Chapter 4

To see the future one has but to visit the past.

Naa folk saying

Circa standard year 1700

Planet Algeron, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

It was cold. Snowflakes twisted down out of the heavens, and the Towers of Algeron were but shadows in the distance. Some of the peaks soared more than eighty thousand feet into the atmosphere, which made them taller than Olympic Mons on Mars. In fact, the mountains were so massive, that had they been located on Earth the Towers would have sunk down through the planet’s crust. However, thanks to the fact that Algeron completed a full rotation every two hours and forty-two minutes, centrifugal force had caused the equator to bulge outwards. In fact, although Algeron possessed roughly the same amount of mass Earth did—its equatorial diameter was 27 percent larger. That, combined with the fact that the planet’s polar diameter was 32 percent smaller than Terra’s produced an equator nearly twice the diameter of the poles. All of which meant that the Towers of Algeron, which rode the world-spanning bulge, weighed only half what they would on Earth.

All facts that Genera! William Booly had been aware of since childhood—the earliest part of which had been spent in a village seventy-five miles to the northeast.

The legionnaire stepped out onto the parapet, saw his breath jet outwards, and was glad of his jacket. He’d been dirtside for one standard week by then, and the sentries had become familiar with his morning walks. The habit had been born on the walls of his previous command, inDjibouti ,Africa , and continued here. Precious minutes during which he could think and no one dared disturb him. He followed the top of the wall.

FortCamerone, which had been named after what the Legion considered to be its most important battle, crouched on a dry rocky plain, and, with the exception of antenna arrays, flyform landing pads, and missile launchers that interrupted its boxy lines, was reminiscent of Legion forts inNorth Africa . It was, Booly decided, the way a fortress should look. Hard and uncompromising. It was strange to be there, not only in command ofFortCamerone , but of the entire Legion as well. Yes, he’d been ambitious enough to fanaticize about such an achievement, but never believed that it would happen. Not to a half-breed.

But it had happened—though not in the way he would have preferred. Rather than earn the position, he had inherited it from officers who, like Mortimer Kattabi, had died in battle, or like Leon Harco, who had chosen the wrong side and paid the price. Good officers, perhaps better officers, who, except for a moment of bad luck, or poor judgment, would have been in command. A fact that played into the feelings of inferiority that had been born right there, beyond the veil of the slowly falling snow, where he and his Naa playmates had fought their play pretend wars. Wars that he generally lost. A sentry snapped to attention, presented his weapon, and waited for Booty’s acknowledgement. Like everyone on the battlements, he was aware of the general’s presence and more than a little self-conscious. The officer returned the salute and continued on his way. Yes, it was hard to compete when your peers could smell game from a hundred feet away, could sense heat with the soles of their bare feet, and on a cold day, much colder than this one, had the capacity to run nearly naked through the snow, for miles on end if need be, laughing all the way. Booly had been smart enough, always toward the top of his class, but had never won a footrace, wrestling match, or other test of athletic ability until he had entered the academy and competed with humans. The fact that he could win, could excel, had been something of a revelation. The instructors taught him how to lead, and he had, though never with the confidence of classmates like Harco. Now that might come back to haunt him, and not just him, but the thousands of men, women, and cyborgs under his command.

The officer paused to look out over the densely packed domes collectively known asNaaTown . As darkness fell, he saw squares of buttery yellow light, fingers of dark gray smoke, and the wink of the occasional torch. More than that, his supersensitive nostrils could pick up the odor of incense, burned to cover the smells that emanated from the fort, and the faint scent of slowly drying dooth dung. A valuable source of fuel.

And it was out there, beyond the edge of the slum, that his mother and father, both of whom had served in the Legion, had given up their lives in order to free the fort. The plaque, which he had visited only two days before, bore a single line:

They died that others might live.

Was it colder? A chill ran down his spine. Booly scanned the horizon, watched another two-hour and forty-two minute day come to an end, and turned toward a door. A private held it open. His office awaited as did his work. Plans, requests, appeals, budgets, promotions, reports, and more. All the stuff that he hated . . . but was forced to do.

Booly thought longingly of Maylo, wondered what she was doing, and stepped through the doorway. His responsibilities closed around him.

A staff meeting plus three hours of administrative work passed before Booly rewarded himself with a break He rarely ate in the officers’ mess, preferring the chow hall instead. That’s where the troops were, and while they weren’t about to spill their guts to a general, they didn’t have to. Like most good officers, he could learn a great deal about how the legionnaires felt, what they were thinking, and their general stale of readiness by simply looking at them.

Booty had named Colonel Kitty Kirby to command the fort, and she was tough but fair. She, combined with the efforts of the officers and noncoms who reported to her, had been good for morale. The results could be seen in the way that members of various units sat together, the buzz of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. Things had improved a great deal since the mutiny and the bloodshed that accompanied it.

The mess hall featured bright lights, artificially cheerful colors, and odors left from the previous meal. Something that Naa troopers never stopped griping about. When you eat lunch they reasoned, it should smell like lunch, and not like breakfast. Fans had been installed—but the complaints continued. Booly joined the chow line, joked with the cooks, and headed out into the hall. A table of heavily bearded Pioneers started to rise and the officer shook his head. “At ease . .. How ‘bout it. Sergeant? Is there room for one more?”

The legionnaire grinned. “Yes, sir! Watch what you say though. . . we’re talking about sports. Cramer says that Earth is going to win the next powerball playoff—and Rober favors the clones. It could get violent.”

Booly laughed. “I’ll take my chances.” The Pioneers made room—and the hour passed quickly. Booly returned to his office to find a package waiting on his desk. His adjutant turned from a pile of printouts. Her name was Tan. She had served under Cadet Leader Voytan during the battle forLos Angeles , survived, and been posted to Algeron. She had short black hair, serious brown eyes, and quick little hands. “That came while you were away, sir. A cub gave it to one of the sentries and said it was for you.”

Booly raised an eyebrow. The relationship between the Legion and the Naa was complex to say the least. Even as some of the tribes encouraged young warriors to join the organization, others continued to fight it Just as they fought each other. Patrols were subject to ambush, sentries had been killed, and the occasional SLM slammed into the fort. Many of the chieftains would like nothing better than to bag a general. The box could contain anything ... including a bomb.

Tan read his expression and shook her head. “No, sir. The package is clean. I had the demolitions folks check it out.”

Booly nodded his thanks and took a moment to remove the protective wrappings. The gar wood box had been decorated with crudely cut semiprecious stones. Such containers were common among the Naa, and he had seen hundreds of them. But not like this, not with the cap badge of the 13thDBLE

carved into the lid, above the motto:

“Legio patria nostra.” (The Legion is our country.)

Booly had watched his father bum the words into the wood with a laser pen. Then, long after his mother had opened the present, and remarked on how beautiful it was, he had seen it on her dressing table, next to her bed, and on her desk. For this was the box in which Connie Chrobuck kept small treasures. He remembered them welt: one of her mother’s earrings, a rock her son retrieved from a riverbed, a holo of her sister, some small, extremely sharp scissors, and, Algeron being what it was, some stray rounds of ammunition. Those and other things had lived in the box. Now, at long last, they lay before him. The officer turned, discovered that Tan had left the room, and was grateful. Generals weren’t supposed to cry—everybody knew that—but the tears continued to flow.

Booly closed the door, wiped his face with his sleeve, and sat at his desk. Was the box empty? Did it contain the odds and ends she had kept there? Or had they been looted? Or more likely lost? Treated like what most would think they were: junk.

Carefully, lest his suddenly clumsy fingers betray him, Booly opened the box. It was empty, except for his mother’s scent, and a note written in her neat hand. “I knew you would return as surely as a brella must return to its roost. In spite of the fact that I wasn’t born on Algeron, and lack your father’s blood, his mother taught me many things . .. Among them was the importance of a peaceful heart, the beauty that dwells around us, and the way of the Wula sticks.

“They speak of a great chief, the Chief of all Chiefs, and of great sadness. A battle lies ahead, a great battle, the one you were born to fight. No one can be sure how it will end, not even the sticks, but look at the map. Follow it and find that which you seek.

“We love you—and always will. Watch your six ...

Your mother and father.”

Booly laughed, wiped the last of the tears away, and examined the reverse side of the note. The map was good—but me officer didn’t need one. He’d been there before. He departed two hours later. It was dark at the moment, but that made little difference to the Trooper n, who, thanks to a full array of sensors, could “see” quite well indeed. She had light amplification equipment, infrared sensors, and the benefit of a highly accurate Global Positioning System, which, thanks to high quality maps, displayed her position to within three inches. More than enough data for a little stroll in the boonies. The cyborg went by the name of Wilker, although her real name was something else, and was glad to clear the fort. Yeah, the rider was a pain, but what else was new? Anything beat garrison duty. She scanned the terrain ahead, spotted the heat that radiated from some recently deposited dooth droppings, and headed that way.

First Sergeant Neversmile had ridden on cyborgs before and knew better than to tighten up. The best thing to do was stick boots into the slots provided for that purpose, lean backwards, and allow the harness to take your weight. Then, with knees bent, the motion was easier to take. Wilker followed the trail down into a gully and up the other side. Servos whined, heat radiated off her cowling, and the odor of ozone filled Neversmile’s nostrils. Just one of the things he hated about box heads.

Still, they did have their advantages, not the least of which was the firepower they carried. Wilker was equipped with an arm-mounted air-cooled .50 caliber machine gun, an arm-mounted fast recovery laser cannon, and a pair of shoulder-mounted missile launchers. Yeah, Colonel Kirby knew what she was doing. Wilker had more than enough clout to deal with a handful of bandits—or some warriors on a tear. Alt of which was fine, or would have been, had the mission made more sense. It seemed that nobody was sure what the hell the general was up to. A gift had been delivered to his office. The rumor mill was clear about that, but the rest was weird. Shortly after receiving it the Legion’s most senior officer had announced that he was going on a trip, would need a dooth, and would dispense with the usual escort. A dooth for god’s sake’ Neversmile hadn’t been aboard one of the wooly beasts in more than fifteen years—and figured Booly was the only officer on Algeron that knew how to ride one. The noncom felt a momentary sense of pride in the nature of the general’s origins and remembered Kirby’s orders: “Don’t let the old man see you .. . and don’t come back without him.”

Not that the last part was necessary, since Neversmile had served under the general during the mutiny and had a lot of respect for him. Good officers were hard to come by. A faint pink line marked the eastern horizon. Wilker followed the. trail, and the Naa continued to worry. The general was crazy, the colonel was pissy, and the problem was his. Dimwit Timewaster was standing there, pissing on a rock, when the rich pungent odor of dooth passed beneath his nostrils. Not his dooth, a mangy animal tethered to a withered bush, but a distinctly different beast. And there was something more, the tan, not altogether unpleasant smell which, along with plastic and ozone, he had learned to associate with humans. The clip clop of hooves combined with the clink of poorly secured equipment served to reinforce what the Naa already knew. A lone, presumably stupid human, was heading up into the hills. Not only that, but, judging from odors ranging from gun oil to aftershave he came bearing gifts! His mother had been right. The gods did smile on those in need. The Naa shook himself off, secured his trousers, and slipped through the rocks. The bedroll looked like a long lumpy tube. Nocount Quickknife jerked as a hand covered his mouth, went for his blade, and relaxed when he smelted who it was. Dimwit nodded toward the trail. His voice was little more than a whisper. “We got company. Easy pickin’s. Move your ass.”

Nocount yawned. Dimwit winced at the smell of his companion’s breath and started to gather his gear. There was no particular hurry, something neither of them liked to do, since every stride carried their victim further from the fort. An advantage if the idiot called for help. Not that it mattered . . . since he’d soon be dead.

Booly left the reins loose and allowed the doom to pick its own way up the rock-strewn trail. A good decision since the animal was native to Algeron and well equipped to survive there. It had been a long time since the officer had ridden anything more challenging than a command car, and his knees were starting to hurt. His butt would come next, followed by his lower back. The legionnaire had already started to regret the journey but was too stubborn to turn back.

The dooth completed one long stretch of trail, tried to snatch a bite of greenery from a likely looking bush, and took a kick to its barrel-shaped ribs. Dooms were never ones to suffer silently and were famous for the variety of sounds they could make. This particular animal produced something that bordered between a belch and a grunt.

Booly kicked the animal again and guided it up through still another hairpin turn. The gravelly trail stretched up toward the swiftly rising sun. It was then, as the dooth started to climb, that Booty detected, or thought he detected, a foreign scent. The officer’s hand went to his sidearm. He stood in the stirrups and took a long careful look around.

Weather-smoothed boulders littered the surrounding hillside. Many were the size of battle tanks. A full company of legionnaires could have hidden there, concealed among the rocks, and he wouldn’t have been able to spot them. Especially if they were Naa—and didn’t want to be seen. Uneasy now, but not sure why, the legionnaire climbed toward the sunrise. Everything was normal.. . except for the fur that ran the length of his spine. That stood on end. The Trooper IF rounded an outcropping of rock, “saw” a patch of green smear itself across the blue grid that overlaid her surroundings, and stopped dead in her tracks. Then, weapons ready, she backed around the corner. Numbers shifted in the lower right hand comer of the cyborg’s vision as the threat factor gradually decreased.

Neversmile, who had allowed himself to be lulled into a sort of half-conscious trance, came fully awake. He spoke into a wire-thin boom mike. It was jacked into a panel at the base of Wilker’s duraplast neck.

“What’s up?”

“Naa,” Wilker replied. “Two of them. Both mounted.

Maybe a quarter mile ahead. Between the general and us.”

Neversmile swore silently. Just his luck. The general get’s a wild hair up his ass ... and the colonel chose him to deal with it. “Can you nail the bastards?”

“A shoulder-launched missile would handle it. assumin’ you ain’t too worried about due process or how big a hole I make.”

Neversmile remembered how many innocent females and cubs the Legion had accidentally slaughtered over the years and knew he wasn’t willing to take that chance. Not to mention the fact that he was supposed to maintain a low profile. “No, hold your fire. Feel free to close the distance, however—but don’t let the shitheads see you.”

It was a stupid order—Wilker thought so anyway—but knew better than to say so. Not to a sergeant—and not to this Sergeant. Gravel crunched under her weight, and the cyborg continued to climb.

Dimwit emerged from the rocks still buttoning his pants. It was the second time he had stopped to take a pee and the second time he had fallen behind. Nocount was irritated. “Hurry up! The human’s slow but not that slow. We’ll lose the furless bastard.”

“It ain’t my fault,” Dimwit complained. “I had to pee and it hurts.”

“Alt because you’ll screw anything with a pulse,” his companion replied unsympathetically. “Come on, let’s go.”

Dimwit mounted his dooth, kicked the animal onto the trail, and kicked it yet again. The animal groaned, sent plumes of lung-warmed air down toward the ground, and passed a prodigious amount of gas. The trek resumed.

If the mesa had a name, Booly didn’t know what it was. Only that it stood straight and tall, just as it had the last time he’d been there, camping with his mother.

It was she who showed him the narrow, often dangerous, path that circled the sheersided cliffs, pointed out the tool marks the ancients had left on the rock, and fired his imagination. “Who were they?” she asked. “And from whom were they hiding?” For surely some great evil had been upon the land, a threat that drove them up off the slowly rising plain, to make a home in the sky. Had they won? These hard-pressed Naa? And survived that which sought to hunt them down? Or had the group been decimated? And wiped from existence? There was no way to be sure. And there was another story, a more personal tale, which came back to Booly as his dooth labored toward the top. It had to do with his grandfather, William Booly I, a onetime sergeant major who was wounded during an ambush, taken prisoner, and nursed back to health by a Naa maiden, a beautiful maiden, named Windsweet.

His grandfather was smitten, very smitten, and soon fell in love. But the whole thing was wrong. Wrong according to the Legion, wrong according to the Naa, and wrong according to her father. Windsweet helped the legionnaire escape, bandits gave chase, and a patrol saved his life. Later, after returning to his unit, the soldier tried to forget the maiden and the way he felt about her, but found that impossible to do. That’s when Booly’s ancestor did something which Booly himself, as an officer, could never forgive: William Booly I went over the hill.

The dooth rounded a comer, rocks clattered away from its hooves and fell toward the scree below. They rattled, started a small slide, and tumbled down the mountain. The noise caused Nocount to jerk his animal to a halt. He turned to Dimwit. ‘The motherless alien is halfway to the lop.”

“So?” his friend inquired sarcastically. “If he can make it, so can we.”

“I know that you idiot,” Nocount responded impatiently.

“But why bother?”

Dimwit frowned, processed the words, and brightened.

“We could wait here!”

“Now there’s an idea,” Nocount replied sarcastically. “Let’s try it. No point in doin’ all that work if we don’t have to.”

Dimwit agreed, swung down from the saddle, and headed for some likely looking rocks. He needed to pee.

The trail wound through the site of an ancient rock slide, shelved upwards, passed through a rocky defile and ended on a windswept plateau. A crust of icy snow covered what remained of the ancient walls. Yes, Booly thought to himself, whatever roamed below must have been very unpleasant to force the old ones up here.

The officer dismounted, took the dooth by its reins, and led the animal toward a rocky spire. It was there if memory served him correctly that his mother and he had camped. Not on the surface, at the mercy of the groaning wind, but below, in chambers created by the ancients. He located the spiral stair without difficulty, pulled a torch out of his pack, checked to ensure that the underground common room remained habitable, and allowed the light to play over some empty ration boxes. Others had camped there since his childhood visit, but not for many years, judging from the dust on the containers.

Someone had left a mound of somewhat desiccated dooth dung, however, which meant the legionnaire could enjoy a fire and a more pleasant evening than he had counted on. But dooths came first, as all Naa learn the moment they are allowed to ride, and Booly returned to the surface. He removed the animal’s saddle, rigged a nose bag filled with grain, and hobbled its feel. Then, confident that his mount would remain nearby, the officer carried his gear below. It took the better part of a hour to build a dooth dung fire, clear the room of trash, and prepare a simple meal. Firelight danced the walls as the story retold itself.

Having deserted the Legion, his grandfather went back for the maiden, and took her away. Knowing that her father would follow, and fearful of what might happen if the two of them came into contact, Windsweet led her lover to the high plateau.

The Hudathans attacked Algeron shortly thereafter. Booly’s grandfather went off to fight them and left Windsweet by herself. And it was there, in that very room, that his grandmother threw the Wula sticks and learned that the child in her belly would be male.

Was that what his mother meant? That what he needed was here? Buried among old memories?

Something caught Booly’s eye. Something white, something beyond the dance of the flames, something almost obscured by graffiti.

The legionnaire stood, circled the fire pit, and found what he was looking for: the badge of the 13thDBLE. A coincidence? Or something more? The officer discovered a lump in his throat, wondered why the room felt so warm, and took his coat off. That’s when Booly knelt on his parka, felt for his combat knife, and started to dig. The well packed earth was dry and hard. The fire, augmented by some Legion-issue fuel tabs, burned hot and bright. Nocount took a pull from his canteen, passed the container to Dimwit, and delivered a prodigious belch. “I hope the human comes down tomorrow. We’re almost out of drak.”

The second Naa took a drink, felt the liquor bum its way down into his stomach, and wiggled his nose. That odor ... What was it? Not drak, not his friend’s pungent body odor—it was something else. Then he had it. Dimwit’s brain sent the message to his lips, told them what to say, but not in time. First Sergeant Neversmile had stripped to the waist. His fur was black with patches of white. They seemed to glow as he stepped out into the firelight. “Greetings my brothers ... I saw your fire and wondered if you might spare a traveler something to eat.”

Both of the bandits were in the habit of taking things from travelers but never gave them away. They ran their eyes down the newcomer’s body, saw no sign of weapons, and felt a lot more secure. Nocount decided to toy with the stranger. He pulled a Legion-issue .50 caliber recoilless out from under his jacket and waved it back and forth. “Sure, I’ll give you something to eat... How ‘bout a bullet?”

Neversmile smiled. A bad sign if there ever was one.

“Sure, if you don’t mind eating a few yourself.”

Nocount frowned. “I have a gun, and you don’t.”

True,” the legionnaire said agreeably, “but I have a friend . .. and her gun is bigger than your gun.”

Dimwit squinted into the surrounding gloom. “Friend?

What friend?”

“That would be me,” Wilker replied, stepping out into the light. Servos whined as weapons came to bear. “Hi, how ya doin’?”

Dimwit peed his pants. Nocount decided to gamble.

The knife point struck metal and skidded through olive-drab paint. Booly gave a small grunt of satisfaction, scooped dirt with his hands, and revealed the top of an old ammo box. Though faded, the words “Grenades 40 mm HE,” could still be read. Such containers were highly prized by the Naa and used for a multiplicity of purposes. The officer dug around both ends, freed the handles, and checked for wires. There were none. Then, careful lest the box be resting on some sort of spring-loaded mine, he felt underneath. Nothing.

Confident that it was safe the legionnaire grabbed the handles and pulled the container out of its hole. It was light, too light for a box with grenades in it, which confirmed his initial impression. Someone had used the box for something else.

Booly carried the container over and placed it in front of the fire. Most of the dark green paint was intact, but there were patches of dark brown rust, and any number of scratches. There was no lock, just a series of latches, all of which were stiff. He pried them open, took a long deep breath, and pushed the lid up and out of the way.

The contents were sealed in clear plastic, and Booly recognized some of the items even before he sliced through the outer covering. He saw his grandmother’s Wula sticks. his father’s Medal of Valor, his mother’s long-barreled target pistol, and much, much more. There were photos, diaries, Naa story beads, his grandfather’s flick blade, and a Hudathan command stone. Not the sort of items most mothers would leave for their sons—but the kind that a warrior would. For each and every one of the objects told a story, was part of who he was, and a source of strength.

It was her way of reminding him of where he came from, of who had gone before, and the nature of his inheritance.

Not land, not money, but a legacy of honor.

Suddenly, without knowing why, the officer thought of Maylo ChienChu. She had doubts about their relationship. That was obvious. Could her doubts have been related to his? After all, why should she be sure of him, if he doubted himself? Or was that too easy?

Whatever the reason, he felt stronger now, confident that he was entitled to the stars that rode his shoulders and the responsibility that went with them. Because of the objects in the box? The pilgrimage to get them? The fact that his mother cared? It hardly mattered. What was, was. Half an hour later Booly crawled into his sleeping bag, closed his eyes, and entered a dreamless sleep. Millions upon millions of snowflakes fell from the lead gray sky, performed airborne pirouettes, and spiraled into the ground. They formed a lace curtain through which Neversmile and Wilker maintained their watch. A jumble of boulders broke the wind, provided the twosome with some cover, and screened the trail. They waited through six foreshortened “days” before stones rattled, a dooth coughed, and General William Booly made his way down off the plateau.

He paused no more than twenty feet away from them to scan his surroundings. He felt something—but wasn’t sure what. Whatever it was sent a chill down his spine. The officer resisted the impulse to pull his blast rifle, kicked the dooth in the ribs, and continued on his way. He wanted to reach the fort—wanted to leave the planet. Algeron was in good hands, and there was work to do. Lots of it. Neversmile waited until the general had established a sizeable lead, mounted the cyborg’s back, and spoke into the mike. “Senses to max. .. patrol speed.” Wilker obeyed. Behind them, covered by a thin blanket of cold wet snow, lay two mounds of carefully piled rocks. Algeron continued to spin—and darkness swept in from the east.