When All Seems Los

WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST

William C. Dietz

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Many thanks to Jeffrey T. Slotstad for his expert advice concerning the creation, maintenance, and destruction of space elevators. Technical errors, if any, are the exclusive property of the author.

1

Surprise, the pith and marrow of war.

—Admiral of the Fleet Lord Fisher

Standard year 1906

ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY DESTROYER ESCORT DE-11201,THE LANCE, IN HYPERSPACE

An almost palpable sense of tension fi?lled the control room as the Lance prepared to exit hyperspace and enter a solar system where anything could be waiting. As with all Spear-Class ships, the Executive Offi?cer and the navigator sat to either side of the captain within a semicircular enclosure. The rest of the bridge crew were seated one level below in what was often referred to as “the tub.” All wore space suits, with their helmets racked beside them. “Five minutes and counting,” Lieutenant j.g. “Tink” Ross reported, as he eyed the data that scrolled down the screen in front of him.

“Roger that,” Lieutenant Commander Hol Tanaka acknowledged calmly, as he stared at the viewscreen and the blank nothingness of hyperspace beyond. The naval offi?cer had thick black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a compact body. The Lance was his fi?rst command, and even though the DE was older than he was, Tanaka was proud of both the ship and his crew. “Sound battle stations. . . . Bring primary and secondary weapons systems online. . . . And 2

activate the defensive screens. All Daggers will stand by for immediate launch. Give me a quick scan as we exit hyperspace, followed by a full-spectrum sweep, and a priority-alpha target analysis.”

The ship’s Executive Offi?cer, Lieutenant K.T. Balcom, responded with a pro forma “Aye, aye, sir,” but there was no need to actually do anything, because the orders had been anticipated, and the crew was ready. What couldn’t be anticipated, however, was what the DE would run into as it entered normal space off Nav Beacon CSM-1802. Because even though it was statistically unlikely, there was always the possibility that the Lance would exit hyperspace within missile range of a Ramanthian warship. Which, come to think of it, is exactly what we’re supposed to do, Tanaka thought to himself. So that the rest of the battle group will have time to drop hyper and respond while the bugs clobber us!

The thought brought no sense of resentment. Just a determination to succeed. Not just for the Confederacy, but for Tanaka’s parents, who had been among thousands killed when the bugs glassed Port Foro on Zena II. Then the time for refl?ection was past as the last few seconds ticked away, and DE-11201 entered the Nebor system, which was only a hop-skip-and-a-hyperspace-jump away from the battle group’s fi?nal destination inside the sector of space controlled by the Clone Hegemony. Stomachs lurched as the ship’s NAVCOMP shut the hyperdrive down, and the Lance entered normal space.

What followed took place so quickly that Tanaka, his crew, and the ship’s computers were just beginning to process what was waiting for them when ten torpedoes scored direct hits on the destroyer escort and blew the ship to smithereens. All that remained to mark the point where the ambush had taken place was a steadily expanding constellation of debris and bursts of stray static. There was no jubilation aboard the Sheen vessels that had been positioned around the nav beacon for more than one standard month. Because the formerly free-ranging computer-controlled ships were entirely automated and therefore incapable of emotion.

But crewed or not, the remote-controlled ships made excellent weapons platforms, a fact that was central to Commodore Ru Lorko’s plan. And, as luck would have it, the stern if somewhat eccentric naval offi?cer was not only awake at the precise moment when the Lance was destroyed, but present in the Star Reaper’s small control room as well. Like all Ramanthians the naval offi?cer had big compound eyes, a pair of antennae that projected from the top of his head, a hooked fl?esh-tearing beak, and a somewhat elongated body. It stood on two legs, and was held erect by a hard exoskeleton. Which in Lorko’s case had been holed in battle and patched with a metal plate. A shiny rectangle that had given rise to the nickname, “Old Iron Back.”

There was a burst of joyful pincer clacking that could be heard throughout the ship as the destroyer’s crew celebrated an easy victory. But that came to an end when Lorko spoke over the ship’s intercom system. “Do not be fooled!”

the offi?cer cautioned. “That was the easy part,” he reminded the crew. “It’s possible that the destroyer escort was on a solo mission. But, if this is the moment we have been waiting for, then the DE was little more than the tip of a very long spear. Prepare yourselves and know this: He who fails to do his best will feel the full weight of my pincer!”

And every member of the crew knew that Lorko was not only serious, but fanatically serious, since the commodore, like approximately 20 percent of the Ramanthian offi?cer corps, was a member of the rigid, some said infl?exible Nira (Spirit) cult. A semireligious group determined to live their lives in accordance with the Hath, or true path, which required each adherent to follow a very strict code of behavior. One that equated surrender with cowardice, mercy with treachery, and love for anything other than the Ramanthian race as weakness. Which explained why Lorko, like so many other members of the Nira, had severed his relationships with his mates.

But what wasn’t apparent to the crew was what the straightbacked offi?cer felt deep inside. Which was a tremendous sense of relief and anticipation. Because in order to gain command of the Sheen ships, the carrier Swarm, and half a dozen smaller vessels, Lorko had been forced to go straight to Grand Admiral Imba for approval. Thereby offending a number of superiors as well as risking what had been a successful career on what many considered to be a stupid idea. Because the whole notion of waiting for an enemy convoy to drop out of hyperspace struck many as not only a tremendous waste of time but a poor use of scarce resources. Which was why Lorko had been given exactly thirty standard days in which to try his plan before returning to fl?eet HQ for reassignment. Now, three full days past the end of his allotted time, Lorko had what he had gambled on: a victory. Not a major victory, but a victory nonetheless, which might be suffi?cient to forestall a court of inquiry. Or, as Lorko had just explained to the crew, the Confederacy DE could be the precursor of a much larger force. Which, were he to destroy it, would not only vindicate the naval offi?cer but quite possibly result in a promotion. But with the seconds ticking away, it was time to take action. “You know what to do,” the commodore said to the Star Reaper’s captain. “Do it.”

A good deal of time and computer analysis had been spent coming up with what Lorko and his subordinate offi?cers believed to be the standard intervals employed by Confederacy battle groups as they entered potentially hostile systems. And that number was fi?ve standard minutes give or take thirty seconds. So, given the fact that one minute twenty-six seconds had already elapsed, it was time for the Sheen vessels to open fi?re. Not on a specifi?c target, but on the exact point where the ill-fated DE had left hyperspace. Because according to Lorko’s analysis, that was where the next ship would most likely exit as well. And the next, and the next, until the entire formation lay before him. An assemblage of ships that might be less than, equal to, or larger than Lorko’s modest fl?eet. A threat, but only if the enemy vessels were allowed to respond. So the remotely operated Sheen vessels opened fi?re with their extremely powerful energy cannons, and where their pulses of bright blue light converged, an artifi?cial sun was born. Lorko was committed at that point, because while the Sheen ships could maintain a sustained fi?re for up to eight minutes, their accumulators would have to recharge after that. And while the machine-ships were armed with missiles, they carried a fi?nite number. All of this meant that if the theoretical force arrived later than expected, it might break out of the trap and attack not only the Star Reaper but the more vulnerable Swarm, thereby turning what could have been a magnifi?cent victory into one of the worst naval disasters in Ramanthian history. Lorko would commit suicide, of course, assuming he survived long enough to do so, but it would be humiliating to arrive in the next world carrying such a heavy burden of shame. Nav Point CSM-1802 shimmered within a cocoon of lethal energy as the seconds ticked away.

ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY BATTLESHIP GLADIATOR, IN HYPERSPACE

The battleship’s primary Command & Control (C&C) computer was generally referred to as “Big Momma” mostly because she had a soft female voice. It echoed through miles of corridors, hundreds of weapons stations, and even found its way into the spacious cabin normally reserved for admirals but presently occupied by the Confederacy’s extremely competent but slightly pudgy President and Chief Executive Offi?cer Marcott Nankool. Who, being confronted with the plateful of pastries that had been brought in for 6

the enjoyment of his staff, was struggling to ignore the calorie-laden treats as the computer spoke via the ship’s ubiquitous PA system. “The ship will drop hyper in fi?ve, repeat fi?ve, minutes. Secure all gear, check space armor, and strap in. Primary weapons systems, secondary weapons systems, and tertiary weapons systems have been armed. All fi?ghter aircraft are prepared for immediate launch. . . . Marine boarding parties are on standby at locks one through thirty-six. All supernumerary personnel will don space armor and remain where they are until the ship secures from battle stations. I repeat . . .”

But none of the six men and women who had been sent along to assist the chief executive during high-level talks with the Clone Hegemony were interested in hearing Big Momma’s spiel all over again. And, having already struggled into their ill-fi?tting “P” for passenger space suits some fi?fteen minutes earlier, the staffers were content to let the C&C computer drone on as their discussion continued.

“That’s utter bullshit,” Secretary for Foreign Affairs Roland Hooks said contemptuously. “There’s no goddamned way that the clones are going to agree to an alliance with us. I mean, why should they? We’re getting our asses royally kicked while they sit around and congratulate each other on how superior their DNA is!”

The slender Dweller required a mechanical exoskeleton in order to deal with the Earth-normal gravity maintained aboard the Gladiator. One of his servos whined as the diplomat shifted his weight. “Maybe,” Ambassador Omi Ochi countered cautiously. “But consider this . . . Regardless of the way the manner in which they mate, or don’t mate as the case may be, the clones are still human. That means they think, see, hear, feel, and taste things just as you do. So, who are they going to side with? The bugs? Or beings similar to themselves?”

Foreign Service Offi?cer (FSO)-3 Christine Vanderveen had shoulder-length blond hair, very blue eyes, and full red lips. Though not senior enough to participate in the increasingly heated discussion, she thought the serious-faced Dweller was essentially correct. After dithering around for a shamefully long time, the famously insular clones would eventually be forced to align themselves with the Confederacy, which, while not exclusively human, was certainly humanistic insofar as its laws, culture, and traditions were concerned. “That makes sense, Ambassador,” Secretary Hooks allowed stolidly. “Or would, if the clones had a brain between them! How do you explain their continuing dalliance with the Thrakies? The furballs don’t look human to me.”

The discussion might have gone on indefi?nitely, but having given both sides an opportunity to express their opinions, Nankool wanted to move the meeting forward.

“Both of you make good points,” the moonfaced chief executive said soothingly. “But the fact remains. . . . We’re on the way to the Hegemony in an effort to gain support from the clones. And, based on the fact that they invited us to come, there’s the possibility that Omi is correct. So, let’s plan for success. Assuming the Alpha Clones are open to a military alliance, they’re going to want some say where command decisions are concerned. General Koba-Sa . . . How much input could you and your peers tolerate before your heads explode?”

All of Nankool’s advisors knew that General Booly and the rest of his staff wouldn’t want to surrender any authority, so everyone chuckled as the Hudathan worked his massive jaw as if preparing it for battle. The offi?cer had a large humanoid head and weighed 252 pounds. He wasn’t wearing a kepi, so the half-inch-high dorsal fi?n that ran front to back along the top of his skull was visible, as were his funnel-shaped ears and a thin-lipped mouth. Though white at the moment, the offi?cer’s skin would automatically darken when exposed to cold temperatures. The Hudathans had once been the sworn enemies of nearly every sentient 8

species; but rather than remain imprisoned on the dying planet of Hudatha, Koba-Sa’s people agreed to join the Confederacy. And a good thing, too, since the big aliens were fearsome warriors, and many of the Confederacy’s other members were not. Koba-Sa’s voice was reminiscent of a rock crusher stuck in low gear. “The clone army was bred to fi?ght,” Koba-Sa said approvingly. “And gave a good account of themselves during the rebellion on LaNor. But their senior offi?cers lack initiative at times—and spend too much time on the defensive. My people have a saying. ‘He who waits for the enemy should dig his own grave fi?rst.’ ”

Vanderveen didn’t like Undersecretary of Defense Corley Calisco for any number of reasons. Because Calisco was a man who could typically be found on every side of an issue. But what bothered her most was the way he would stare at her breasts, and then lick his lips, as if he were able to taste them. So, when the undersecretary opened his mouth, the foreign service offi?cer fully expected Calisco to slime the Hudathan. But that was the moment when the four-mile-long Gladiator exited hyperspace, passed through the remains of the three warships that had gone before it, and came under immediate attack. The ship shuddered as a volley of missiles exploded against her shields, Big Momma began a rhythmic chant, and the conversation was over.

ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DESTROYER STAR REAPER,OFF NAV BEACON CSM-1802

The third ship to emerge from hyperspace managed to kill one of the Sheen vessels with her weapons and destroyed a second by ramming it! A display of courage and determination very much in keeping with the code of the Hath and therefore to be admired by Commodore Lorko and his senior offi?cers.

And now, as the other Sheen ships expended the last of their ordinance, and the Swarm’s fi?ghters began to die by the dozens, the Ramanthians had to wonder if they were about to become victims of their own trap. But the fanatical Lorko wouldn’t back down, couldn’t back down, were he to face his peers again. So, despite the fact that his fl?agship was only a quarter of the Confederacy ship’s size, the commodore ordered the Star Reaper to attack. And waited to die. But Lorko didn’t die, nor did anyone else aboard the Ramanthian destroyer. Because as the battle continued a fl?ight offi?cer named Bami was pursuing a zigzag course through a matrix of defensive fi?re when he saw a quartermile-wide swath of the battleship’s metal skin suddenly appear in front of him as a shield generator went down. Fortunately, Bami had the presence of mind to fi?re all four of his Avenger missiles before pulling up and corkscrewing through a storm of defensive fi?re.

There was a huge explosion as one of the Ramanthian’s weapons struck a heat stack and sent a jet of molten plasma down the ship’s number three exhaust vent into the decks below. That vaporized 120 crew beings, cut the fi?ber-optic pathway that connected the NAVCOMP with Big Momma, and forced the computer to hand over 64.7 percent of the Gladiator’s weapons to local control. And, without centralized fi?re control, it was only a matter of time before the Ramanthian fi?ghters found another weak point and put the Confed vessel out of her misery. Of course Bami didn’t know that, but the explosion spoke for itself, and the fl?ight offi?cer was thinking about the medal he was going to get when his fi?ghter ran into a chunk of debris and exploded.

ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY BATTLESHIP GLADIATOR

The front of Captain Marina Flerko’s uniform was red with the blood of a rating who had expired in her arms fi?fteen minutes earlier as she entered Nankool’s cabin and stood across the table from him. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but the Gladiator is dying.”

Nankool’s face was pale. “And the rest of the battle group?”

Flerko’s voice cracked under the strain. “Destroyed, sir. The moment they left hyperspace. The bugs were waiting for us.”

“Your advice?”

“Surrender, sir,” the offi?cer answered grimly. “There is no other choice.”

Calisco swore, and Vanderveen felt something cold trickle into the pit of her stomach. Only a small handful of beings had been able to escape from Ramanthian prisonerof-war (POW) camps, or been fortunate enough to be rescued, and the stories they told were universally horrible. In fact, many of the tales of torture, starvation, and abuse were so awful that many citizens assumed they were Confederacy propaganda. But the diplomat had read the reports, had even spoken with some of the survivors, and knew the stories of privation were true. And now, if Nankool accepted Flerko’s recommendation, Vanderveen would learn about life in the POW camps fi?rsthand.

Nankool’s normally unlined face looked as if it had aged ten years during the last few minutes. His eyes fl?itted from face to face. His voice was even but fi?lled with pain. “You heard the captain. . . . What do you think?”

“We should fi?ght to the death!” Koba-Sa maintained fi?ercely. “Give me a weapon. I will meet the Ramanthians at the main lock.”

“They won’t have to board,” Flerko said dispiritedly.

“Eventually, after they fi?re enough Avengers at us, the ship will blow.”

“Which is why we must surrender immediately!” Calisco said urgently. “Why provoke them? The faster we surrender, the more lives will be saved!”

“Much as I hate to agree with the undersecretary of defense, I fear that he’s correct this time,” Ambassador Ochi put in wearily. “There’s very little to be gained by delay.”

“I think there is something to be gained,” Vanderveen said fi?rmly, causing all of the senior offi?cials to look at her in surprise. “Losing the battle group, plus thousands of lives is bad enough,” the diplomat added. “But there’s something more at stake. . . . If we allow the Ramanthians to capture the president, and the bugs become aware of who they have, they can use him for leverage.”

“Not if they don’t capture me,” Nankool said grimly.

“Captain, hand me your sidearm.”

“Not so fast,” Vanderveen insisted. “I admire your courage, Mr. President. I’m sure we all do—but what if there’s another way?”

“Such as?” Ochi inquired skeptically, as the deck shook beneath their feet.

“We need to fi?nd a dead crew member with at least a superfi?cial resemblance to the president and jettison his body,” the diplomat replied earnestly. “Once that’s accomplished, we can replace him.”

“Damn! I think she’s onto something,” Secretary Hooks said approvingly as he made eye contact with Vanderveen.

“Your father would be proud!”

The FSO’s father, Charles Winther Vanderveen, was a well-known government offi?cial who had long been one of Nankool’s principal advisors. And while the elder Vanderveen would have been proud, he would have also been beside himself with worry had he been aware of what was taking place millions of light-years away. “We must act quickly,” the young woman said urgently. “And swear the crew to secrecy.”

“I’ll offer to surrender,” Flerko put in. “Then, assuming that the bugs accept, we’ll stall. That should give us as much as half an hour to fi?nd a match, put the word out, and implement the plan.”

“What about the hypercom?” Koba-Sa growled. “Can we notify LEGOM on Algeron?”

Having lost the converted battleship Friendship, on which it usually met, the Senate had been forced to convene on the planet Algeron. Until recently it would have been impossible to send a message across such a vast distance unless it was sealed inside a message torp or carried aboard a ship. But, thanks to the breakthrough technology that had been stolen from the Ramanthians on the planet Savas, crude but effective hypercom sets had already been installed on major vessels like the Gladiator. “Yes,” Vanderveen said decisively. “They need to know about the trap—so the navy can fi?nd a way to prevent the bugs from laying another one just like it. Plus, they need to know about the rest of our plan as well, or the whole thing will fall apart.”

Under normal circumstances any sort of suggestion from such a junior foreign service offi?cer would most likely have been quashed. But the circumstances were anything but normal, so there was clearly no time for formalities, and Nankool nodded. “Agreed. Make it happen.”

ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DESTROYER STAR REAPER

Commodore Lorko was still in the destroyer’s control room when the vessel’s com offi?cer entered with the appalling, not to mention somewhat repugnant, news. The extent of the junior offi?cer’s disgust could be seen in the way he held his head and the position of his rarely used wings. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Commodore, but the enemy offered to surrender.”

“They what?” Lorko demanded incredulously.

“They offered to surrender,” the com offi?cer reiterated. It was all Lorko could do to maintain his composure. Because by dishonoring themselves, the humans and their allies had effectively dishonored him, and reduced what could have been a glorious victory to something less. It didn’t seem fair. Not after the risks Lorko had taken, the resistance he had overcome, and the blow that had been dealt to the enemy.

But such was Lorko’s pride and internal strength that none of that could be seen in the way he held his body or heard in the tenor of his voice. “I see,” the commodore replied evenly. “All right, if slavery is what the animals want, then slavery is what they shall have. Order the enemy to cease fi?re, and once they do, tell our forces to do likewise. Send a heavily armed boarding party to the battleship, remove the prisoners who are fi?t for heavy labor, and set charges in all the usual places. Once the animals have been removed, I want that vessel destroyed. Captain Nuyo will take it from here. . . . I’ll be in my cabin.” And with that, Lorko left.

Though Nuyo wasn’t especially fond of the fl?inty offi?cer, he understood the signifi?cance of the blow dealt to Old Iron Back’s honor, and felt a rising sense of anger as Lorko departed the control room. “You heard the commodore,”

Nuyo said sternly as he turned to look at the com offi?cer.

“And tell the battle group this as well . . . Mercy equates to weakness—and weakness will be punished. Execute.”

ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY BATTLESHIP GLADIATOR

Fires burned unabated at various points throughout the ship’s four-mile-long hull, the deck shook in sympathy with minor explosions, and gunfi?re could be heard as Ramanthian soldiers shot wounded crew members, people who were slow to obey their commands, or any offi?cer foolish enough to identify him or herself as such. An excess for which they were unlikely to be punished. Klaxons, beepers, and horns sounded as streams of smoke-blackened, often-wounded crew beings stumbled out of hatches and were herded out into the center of the Gladiator’s enormous hangar deck. The fact that the bay was pressurized rather than open to space spoke volumes, as did the fact that rank after rank of battle-ready CF-184 Daggers were sitting unused. The simple truth was that the ship had come under attack so quickly that Captain Flerko had never been able to drop the Gladiator’s energy screens long enough to launch fi?ghters. But there was no time to consider what could have been as Vanderveen and a group of ratings were ordered to make their way out toward the middle of the launch bay, where large metal boxes were situated. One of the prisoners, a gunner, judging from the insignia on her space black uniform, was wounded and had been able to hide the fact until then. But the sailor left a trail of blood droplets as she crossed the deck, and it wasn’t long before one of the sharpeyed troopers noticed them. Vanderveen shouted, “No!” but fell as a rifl?e butt struck her left shoulder. The diplomat heard two shots and knew the gunner was dead.

It was Nankool who pulled the FSO to her feet before one of the troopers could become annoyed and put a bullet into her head as well. “Get going,” the president said gruffl?y. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Vanderveen had to step over the rating’s dead body in order to proceed, and realized how lucky she’d been, as a burst of automatic weapons fi?re brought down an entire rank of marines.

The Ramanthian troopers were largely invisible inside their brown-dappled space armor. Their helmets had sidemounted portals through which their compound eyes could see the outside environment, hook-shaped protuberances designed to accommodate parrotlike beaks, and chin-fl?ares to defl?ect energy bolts away from their vulnerable neck seals.

The vast majority of the alien soldiers wore standard armor; but the noncoms were equipped with power-assisted suits, which meant the highly leveraged warriors could rip enemy combatants apart with their grabber-style pincers. So that, plus the fact that the bugs carried Negar IV assault rifl?es capable of fi?ring up to six hundred rounds per minute, meant the aliens had more than enough fi?repower to keep the Gladiator’s crew under control. Something they accomplished with brutal effi?ciency.

Some of the Ramanthians could speak standard, while others wore chest-mounted translation devices, and the rest made use of their rifl?e butts in order to communicate.

“Place all personal items in the bins!” one of the powersuited noncoms ordered via a speaker clamped to his right shoulder. “Anyone who is found wearing or carrying contraband will be executed!”

The so-called bins were actually empty cargo modules, and it wasn’t long before the waist-high containers began to fi?ll with pocketknives, wrist coms, pocket comps, multitools, glow rods, and all manner of jewelry. Vanderveen wasn’t carrying anything beyond the watch her parents had given her, a belt-wallet containing her ID, and a small amount of currency. All of it went into the cargo container, and Vanderveen wondered if the Ramanthians were making a mistake. A good mistake from her perspective, since it would be diffi?cult for the bugs to sort out who was who once the military personnel surrendered their dog tags. A factor that would help protect Nankool’s new identity. Which, were anyone to ask him, was that of Chief Petty Offi?cer Milo Kruse. A portly noncom who had reportedly been incinerated when molten plasma spilled out of the number three exhaust vent into the Gladiator’s main corridor.

Now, as various lines snaked past the bins, a series of half-coherent orders were used to herd the crew beings into groups of one hundred. Vanderveen thought she saw Ochi’s exoskeleton in the distance, but couldn’t be sure, as a Ramanthian trooper shouted orders. “Form ten ranks! Strip off your clothing! Failure to comply will result in death.”

Similar orders were being given all around, and at least a dozen gunshots were heard as the Ramanthians executed prisoners foolish enough to object or perceived to be excessively slow. Meanwhile, Undersecretary of Defense Calisco hurried to rid himself of his pants, but was momentarily distracted when he looked up to see that one of his fantasies had come true! Christine Vanderveen had removed her top and unhooked her bra! She had fi?rm upthrust breasts, just as he had imagined that she would, and the offi?cial was in the process of licking his lips when Nankool’s left elbow dug into his side. “Put your eyeballs back in your head,” the president growled menacingly,

“or I’ll kick your ass!” So Calisco looked down but continued to eye the diplomat via his peripheral vision, which was quite good.

Vanderveen stood with her arms folded over her breasts as a Ramanthian offi?cer mounted a roll-around maintenance platform. Meanwhile a cadre of naked crew beings, all picked at random from the crowd, hurried to collect the discarded clothing and carry it away. “You are disgusting,”

the offi?cer began, as his much-amplifi?ed voice boomed through the hangar deck. “Look at the bulkhead behind me. Read the words written there. ‘For glory and honor.’

That was the motto you chose! Yet you possess neither one of them.”

The deck shuddered, as if in response to the alien’s words, and a dull thump was transmitted through many layers of durasteel. Some of the Gladiator’s computer-controlled fi?refi?ghting equipment remained in operation, and the ship’s maintenance bots were doing what they could to stabilize the systems they were responsible for, but without help from her crew, the ship was dying.

“Why are you alive?” the Ramanthian demanded through the loudspeaker on his shoulder. “When any selfrespecting warrior would be dead? The answer is simple. You aren’t warriors. You’re animals! As such your purpose is to serve higher life-forms. From here you will be taken to a Ramanthian planet, where you will work until you can work no longer. Or, perhaps some of you who would prefer to die now, thereby demonstrating that you are something more than beasts of burden.”

The offi?cer’s words were punctuated by a bellow of rage as General Wian Koba-Sa charged through the ranks in front of him. A Negar IV assault rifl?e began to bark rhythmically as a Ramanthian soldier opened fi?re—and Vanderveen saw the Hudathan stumble as he took two rounds in the back. But that wasn’t enough to bring the huge alien down—and there was a cheer, as Koba-Sa jumped up onto the maintenance platform. The formerly arrogant Ramanthian had started to backpedal by that time, but it was too late as the Hudathan shouted the traditional war cry, and a hundred voices answered, “Blood!”

And there was blood as Koba-Sa wrapped one gigantic hand around the Ramanthian’s throat and brought the other up under the fl?ared chin guard. The helmet didn’t come off the way the Hudathan had hoped it would, but the blow was suffi?cient to snap the bug’s neck, even as Koba-Sa fell to a hail of bullets.

Then all of the prisoners were forced to hit the deck as the Ramanthians opened fi?re on the helpless crowd, and didn’t stop until an offi?cer repeatedly ordered them to do so, but only after many of the soldiers had emptied their clips.

Dozens of bodies lay sprawled on the deck by that time, but there was something different about the crew beings still able to stand, and the emotion that pervaded the hangar. Because rather than the feeling of hopelessness that fi?lled the bay before—Vanderveen sensed a strange sort of pride. As if Koba-Sa’s valiant death had somehow infused the prisoners with some of the Hudathan’s headstrong courage.

And, rather than attempt to humiliate the POWs as the previous offi?cer had, Vanderveen noticed that his replacement was content to line the survivors up and march them past tables loaded with blue ship suits and hundreds of boots. All taken from the Gladiator’s own storerooms. But there was no opportunity to check sizes, or to try anything on, as the prisoners were herded past. The best strategy was to grab what was available and trade that for something better later on.

And it was during that process that one of ship’s main magazines blew, people struggled to keep their feet, and the entire operation went into high gear. The Ramanthians were afraid now, afraid that the ship would disintegrate with them still aboard. So Vanderveen and all of the rest were herded into the waiting shuttles. The air was warm, thanks to the heat from their engines, and heavily tainted with the stench of ozone.

It didn’t take a genius to fi?gure out that there were more prisoners than the twenty shuttles could hold. And Vanderveen knew that meant that some of the Gladiator’s crew would be left behind. Other people began to realize the same thing, and there was a mad rush to board the spaceships. Guards fi?red over the crowd in a futile attempt to stem the fl?ood, but suddenly realized that they could be left behind and hurried to join the fear-crazed mob. Vanderveen wasn’t sure she wanted to board one of the shuttles, especially if there was an opportunity to enter one of the Gladiator’s many escape pods instead; but she never got the chance to do more than think about the alternative as the people behind her pushed the FSO forward. Naked bodies collided with hers, an elbow jabbed her ribs, and the man directly in front of the diplomat went down.

Vanderveen attempted to step over the body but couldn’t, and felt the crewman’s back give as she was forced to put her weight on it, and tried to shout an apology as the river of fl?esh carried her up a ramp and into one of the shuttles.

There were bench-style seats along both bulkheads, but no one got the opportunity to sit on them, as the lead POWs were pushed forward and smashed against the bulkhead. Fortunately, Nankool was there, ordering people to be calm, and somehow convincing them to do so.

Then the ramp was retracted, Vanderveen felt the shuttle lift off and start to move. There were lights, but not very many, and only a few viewports. However, the diplomat was close enough to see dozens of screaming, kicking prisoners sucked out of the launch bay into the airless abyss of space as massive doors parted.

The shuttle jerked back and forth as the Ramanthian pilot was forced to thread his way through a maze of fl?oating debris before fi?nally clearing the battle zone. Then, as the spaceship began to turn away, there was a massive explosion. Bright light strobed the inside the of the shuttle, but there was no sound, as the Gladiator came apart. Someone began to pray, and even though Vanderveen had never been very religious, she bowed her head. The journey to hell had begun.

For those who would rule, the greatest threat can often be found standing right next to them, with a well-honed blade and a ready smile.

2.

—Lin Po Lee

Philosopher Emeritus, The League of PlanetsStandard year 2169

FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON,

THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

As a stream of formally attired dignitaries shuffl?ed in through the double doors, Legion General William “Bill”

Booly III, and his wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, were forced to pause while the colorfully plumed Prithian ambassador was announced to the crowd beyond. That gave the couple a moment in which to look at what normally functioned as the fort’s mess hall but, having been commandeered for the vice president’s fi?rst annual military ball, had magically been transformed into a ballroom.

All of the grim posters cautioning legionnaires about the dangers of land mines, unsecured weapons, and sexually transmitted diseases had been replaced by yard upon yard of colorful bunting that hung in carefully measured scallops along the walls. The previously green support columns had been painted white, detailed to look like marble, and hung with pots of artifi?cial fl?owers. The normally bare mess tables wore crisp white bedsheets. And the Legion’s best silver, which had been brought up out of the vaults for the occasion, sparkled with refl?ected candlelight. Additional color was provided by dress uniforms and the clothing worn by civilians, senators, and other government offi?cials. It was quite a transformation, but Booly had never been one for parties and frowned accordingly.

“It looks like a rim world whorehouse,” the offi?cer observed in a voice so low that only his wife could hear it. Besides being Booly’s wife, Maylo Chien-Chu was president of a vast business empire founded by her uncle, Sergi Chien-Chu, and a natural beauty. She had raven black hair, large almond-shaped eyes, and the high cheekbones of a model. The stiff-collared red sheath dress clung to her long lean body like a second skin and had already begun to attract attention from both men and women alike. She smiled and gave her husband’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Don’t be such a grump. People need to relax once in a while. Besides, when did you become an expert on rim world whorehouses?”

Booly might have made a response but never got the chance, since that was the moment when the formally attired sergeant major announced both their names and brought his intricately carved staff down with a decisive thump.

“General William Booly—and Ms. Maylo Chien-Chu.”

As the senior offi?cer on Algeron, or anywhere else, for that matter, Booly was a someone in the small, highly charged world of the Confederacy’s wartime government. And given the fact that there were always plenty of people who wanted to curry favor with the offi?cer’s billionaire wife, the two of them were soon hard at work maintaining important relationships, resisting tidal waves of fl?attery, and listening for the nuggets of information that are accidentally or intentionally shared at such affairs. Tidbits that can be stored, used, or traded according to need. Meanwhile, the Legion’s band continued to play, there was a stir as the by now red-faced sergeant major announced, “Vice President Leo Jakov, and Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot.” The words were punctuated with another thump of his heavy staff. The vice president was theoretically the number two person in the government, but actually had very little power, so long as the president was capable of performing his or her duties. Jakov had thick black hair, a vid-star-handsome face, and a full, some said sensual, mouth. His body, which was thick without being fat, seemed to radiate physical power. This fact was not lost on what were said to be dozens of lovers, some of whom were not only well-known, but willing to testify regarding his sexual prowess.

Less known to those outside the realm of government was Jakov’s companion of late. An extremely ambitious diplomat named Kay Wilmot. Those who kept track of such things agreed that the assistant undersecretary had shed at least ten pounds since accepting a temporary position on Jakov’s staff, where, according to certain wags, the

“under” secretary took her title quite literally. But even the harshest of critics would have been forced to admit that Wilmot was a match for any of the vice president’s previous consorts on that particular evening. Though not a beautiful woman, the foreign service offi?cer was attractive, and she knew how to emphasize what she had through the use of carefully applied makeup. That, plus a green dress cut to emphasize her large breasts, drew plenty of attention from the human males in attendance.

All conversations came to a halt, and there was lightbut-sustained applause as the couple entered the huge room, both because Jakov was well liked, and because the military ball was not only the vice president’s idea, but had been funded out of his pockets. Booly and Maylo watched with amusement as at least half of their fi?ckle admirers left to join the throng of beings now gathered around Jakov and Wilmot.

But such defections were to be expected, and without President Nankool being there to claim the spotlight, it was Jakov’s night to be at the center of attention. A role he clearly enjoyed, as senators, ambassadors, and senior military offi?cers lined up to claim their smile, pat on the back, or well-honed joke.

Hors d’oeuvres were served fi?fteen minutes later. In spite of the fact that the Legion’s cooks spent most of their time churning out thousands of meals for both the troops and the large contingent of civilians who had been forced to take up residence on Algeron, they could still produce something approaching haute cuisine when the occasion demanded, a fact that quickly became apparent as trays of beautifully prepared appetizers made the rounds. Included were a variety of creations that not only melted in the mouth, beak, or siphon tube, but represented the full spectrum of culinary traditions found within the boundaries of the Confederacy. Never mind the fact that some of the offerings were diffi?cult to look at, had a tendency to crawl about, or produced what some guests considered to be unappetizing odors.

Thanks to the hors d’oeuvres, and the free-fl?owing drinks from the bar, most of the guests were in a good mood by the time they were instructed to take their places at the carefully arranged tables. Because who sat next to whom, and how close they were to the vice president’s table, was not only an indication of status but a matter of practical importance as well. Since it would never do to put potential antagonists right next to each other—or to unintentionally promote alliances that might prove to be strategically counterproductive later on.

That meant “reliable” people such as Booly and Maylo had been paired with individuals like the recently named Senator Nodoubt Truespeak, who not only lacked some of the social graces expected of top-echelon politicians, but had a tendency to get crosswise with any Hudathan he encountered. Because, while others might have put the horrors of the Hudathan wars aside in the interest of political expediency, both Truespeak and his constituents were slow to forgive.

And as if the sometimes cantankerous Truespeak wasn’t a suffi?cient challenge, Booly and Maylo had been saddled with the treacherous Thraki representative as well. In fact the short, somewhat paunchy Senator Obduro had recently been part of a conspiracy to help the Ramanthians recondition some of the Sheen warships they had stolen. An offense for which he was anything but contrite. The evening’s entertainment had begun by then, which, in keeping with the military nature of the ball, involved various displays of skill by well-practiced legionnaires, sailors, and marines. A group of naval ratings had just begun a spirited stick dance, when Booly noticed that a contingent of noncoms were delivering notes to guests who, having read them, immediately got up to leave. Jakov and Wilmot the fi?rst to do so.

That was not only unusual, but cause for concern, since any news that was so important that the duty offi?cer felt compelled to notify the vice president was probably bad. Maylo had noticed the messengers as well, and the two of them exchanged glances as a staff sergeant approached their table. “For you, sir,” the legionnaire said, as he handed a note to Booly.

The offi?cer thanked the soldier, read the note, and hurried to excuse himself. Though careful to hide her emotions, Maylo felt something heavy settle into the pit of her stomach as her husband walked away, and knew her appetite wasn’t likely to return.

Fort Camerone’s com center was a windowless cluster of rooms buried below ground level, where it would be safe from anything short of a direct hit by multiple nuclear bombs. It had always been important, but now that the government was in residence on Algeron, the complex was at the very center of the vast web of communications that held the Confederacy together.

Most of the intersystem messages that came into the center arrived via FTL courier ships—or hyperdriveequipped message torps. However, thanks to a new technology stolen from the Ramanthians, the old ways would soon be obsolete. Because once all of the Confederacy’s ships had been equipped with hypercoms, it would be possible to communicate with each vessel in real time from any point in space. Of course it would be a while before the big clunky contraptions could be miniaturized and massproduced—but battleships like the Gladiator already had them. Which was why the ship’s commanding offi?cer had been able to notify Algeron of the Ramanthian trap, the loss of her entire battle group, and the resulting surrender. The vice president was reading the message for the second time when Booly arrived in the dimly lit com center. A single glance at the miserable faces all around him was suffi?cient to confi?rm the offi?cer’s worst fears. “Here, General,” the grim-faced duty offi?cer said, as he gave Booly a copy of the decoded text. “This arrived about fi?fteen minutes ago.”

Booly read the short, matter-of-fact sentences, saw Captain Flerko’s long angular face in his mind’s eye, and swore softly. She was good, very good, so it was unlikely that the loss of the battleship and its escorts had been the result of human error. No, it looked like the Ramanthians had come up with a new strategy, and it was one that Confederacy military forces would have to fi?nd a way to counter. In the meantime there was the last part of the message to consider. One that left the offi?cer feeling sick to his stomach. “Have no choice but to surrender . . . The president is alive and will blend with the other prisoners. Do not, repeat do not, announce his capture. Pray for us. . . . Captain Marina Flerko.”

Booly wasn’t the only one who was moved, because when he looked up, it was to see Vice President Jakov comforting a com tech. “There, there,” the offi?cial said, as the woman sobbed on his shoulder. “It’s a tough break, but we’ll get the bastards.”

Many, perhaps most, onlookers would have been impressed by the vice president’s composure and his willingness to provide comfort to a lowly technician. But there was something about the scene that troubled Booly. Was it the look of barely contained avarice in Jakov’s eyes? The cold, somewhat calculating look on Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot’s face? Or a combination of both?

But there was no opportunity to consider the matter, as everyone followed Vice President Jakov into the adjoining conference room, and the group that Nankool liked to refer to as his “brain trust” took their seats. Six people were present besides Jakov and herself, and while Wilmot didn’t know any of the group intimately, she was familiar with their reputations. First there was General Booly, who, had it not been for the fact that he was married to the formidable Maylo Chien-Chu, would have been worth a roll in the hay. He was part Naa, and if the rumors were true, had a strip of fur that ran down his spine.

Also present, and looming large in one of the enormous chairs provided for his kind, was Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, who functioned as both his race’s representative to the Senate and head of state. Which made the craggy hard-eyed alien a very important person indeed. And one that Wilmot wasn’t all that fond of given the manner in which the Hudathan had recently gone around her to form a backchannel relationship with a low-level subordinate named Christine Vanderveen. Still, if Nankool was sitting in a Ramanthian prisoner-of-war camp, then so was Vanderveen!

A bonus if there ever was one.

Not to be taken so lightly, however, was the woman generally referred to in high-level government circles as Madame X. Her real name was Margaret Xanith. She had a head of carefully styled salt-and-pepper hair and a surprisingly youthful face, which wore a seemingly perpetual frown. Perhaps that was a refl?ection of her personality, or the fact that as the head of Confed Intelligence she knew about all of the things that were going wrong and rarely had much to smile about. She whispered something to one of her aides, who nodded, and left the room. Seated next to Xanith was an extremely powerful man who though no longer president of the Confederacy, or head of the huge company that still bore his name, continued to hold the rank of reserve navy admiral and was Maylo Chien-Chu’s uncle. A cyborg who, in spite of the fact that he looked to be about twenty-fi?ve years old, was actually more than a hundred.

The fi?nal participant was a relative newcomer to Nankool’s inner circle. A female Dweller named Yuro Osavi. Her frail sticklike body was protected by a formfi?tting cage controlled by a microcomputer that was connected to the alien’s nervous system through a neural interface. The academic had been living on a Ramanthian planet and studying their culture until the war forced her to fl?ee. Osavi had been drafted by Nankool to provide the president with what he called “. . . an enemy’s-eye view of the confl?ict.” Just one of the many reasons why the wily politician had weathered so many storms and remained in the Confederacy’s top job for so long.

“Okay,” Jakov said somberly, “I suppose we could be on the receiving end of even worse news, but it’s damned hard to think what that would be. And, like you, I am absolutely devastated by the tragic loss of an entire battle group plus thousands of lives. That having been said, you can be sure that our absence will be noted, and unless we return to the ball soon, all sorts of rumors will begin to fl?y. So, unless there are immediate steps we can take to strike back, or free our personnel, I suggest we adjourn until 0900 hours tomorrow morning. By that time I’m sure that Margaret, Bill, and Yuro will have prepared some options for us.” At that point Jakov scanned the faces all around him, and having heard no objections, rose from the table. Wilmot hurried to do likewise. “All right,” the vice president said cheerfully, “I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that he was gone.

There was a long moment of silence once Jakov and his companion had left the room. The people still at the table stared at each other in utter disbelief. Because although rumor control was important, surely the vice president could have remained long enough to hammer out some sort of initial plan. Unless the politician wasn’t interested in a speedy response that is? A possibility all of them had considered—but only Doma-Sa was willing to give voice to. “So Jakov wants to be president,” the triad rumbled cynically. “This reminds me of home.”

Hudathan politics had been extremely bloody until very recently, so the others understood the reference, even if some were reluctant to agree. “It does seem as if we could go around the table,” Booly agreed. “How ’bout you Margaret? Assuming our people are still alive, where would the bugs take them?”

“We’re working on that,” the intelligence chief replied gravely. “Although we’re pretty sure they wouldn’t be taken to Hive.”

“I agree,” Osavi put in. “The Ramanthian home world serves as the residence of the Queen and is therefore sacred. To land aliens on the surface of Hive would be unthinkable.”

“Well, they’d better get used to the idea because it’s going to happen,” Doma-Sa responded grimly. “And when it does, a whole lot of bugs are going to die.”

“Sounds good to me,” Booly replied. “But it’s going to be a while before we can penetrate their home system, much less drop troops onto Hive. In the meantime, let’s put every intelligence asset we have on fi?nding out where our people are. Margaret’s staff is working on it, but maybe there’s something more we can do. How about Chien-Chu Enterprises, Admiral? Can your people give us a hand?”

The possibility had already occurred to Sergi Chien-Chu. The family business was a huge enterprise, with operations on dozens of planets, some of which were no longer accessible due to the war. But the vast fl?eet of spaceships that belonged to Chien-Chu Enterprises had access to those that were—and there was always the chance that one or more of his employees would see or hear something. The problem was time, because while all of his vessels would eventually have hypercoms, none was equipped with the new technology as yet. “Maylo and I will put out the word,” the businessman promised. “And report anything we hear.”

“Thank you,” Booly replied gratefully. “In the meantime I will tell the public affairs people to work up a release concerning the loss of the Gladiator but with no mention of Nankool or his staff.”

“It’s imperative that we keep the lid on,” Xanith agreed earnestly. “Because if the Ramanthians realize they have the president, they will use him for leverage. I’m sure he would tell us to refuse their demands, but who knows how much pressure Earth’s government will bring to bear? Or what the Senate may decide? The Thrakies might lead a

‘Save our president’ movement actually intended to aid the Ramanthians.”

“And there’s something else to consider,” the fraillooking Dweller added gloomily. “Very few people within the Confederacy are aware of the Spirit cult that has grown increasingly popular within the Ramanthian military. They believe true warriors always fi?ght to the death. That means they have no respect for prisoners and tend to treat them like animals. So, if Nankool and the rest of the survivors fall into the pincers of those who believe in what they call ‘The True Path,’ life will be very hard indeed. So hard that one of his fellow prisoners may be tempted to reveal the president’s identity in hopes of receiving favorable treatment.” It was a sobering thought, and even though all of them had to return to the party, it was diffi?cult to think of anything else.

THE VILLAGE OF WATERSONG, PLANET ALGERON,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

As the sun started to rise somewhere beyond the cold gray haze, daylight began to fade in, as if emanating from within the planet itself. And gradually, as the mist started to clear, the jagged Towers of Algeron appeared more than a thousand miles to the south. Some of the peaks soared eighty thousand feet into the sky, making the mountains so heavy that if they were somehow transported to Earth, their weight would crack the planet’s crust. But the two worlds were different. Very different. Because while it took Terra twenty-four standard hours to execute a full rotation, Algeron completed a full 360-degree turn every two hours and forty-two minutes. The cycle was so fast that centrifugal force had created a globe-spanning mountain range, which thanks to the gravity differential between the poles and the equator, weighed only half what it would have on Earth.

None of which was of the slightest interest to the onearmed bandit chieftain named Nofear Throatcut except to the extent that most of those in the village below him had been asleep for two local days and would remain so for two additional planetary rotations. There would be sentries, of course, because no self-respecting Naa village would be so foolish as to rest without posting some, but having been on duty for a while, and with the gradual return of daylight, the watch keepers would not only be a little sleepy, but slightly overconfi?dent.

But Throatcut and his mixed band of deserters, renegades, and thieves were anything but typical. A fact that quickly became apparent as Nightrun Fargo pulled the trigger on his homemade crossbow and sent a metal bolt speeding through the early-morning mist. The razor-sharp point ripped a hole through a sentry’s unprotected throat. Which was no small feat since it had been necessary for the bandit to crawl within 150 yards of his target without generating noise or being detected by the villager’s acute sense of smell.

The target, a youngster of only seventeen, made a gurgling sound as he attempted to shout a warning, tugged at the now slippery shaft, and was already in the process of falling as Nosay Slowspeak loosed another bolt. This one was directed at an older sentry. There was a dull thump as the bolt hit the warrior’s chest, penetrated his leather armor, and knocked the oldster off his feet. But the more senior watch keeper was a clever old coot who, having tied a lanyard to the cast-iron alarm bell mounted next to him, managed to ring the device even as he fell. Throatcut swore as a loud metallic clang was heard, and a third sentry fi?red into the mist. “Okay,” the chieftain said, as he brought a Legion-issue hand com to his lips.

“Lindo, you know what to do. Don’t kill all of the females, though. Some of the boys are horny!”

That got a laugh, plus some ribald commentary that would never have been tolerated by the noncoms Throatcut had served under in the Legion. “You got that right!”

Longride Doothman put in.

“Save one of those whores for me!” Salwa Obobwa added eagerly, as more shots were fi?red from within the village.

But Throatcut put forward no objection because he knew how important it was to maintain just enough discipline to get the job done and not one iota more if he wanted to remain in command.

The villagers were beginning to emerge from their underground homes by then. The locals were only halfdressed in many cases but armed to the teeth with a mix of locally produced rifl?es, Legion-issue weapons of every possible description, and oversized Hudathan hand-medowns. And, given the rough-and-ready nature of the Naa tribespeople, the villagers would have been able to give a good account of themselves had it not been for Throatcut’s secret weapon.

Like many of his kind, Cady Lindo had been executed for murder back on Earth, given an opportunity to trade oblivion for a place in the Legion of the Damned, and downloaded into a succession of increasingly complex electromechanical bodies until he was qualifi?ed to occupy the very latest version of the battle-tested Trooper II (T-2) combat vehicle. A ten-foot-tall machine that stood on two armored legs and could carry a single bio bod into a variety of combat environments while employing a truly devastating array of weapons ranging from an arm-mounted air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun, to an arm-mounted fast-recovery laser cannon and two shoulder-mounted missile launchers, both of which were safely stored up on the mesa that Throatcut and his gang used as a base. But Lindo had no need for missile launchers as he emerged from hiding to enter the north end of the village. Bullets began to ping against his armor, and a poorly thrown grenade went off about fi?fteen feet away, as the cyborg opened fi?re. The outgunned defenders never had a chance as they were snatched off their feet, cut to shreds, or incinerated as they attempted to fl?ee.

Seeing that the head-on assault had failed, some of the local warriors sought to outfl?ank the mechanical monster by turning west into the protection of the rocks that backed the ravine-hugging village. But Throatcut had anticipated such a move and a force of bio bods were there to cut them down. The human named Obobwa, along with Musicplay, Fargo, and Slowspeak opened fi?re with fully automatic weapons as a dozen half-seen warriors charged into a hail of lead.

Throatcut, who had been watching the slaughter from the top of the rock-strewn slope, began to issue new orders before the last body hit the ground. “Cease fi?re! Save your ammo! And make sure all of them are dead.”

The bandits rose from their various hiding places, and a series of shots rang out, as Throatcut followed a steep switchbacking trail down into the now-devastated village. A comely female, armed with an old muzzle loader, popped up out of a hole. But the long-barreled rifl?e was too heavy for her, and she was still trying to aim it when Throatcut struck the side of her head with his pistol. She collapsed at his feet.

Though no longer engaged in combat, Lindo was standing guard. Though unlikely, there was always the chance that warriors from another village would happen by, or a group of locals would return from the hunt. If so, the T-2’s sensors should pick them up, thereby giving the rest of the gang time to fl?ee or prepare themselves for combat. There were screams, interspersed by more gunfi?re, as the bandits fought their way down into the subterranean dwellings, where loot in the form of food, booze, and ammo was theirs for the taking. The older females were generally murdered, as were many of the younger ones, unless they were pretty enough to catch someone’s eye. Then they were hauled up to the surface and loaded onto one of the woolly dooths that were waiting to haul the plunder back to the mesa. Most were crying, some continued to struggle, and one committed suicide by attacking Musicplay with a kitchen knife.

There were cubs of course. Which were typically left to fend for themselves unless they got in the way, as one youngster did when he threw a rock at Lindo. That impertinence earned the cub an energy bolt.

Finally, having obtained what they had come for, and led by Throatcut, who rode high on the T-2’s back, the bandits followed a meandering course back toward the mesa they called home. A trip that exposed them to one of Madame X’s spy sats as it passed overhead. Back in the days when Algeron had been classifi?ed as a protectorate, a fl?y-form would have been dispatched to inspect the group. Especially in the wake of other attacks by a renegade T-2. But the planet was independent now, and theoretically responsible for protecting its own citizens, even if the new government lacked the means to do so. So no action was taken by Xanith’s analysts other than to generate a report that was copied to Senator Nodoubt Truespeak and that individual’s overworked staff.

Seven Algeron-length days had passed by the time Throatcut and his band arrived at the base of the massive stone pillar and began the long arduous journey to the top. The sun had risen once again as the cyborg and the heavily laden dooths made their way up past an extremely treacherous rockslide to the plateau’s windswept top. A rocky spire marked the entrance to their subsurface habitation, and once there, the bandits began to dismount. Cybertech Wylie Rin came out to greet the freebooters, as did three forlorn-looking females, all of whom were put to work unloading the dooths.

In the meantime the latest captives were taken down into a warren of underground rooms to be raped, and in one case tortured, because that was Slowspeak’s notion of sex. Some, those deemed worthy, would be kept, but the others would be put to death a few days later. Because enjoyable though the females might be, slaves require food, and the bandits had no desire to venture out more frequently than they had to.

As night fell, and the relentless fi?ngers of the wind began to probe the ruins, a sad, keening noise was heard. It was as if the cries of those who had suffered on the mesa in the past had somehow been blended with the screams of those held there in the present to produce a time-spanning cry of anguish. But now, as in the past, no help was forthcoming.

FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON,

THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

It was easy to lose track of time on a planet where the days were so short, buried under a fortress where there was no natural light, immersed in a fl?ow of work that never stopped. Which was why Booly was surprised to fi?nd that after working through the artifi?cial eight-hour “night,” it was suddenly time to attend Jakov’s strategy session. A meeting in which some sort of plan would no doubt be hashed out even if doing so proved to be frustrating. The part of his job that Booly hated most.

The offi?cer was running about fi?ve minutes late, so when Booly entered the conference room, he expected to fi?nd the other participants present. But in spite of the fact that Chien-Chu, Xanith, Doma-Sa, and Osavi were seated around the table, neither Jakov nor Wilmot was anywhere to be seen. Of course with the entire weight of the Confederacy resting upon his shoulders, it would be quite understandable if the vice president was delayed. So Booly took some food from a side table, poured himself a cup of caf, and listened as Xanith gave an informal report.

“Bottom line, we don’t have the foggiest idea where the prisoners were taken,” the intel chief said grimly. “So, no progress there. The good news, if that’s the right word for it, is that when the Samurai and her battle group dropped into the Nebor system to investigate, they were able to recover a life pod containing a junior offi?cer from one the Gladiator’s escorts. She was able to confi?rm the essence of Captain Flerko’s hypercom message. Not the part about Nankool—but the way the trap was set. The Sam found lots of debris, but no Ramanthians, or anyone else for that matter.”

The naval command structure would be eager to get any details they could concerning the trap, but the information wasn’t going to help locate the POWs and rescue them.

“I haven’t got anything, either,” Chien-Chu confessed glumly. “Nor would I expect to at this early date.”

There was more conversation, all of which was trivial, until Jakov and Wilmot arrived twenty minutes later. Rather than offer some sort of pro forma apology, as Booly expected he would, the vice president simply took a seat. And if the politician was feeling the weight of the additional responsibilities that had been thrust upon him, there was no sign of it on his freshly shaven face. “So,” Jakov began blandly, “what have you got for us?”

Wilmot, who made it a habit to monitor Jakov’s words for indictors of where she stood, heard the word “us” and felt an immediate surge of pleasure. By including her in the sentence, the vice president had elevated her to a status higher than that of the other beings in the room! Even Triad Doma-Sa, who qualifi?ed as a visiting head of state!

Clearly her offi?cial, as well as unoffi?cial, efforts to keep Jakov happy were working, including the rather rigorous bout of sex that had delayed them.

“So,” Xanith concluded, as she fi?nished her report, “we don’t know where they are.”

Jakov nodded soberly. “That’s regrettable—but understandable. I’m sure you’ll keep me informed. By the way, I’d like to hold these meetings on a regular basis. . . . Although I don’t see any need for all of you to attend. I know Triad Doma-Sa, Admiral Chien-Chu, and Professor Osavi are all very busy. With that in mind I will designate members of my personal staff to fi?ll in for them. Then we can convene the larger group when circumstances warrant. Perhaps Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot would be so kind as to make the necessary arrangements.”

Chien-Chu, who had once been president himself, couldn’t help but feel a sense of grudging admiration for the skillful manner in which he and the other Nankool loyalists had been removed from the inner circle to make room for some of the vice president’s political protégés. And there wasn’t a damned thing any of them could do about it.

“So, unless there’s something else, I’d better get back to work,” Jakov announced lightly. “It seems that the Prithians are upset over the way Thraki freighters have started to appear in the small, out-of-the-way systems that they have traditionally served. Even though such routes couldn’t possibly be profi?table for our diminutive friends. And that raises the question of why? Both sides are waiting in my offi?ce.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Booly acknowledged. “But I would appreciate it if you could fi?nd time to take a look at the rescue plan that my staff and I hammered out.”

“Later perhaps,” Jakov said dismissively as he came to his feet. “It saddens me to say it, but there isn’t much point in working on a rescue plan until we know where the POWs are. Even then, the realities of war, combined with other priorities, may make it diffi?cult to implement such a plan. So keep it handy, but let’s focus on our most important objective, which is winning the war.” And with that, both Jakov and Wilmot departed.

A long silence followed the moment when the door closed. “Damn,” Xanith said fi?nally. “He doesn’t want to fi?nd the POWs.”

“No, I think it’s President Nankool that he doesn’t want to fi?nd,” Doma-Sa said cynically. “A strategy I can easily understand since it’s the sort of thing that my people are known for!”

All of those present knew how dangerous Hudathan politics could be, so no one chose to debate the point. “I fear you are correct old friend,” Chien-Chu said grimly.

“But I’d like to be wrong.”

“Well,” Booly replied thoughtfully, “let’s continue to refi?ne the rescue plan. Then, once we know where the POWs are, it will be ready to go.”

“And if Jakov refuses to authorize a rescue mission?”

Chien-Chu wanted to know.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” the offi?cer answered stolidly.

“Any attempt to send a rescue party without the vice president’s approval could be interpreted as treason,”

Xanith warned.

“And failure to try and rescue them could be regarded as treason as well,” the general replied grimly. “So let’s hope that we’re never forced to choose.”

3.

Any offi?cer or trooper who surrenders will be executed.

—Ramanthian Fleet Admiral Niko Himbu

Standard year 2846

ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN FREIGHTER ABUNDANT HARVEST,IN HYPERSPACE

More than a thousand prisoners stood at the bottom of the long, narrow hull and stared up through the metal grating located a few feet above their heads. They could see lights, and the soles of their tormentor’s feet, but very little else. Christine Vanderveen was among them and, like all the rest, was extremely thirsty. Although the diplomat had been forced to surrender her watch back on the Gladiator, she fi?gured that the POWs had been aboard the freighter for about three miserable days. And like those around her, Vanderveen’s body was so conditioned to the daily schedule that it somehow knew when the rain was about to fall. That’s what the prisoners called the water, in spite of the fact that the substance that gushed out of the Ramanthian hoses had already been swallowed, processed, and pissed many times before.

Even so, the brackish stuff tasted good, real good, to people who were desperately thirsty. Which was why Vanderveen, Nankool, and all the rest of the POWs stood with their heads thrown back and their mouths wide open.

Many, Vanderveen included, were naked. Having willingly traded their modesty for the opportunity to take a shower. And, even though the diplomat’s body was well worth staring at, such was the condition of their dry, cottony mouths, that none of the neighboring men were looking at the diplomat lest their heads be in the wrong position when the precious liquid started to fall. All of which stemmed from the fact that the Ramanthian command structure hadn’t expected to take prisoners in the Nebor system—and had been forced to put the animals on an H

class freighter. A ship so inadequate that even the most benefi?cent of captors would have been hard-pressed to treat the POWs well, never mind Captain Dorlu Vomin, who regarded empathy as a sign of weakness.

But Vomin was resourceful. So, rather than sit around and complain about the burden he’d been given, the veteran freighter captain employed both his recalcitrant crew and the prisoners themselves to shift all of the cargo from Hull 2, through the connecting cross section to Hull 1, thereby making half of the H-shaped ship available to house the mostly human cargo. Then, rather than attempt to rig some sort of temporary plumbing for the undeserving POWs, Vomin came up with a more effi?cient plan. By turning hoses on the animals twice each day, the crew could not only provide the prisoners with an opportunity to drink but fl?ush their waste products into the bilges at the same time! Then, having been pumped out and purifi?ed, the water could be used again. The only problem was that the freighter’s recycling equipment was working overtime and might eventually fail under the strain. The sound of footsteps echoed between the metal bulkheads as Vomin began to pace back and forth. The Ramanthian was toying with them, and the prisoners knew it, because they’d been through the routine before. It was tempting to lower their heads until the coming diatribe ended, but they knew better than to do so. Because the wily Ramanthian had been known to start the rain halfway through one of his harangues. And once the water began to fl?ow, there would be only fi?fteen seconds in which to take advantage of it. So as Vomin began to talk, the prisoners kept their eyes focused on the grating above.

“Good morning,” the freighter captain began evenly. “I see that you stare up at me, like fl?owers following the sun, knowing that I am the source of all life.”

The fi?rst time Vomin had delivered one of these strange speeches, there had been jeers, catcalls, and all manner of rude noises from the prisoners standing below. But having had their “rain” shortened by ten seconds, the POWs never made that mistake again. So they stood, jaws achingly open, while Vomin strutted above them. “You will lose the war,” the Ramanthian informed the prisoners. “And for a very simple reason. Because as you gathered various cultures under a single government each polluted the rest. Weakness was piled upon weakness, and fl?aw was piled upon fl?aw, until the center of the obscenity you call the Confederacy began to rot. A process that is well under way and will inevitably lead to a series of poor decisions. Decisions that my race will take advantage of.

“Fortunately, the rest of your lives will be spent working on something worthwhile. Because there are jungles on Jericho. . . . Jungles that must be cleared for the benefi?t of our newly hatched nymphs. So as the Ramanthian rain begins to fall, I suggest that you savor each drop, knowing the full glory of the task that awaits you! That will be all.”

As usual the hoses came on without warning as Vomin’s crew began to spray the gratings. The water cascaded down through thousands of openings to splatter grimy faces, fi?ll dry mouths, and run in gray rivulets down along necks, torsos, and legs.

Like those around her, Vanderveen took advantage of the

“rain” in her own unique way. The key was to keep her head back, thereby gulping as much of the heavenly liquid as possible, while the jumpsuit that hung capelike down her back absorbed additional water. Water that she would suck out of the fabric once the hoses were turned off. Some people liked to use their boots to collect water, but that involved taking them off and risking a cut. A rather dangerous thing to do given all the nasty bacteria that lived on the bilge grating.

So Vanderveen was content to swallow what she could, take a shower, and suck water out of her overalls before pulling them on again. Something the diplomat hurried to do so that the surrounding men had only a limited amount of time to stare at her.

Then, their thirsts momentarily quenched, the prisoners were ordered to line up against both bulkheads facing inwards. Not by the bugs, who didn’t care how the animals positioned themselves, but by their own offi?cers and noncoms. Who, with support from Nankool, were determined to maintain discipline. Especially at mealtime—which took place once each day.

A section of grating rattled loudly as it was removed, and Vanderveen heard a sustained series of thumps, as exactly sixty cases of MSMREs (MultiSpecies Meals Ready to Eat) were dropped through the hole. The food had been scavenged from one of the Gladiator’s support ships subsequent to the battle and transferred to the freighter. Each case held twenty meals, which meant that twelve hundred meals were available, in spite of the fact that there were only 1,146 prisoners. That meant there was an overage of fi?fty-four MSMREs per day, which allowed the tightly supervised food committee to provide the Hudathan prisoners with extra calories, and to dole out additional meal components to everyone else on a rotating basis. And, since each meal consisted of a main dish along with six other items, such distributions were followed by a frenzy of trading as everyone sought to get rid of things they didn’t care for and secure those they liked.

Food could even be bartered for sex, or that’s what Vanderveen had heard, although she made it a point to avoid the aft end of the hold, where such transactions were said to take place. But one meal a day wasn’t enough, so even though the FSO looked forward to eating whatever was in her ration box, the human knew she was losing both weight and strength.

An hour later, the diplomat had fi?nished the tiny cup of fruit that she had traded a candy bar and some crackers for, and was about to take the empty packaging forward, when one of the so-called word-walkers stopped by. He was a small man with narrow-set eyes, a twice-broken nose, and a three-day beard. “There’s gonna be a leadership meeting,” the messenger whispered. “Ten minutes.”

Vanderveen thanked the man and took the trash forward to the “workshop,” where a team of prisoners was busy converting the MSMRE boxes into sandals for those who lacked boots, and multilayered body armor for the all-Hudathan assault team that would probably never have an opportunity to use it. Not unless the bugs made some sort of really stupid mistake. “But, it’s good to be prepared,” as Nankool liked to say. And work, any kind of work, was a morale booster. From there, Vanderveen made her way back to the point where a small group of people were assembled around Nankool. The fi?ltered light threw dark bars across the president and those crouched around him. Sentries had been posted in an effort to maintain security, but the FSO knew that there was no way to protect the most important piece of information that the prisoners had, and that was Nankool’s true identity. Everyone knew that, and because they did, were in a position to betray not only the president but the rest of the leadership team as well. Not that the bugs would have been surprised to learn that Commander Peet Schell, the Gladiator’s XO had assumed command of all military forces. But the rest of the leadership group (LG) wasn’t so obvious, starting with the president himself, who was posing as petty offi?cer Milo Kruse, the square-jawed Roland Hooks, and the slimy Corley Calisco. Unfortunately, General Koba-Sa, Ambassador Ochi, and Captain Flerko had been killed. Nankool, who seldom if ever lost his sense of humor, smiled as the FSO joined the group. “Welcome, Ms. Vanderveen. May I be the fi?rst to say how lovely you look today?”

Vanderveen, who was well aware of the fact that her skin was peeling and her hair was matted, made a face.

“Thank you, Chief Petty Offi?cer Kruse. And please let me be the fi?rst to congratulate you on the size and density of the furry thing that is in the process of eating your face.”

Everyone laughed, Calisco loudest of all, as he imagined what the diplomat would look like without any clothes. Maybe, if he moved in closer just prior to the next rain, he could score a look.

“So,” Nankool began. “For the fi?rst time since they put us aboard this tub, Vomin had something useful to say. It sounds like we’re headed for Jericho—which, if my memory serves me correctly, was one of the worlds that the Senate granted the Ramanthians as partial restitution for damage suffered during the Hudathan wars.”

“That’s correct,” Hooks confi?rmed. “You may recall that Ramanthian Senator Alway Orno was quite skillful in arguing his case.”

“Before he blew the Friendship to smithereens,” Schell added bitterly.

“Not that we can prove that,” Calisco interposed primly.

“It was a diversion,” Schell replied hotly. “The bugs stole thousands of Sheen ships while we were busy searching for survivors! How much goddamned proof do you need?”

“It doesn’t matter who triggered the bomb,” Nankool said soothingly. “Not anymore. The point is that the Ramanthians snookered us out of some prime planets—and now they want us to make improvements on one of them.”

“For their newborns,” Hooks added darkly. “Some fi?ve billion of them if our intelligence estimates are accurate.”

“Which is why the bugs started this war,” Schell reminded them. “To obtain more real estate.”

“Precisely,” Nankool agreed, as he scanned their faces.

“So, how ’bout it? Has anyone been to Jericho?”

Being the most junior person present, Vanderveen waited to see if any of her superiors would respond before raising a tentative hand. “I haven’t been there. . . . But I remember reading the survey report that was fi?led immediately after the second Hudathan War.”

Nankool smiled indulgently. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense child. Share your knowledge!”

Vanderveen’s blue eyes seemed to go slightly out of focus as she worked to summon the data acquired more than two years previously. “Jericho is an Earth-normal planet,”

she began. “Which means it is Hive-normal, too. And, judging from the ruins that cover much of the planet’s surface, it was once home to an advanced civilization. Based on studies carried out by archeologists prior to the fi?rst Hudathan war, there are notable similarities between ancient structures and artifacts present on Jericho and those cataloged on planets like Long Jump, Zaster, and Earth.”

“All of which is consistent with the possibility of a forerunner race,” Hooks observed. “Or races . . . Which might account for some of the physiological similarities between certain species.”

“Many of whom would rather slice off a nose or beak than admit to any sort of common ancestry,” Nankool observed.

“Go ahead, Christina. . . . You were saying?”

“I don’t remember all the details,” the diplomat confessed. “But I believe Jericho has a middle-aged sun, a stable orbit, and plenty of natural resources. Which is why the Hudathans sought to grab the planet during their expansionist phase—and the Ramanthians lobbied to take it away from them. A great deal of the surface is covered with jungle, however, which implies what could be a nasty food chain, not to mention some very uncomfortable conditions.”

“How nasty?” Calisco wanted to know.

“Real nasty,” Schell replied pessimistically.

“Which means it’s going to be tough,” Nankool said thoughtfully. “And we have an obligation to prepare our people for that. Christine, once this meeting is over, round up our doctors. What have we got? Two of them? Good. Tell them we need to build strength, but conserve calories, and see what sort of exercises they suggest. Then, once we have a regimen ready, pass it to Commander Schell. He’ll make it mandatory. Okay?”

What the president said made sense, and, as always, the FSO was impressed by the quality of Nankool’s leadership.

“Yes, sir,” Vanderveen replied. “I’ll take care of it.”

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

As the yellow-orange ball of fi?re began to appear over the eastern horizon, the usual cacophony of sounds began as thousands of arboreal life-forms hooted, screamed, and squawked their morning greetings. But, strange though some of the native species were by human standards, none could compare to the camo-covered alloy sphere that rested high in the branches of a towering sun tracker tree. Which, having a very fl?exible trunk, was already turning its huge heat-absorbing leaves toward Jericho’s sun. The construct, which was home to a human brain named Oliver Batkin, was very similar to the so-called recon balls employed by Confederacy military forces, in that the sphere was about four feet in diameter, and equipped with repellers that allowed it to fl?y at altitudes of up to three hundred feet.

The similarities ended there, however, since recon balls have tactical applications, and Batkin’s mission was to gather raw intelligence, upload it to one of the message torps in orbit around the planet, and send the vehicle back to Algeron. But not very often, since the number of reports the cyborg could make was limited by the number of torpedoes at his disposal.

Now, as the more vocal members of the local biosphere combined their multitudinous voices to wake the spy from his slumbers, Batkin activated one of the four high-resolution vid cams that had been built into his technology-packed body. He had a good view thanks to the fact that the sun tracker tree stood head and shoulders above all the rest. The top layer of the forest looked deceptively soft and inviting even though Batkin knew that all sorts of dangers lurked below. But the view was beautiful, which was why the spy ball preferred to nest in the tallest of trees, standing like lonely sentinels over the jungle. That, at least, was consistent with how the onetime banker had imagined his new job, back in the hospital, when the recruiter dropped in to make her pitch. Six years working for the government. That’s what Batkin had agreed to in exchange for a Class IV cyber body, the kind that only the wealthiest humans could afford. Of course that was back just before the war, when the Ramanthians were members of the Confederacy, and he had been in intensive care. Since that time, Batkin been through a grueling training course, the bugs had precipitated a war, and the newly graduated spy had been sent to Jericho “to fi?nd out why the Ramanthians want it so badly.”

That, at least, had been accomplished, because about three months after the cyborg plummeted through Jericho’s atmosphere, the egg-ships began to arrive. That’s what Batkin called them, because that’s what the freighters carried, lots and lots of eggs. Thousands upon thousands of the big ten-pound monsters that crews of specially trained Ramanthians “planted” in the jungle and left to hatch on their own.

It didn’t take a genius to fi?gure out what was in the eggs, of course, but Batkin knew better than to make assumptions, and was therefore obliged to break one of the hard-shelled containers open and dissect its contents. A rather disgusting process that confi?rmed the spy’s hypothesis. A Ramanthian population explosion was under way, Jericho was being used as a gigantic nursery, and all of known space would soon be crawling with voracious bugs. All this had been documented, uploaded to a message torp, and sent to HQ, along with enough electronic intercepts to keep Madame Xanith’s analysts busy for a couple of weeks. The accomplishment provided the cyborg with a momentary sense of satisfaction.

But that was yesterday’s news, Batkin hadn’t uncovered anything since, and he was convinced he wasn’t going to. Not unless one counted the ugly-looking second-stage nymphs that had started to hatch and crawl around the jungle fl?oor. A biologically interesting process, no doubt, and one that Batkin was duty-bound to document, but hardly the sort of intelligence coup that the spy dreamed of. Because even if the ex-banker’s physical body had been reduced to little more than raw hamburger during the high-speed train crash—the ambition that drove him remained undiminished. Something which, unbeknownst to him, was among the personality traits that Madame X’s recruiters had been looking for. Because complacent, selfsatisfi?ed intelligence agents had a very low success rate, especially when working alone.

And so it was that the only spy on Jericho was resting among the branches of a very tall tree when artifi?cial thunder rolled across the land, six white contrails clawed the clear blue sky, and a fl?ock of red wings burst out of the jungle below. All of which caused Batkin to feel a sudden surge of hope. Because something was about to happen. The cargo compartment stank, or certainly should have, given the big globules of tan-colored vomit that fl?oated in the air. But Vanderveen couldn’t smell them, the stink of excreta, or her own rank body odor anymore. In fact, it was as if nothing had the capacity to offend her nose as Jericho’s gravity reached up to take hold of the Ramanthian shuttle and pull it down. Not just the ship, but the solar systems of vomit as well, which fell like a putrid rain. The POWs were standing cheek to jowl, front to back, dozens deep in the musty cargo compartment as the entire shuttle began to shake violently, a horrible creaking sound was heard, and somebody began to pray.

Vanderveen no longer cared by that time, and would have been content to die in a fi?ery explosion if that meant freedom from the sick feeling in her gut, the panicky claustrophobia that made the diplomat want to strike out at the people around her, and the man behind her, who in spite of the disgusting conditions, was determined to rub his erection against her bottom.

There wasn’t much room, but by lifting her right foot and stomping on the marine’s toes, the FSO forced the man to back off. Then the shuttle began to buck as it hit successive layers of air, fi?ttings rattled as if the entire ship might come apart, and the pilot said something over the intercom. Unfortunately, it was in Ramanthian, so Vanderveen couldn’t understand it. A warning perhaps? There was no way to know as the shuttle continued to lose altitude, and the ride stabilized.

What seemed like a month, but was actually only about twenty minutes, passed as the shuttle completed its descent. Then, after a tight turn to starboard, the ship came in for what even the Confederacy pilots had to admit was a very smooth landing. As the spaceship slowed, a human watched the shuttle turn off the main runway and taxi toward the apron where fi?ve similar craft were parked. Their passengers were already streaming out onto the hot tarmac. Both the airstrip and the long, low terminal building that adjoined it were temporary. Later, after the Ramanthians fi?nished the Class I spaceport that was being constructed some thirty miles to the east, the whole facility would be torn down. Not that Maximillian Tragg cared what the bugs did with it so long as they paid him. Which, having accidentally acquired a thousand POWs, the Ramanthians had agreed to do. And the renegade had huge gambling debts that would have to be paid before he could return to the Confederacy.

Tragg was an imposing man, who stood six-four even without his combat boots and looked like a weight lifter. Both a sleeveless shirt and the custom-made body armor that molded itself to Tragg’s wedge-shaped torso served to emphasize his muscularity. The fact that the human wore two low-riding handguns, and was backed by four heavily armed Sheen robots, made him look even more impressive. And now, as the POWs began to spill out of the fi?nal shuttle, the renegade’s real work was about to begin. Vanderveen felt a tremendous sense of relief as the shuttle fi?nally came to a stop, the back ramp was deployed, and a wave of thick humid air pushed its way into the cargo compartment. Orders were shouted from outside, and boots clattered on metal as the fi?rst wave of prisoners stumbled out into the bright sunlight, where two dozen helmeted Ramanthian troopers waited to take charge of them. Once the bodies immediately in front of her began to move, the diplomat followed. Her head swiveled back and forth as she made her way down the bouncing ramp and onto the heat-fused soil beyond. But there wasn’t much to see beyond the thick vegetation that threatened to roll out onto the tarmac, a row of neatly parked Ramanthian shuttles, and the crowd of POWs, who were being systematically herded toward a slightly raised platform. Five fi?gures stood on top of the riser, but they didn’t appear to be Ramanthian. And as the distance closed, that impression was confi?rmed. Hooks had taken up a position next to Vanderveen by that time and was the fi?rst to comment on the individual who stood out in front of the others. “What the hell is going on?” the offi?cial demanded. “That guy is human!”

“That’s the way it looks,” the FSO agreed. “But his friends certainly aren’t.”

Hooks might have commented on the robots but was prevented from doing so as Commander Schell shouted a series of orders, offi?cers and noncoms responded, and began to circulate through the crowd. It took about fi?ve minutes to sort everyone out, but when the process was over, the POWs were standing in orderly ranks. Vanderveen found herself toward the front of the assemblage and less than thirty feet from the raised platform. President Nankool was standing a couple of ranks behind her. From her position in the second row, Vanderveen found she could assess the man in front of them. The fi?rst thing she noticed was his height. Of more interest, however, was the man’s bald skull, dark wraparound goggles, and horribly ravaged face. It had, judging from appearances, been badly burned. The man’s eyes were effectively hidden, but his nose was missing, as were his ears. The ridges of scar tissue that covered his face were interrupted by the horizontal slash of his mouth.

And it was then, while Vanderveen was searching the man’s face, that his eyes came into contact with hers. The FSO felt the momentary connection as the black goggles came into alignment with her gaze and something passed between them. The diplomat felt something cold trickle into her bloodstream as the creature on the platform came to some sort of decision and went on to scan the crowd. Having chosen the POW he was going to kill, Tragg spoke for the fi?rst time. “Welcome to Jericho.” The renegade had a voice that would have done justice to a regimental sergeant major, and it was amplifi?ed as well. Not by a standard PA system, but by the four robots arrayed around him, all of whom had external speakers.

“The Ramanthians see you as little more than domesticated animals,” the mercenary continued. “So, rather than force one of their offi?cers to supervise your activities, they hired me to handle the task for them. My name is Tragg. Overseer Tragg. And you will call me, ‘sir.’ ”

Tragg paused to let the words sink in before starting up again. “Because I am a paid contractor, and you are my work force, I need you in order to succeed. But by no means do I need all of you. Of course you may not believe that. So in order to prove that I’m serious it will be necessary to kill someone. Not because the person in question has done anything wrong, but because I believe their death will make a lasting impression, and ensure compliance with my orders.”

Calisco stood on the opposite side of Vanderveen from Hooks. “The bastard is crazy,” the undersecretary said sotto voce, but Vanderveen wasn’t so sure. Because everything the man named Tragg said was logical if amoral. And, based on the contact experienced only minutes before, the diplomat was pretty sure that she knew which person had been chosen to die. Something heavy settled into the pit of her stomach. The diplomat felt light-headed and struggled to keep her feet. Vanderveen saw a mental picture of her parents, followed by one of Legion Captain Antonio Santana, and felt a wave of guilt. The two of them had agreed to meet on Earth, but she’d been called away to become part of Nankool’s staff, and there was no way to tell him. If only there had been an opportunity to see Santana, to let the legionnaire know how she felt, but now it seemed as though that opportunity was gone forever.

“So,” Tragg continued conversationally, “while you consider the very real possibility that your life is about to end, let’s go over what everyone else will be doing for the next few days. Given the fact that our hosts are a bit strapped for ground transportation, most of you will be required to walk the 146 miles to Jericho Prime, where you will take part in a rather interesting construction project. More on that later. . . . Now that you know where you’re going, and why, it’s time to shoot one of you in the head, something I prefer to do personally rather than delegate the task to one of my robots.”

A murmur ran through the ranks, and the assemblage started to shift, as some of the POWs made as if to attack, and others considered making a run for it. But the robots had raised their energy projectors by that time, and the Ramanthian troopers were at the ready, which meant neither strategy stood any chance of success. Seeing that, and hoping to avoid a bloodbath, Schell shouted an order. “As you were!” Surprisingly, the prisoners obeyed, as Tragg drew a chromed pistol, and aimed the weapon at the crowd.

Some people fl?inched as the gun panned from left to right and fi?nally came to rest. Vanderveen found herself looking right into the renegade’s gun barrel, knew her intuition had been correct, and closed her eyes. The diplomat heard a loud bang, followed by a communal groan, and opened her eyes to discover that she was still alive. But the young woman who had been standing not three feet away wasn’t. Her body lay in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. The fi?rst thing Vanderveen felt was a sense of relief, quickly followed by a wave of shame, as the victim’s name echoed through the crowd. “Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya.” The sound of it continued, like the soft rustle of wind that sometimes precedes a rainstorm, and eventually died away as the name was repeated by the last rank of POWs. “Lieutenant Moya,” Hooks demanded incredulously. “Why?”

More than a thousand beings were assembled on the tarmac, and while Vanderveen knew very few of them, she had been aware of Moya. Partly because the offi?cer had been assigned to serve as liaison with Nankool’s staff, and partly because the young woman was so beautiful that she seemed to glow, which attracted attention from males and females alike. Because for better or worse, human beings were wired to pay attention to the most attractive members of the species and fi?nd ways to please them, a reality the diplomat occasionally took advantage of herself.

And suddenly, as that thought crossed Vanderveen’s mind, the diplomat realized that she knew the answer to the question Hooks had posed. Moya had been murdered because of the way she looked. Had Tragg been rejected because of his face? Yes, the FSO decided, chances were that he had. So to kill Moya was to kill all of the women who had refused him. Or was that too facile? No, the diplomat concluded, it wasn’t. Because deep down Vanderveen knew that she had been considered, found wanting, and dismissed in favor of Moya.

“Good,” Tragg said as he holstered the recently fi?red pistol. “Very good. I’m glad to see that we have been able to establish a good working relationship in such short order. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow the red remote, it will lead you to a pile of packs. Each pack contains a basic issue of food and other items that you will need during the next few days. You can leave your pack behind, consume all of your food on the fi?rst day, or ration it out. That’s up to you. . . . But it’s all you’re going to get until we arrive at Jericho Prime. And remember, the Ramanthian guards don’t like you, so don’t piss them off! That will be all.”

As if on cue, a dozen Ramanthian sphere-shaped remotes sailed into the area from the direction of the lowlying terminal and immediately took up positions above the POWs. Each robot was armed with a stun gun, a spotlight, and a speaker, but only one of them was red. It led Schell, and therefore the rest of the prisoners, out across the tarmac and toward the jungle on the far side. Lieutenant Moya lay where she had fallen, the fi?rst POW to die on Jericho, but certainly not the last.

4.

Peace is very apoplexy, lethargy: mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible: a getter of more bastard children, than war is a destroyer of men.

—William Shakespeare

Coriolanus

Standard year 1607

PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Having landed at Vandenberg Spaceport, and rented a ground car, Captain Antonio Santana drove north toward the metroplex that now encompassed what had once been the separate cities of San Francisco, Vallejo, Berkeley, Oakland, Hayward, Sunnyvale, and San Jose.

It had been a long time since the legionnaire had been on what some still referred to as “Mother Earth.” Having spent extended periods of time on primitive worlds like LaNor and Savas, it was diffi?cult to adjust to the fl?ood of high-intensity sensory input, as the skyscraper “skins” that lined both sides of the elevated expressway morphed into a single panoramic advertisement, and sleek sports cars passed him at 130 miles per hour. Meanwhile the onboard computer fed him an unending stream of unsolicited advice, which the soldier managed to escape by switching to autopilot and allowing the Vehicle Traffi?c Control System (VTCS) to drive the car for him.

A not-altogether-comfortable experience since the computers that controlled the system were primarily interested in moving Santana through the metroplex as quickly as possible. He felt the car accelerate and gave in to the urge to look back over his left shoulder as the VTCS steered his vehicle into the fast lane. It was a scary moment since a single electronic glitch could cause a massive pileup and cost hundreds of lives. But there hadn’t been one of those in years, or so the onboard computer claimed, not that the assertion made Santana feel any better.

What did make the offi?cer feel good, however, was the knowledge that the Ramanthians wouldn’t be shooting at him anytime soon and that he was about to be reunited with Christine Vanderveen, the beautiful diplomat he had met on LaNor.

There was a downside, however, and that was the fact that Santana was on his way to see both Vanderveen and her parents, wealthy upper-crust types with whom a junior offi?cer from humble beginnings was unlikely to be comfortable. Of course, the fact that Vanderveen wanted him to meet her family was a good sign and suggested that the diplomat wanted to continue the relationship that had begun within the Imperial City of Polwa and eventually been consummated in the hills off to the west. And that, from his perspective, was nothing short of an out-and-out miracle. So as the enclosed highway dove under San Francisco Bay and made a beeline for the community of Napa, Santana felt a sense of anticipation mixed with concern. He’d been through a lot since LaNor, and so had she, so would the chemistry be intact? And what about her folks? They couldn’t possibly be looking forward to his arrival. Not given his working-class origins. But would they give him a chance? And assuming they did—would he be able to take advantage of it? Or wind up making a fool of himself?

Those questions and more were still on Santana’s mind as what had mysteriously turned into Highway 80 surfaced just north of the hundred-foot-tall seawall that kept the bay from fl?ooding the burbs and the traffi?c control system shunted the rental car onto a secondary road that led to the gated community known as “Napa Estates,” a huge area that included all of what had once been called “wine country,” and was protected by a twelve-foot-high steelreinforced duracrete blastproof “riot wall.” Which was designed to keep people like him out.

There was a backup, and Santana had to wait fi?fteen minutes before he fi?nally pulled up to one of four inbound security gates. That was where an ex-legionnaire with a face so lined that it looked like one of the Legion’s topo maps scrutinized the offi?cer’s military ID and shook his head sadly. “Sorry, sir, but I’ll have to put you through the wringer. No exceptions.”

Santana nodded. The fact that the legionnaire had fought for the Confederacy on distant worlds, and been separated from the military with a retirement so small that he had to work, was just plain wrong—a problem only partially addressed in the wake of the great mutiny. “What regiment?”

the offi?cer inquired, as the veteran scanned his retinas.

“The 13th Demi-Brigade de Legion Etrangere, sir,” the guard answered proudly. “We fought the Hudathans on Algeron and whipped ’em good!”

“You sure as hell did,” Santana agreed soberly. “I’ve seen the graves.”

“And if the frigging bugs make it to Earth, you’ll see some more,” the legionnaire predicted grimly. “There’s plenty like me—and we still know how to fi?ght.”

The comment raised still another issue, and that was the fact that with the exception of people like the elderly security guard, no one seemed to be worried about the war with the Ramanthians. In fact, based on what the offi?cer had seen so far, it was as if the citizens of Earth were only marginally aware that a war was being fought. A rather sad state of affairs given all the sentients who had died in order to protect their planet.

“Your invitation cleared,” the old soldier announced, and delivered a textbook-perfect salute. “Vive la Légion!”

“Vive la Légion,” Santana agreed, and returned the gesture of respect. Thirty seconds later he was inside Napa Estates and driving north along a four-lane road that took him past all manner of formal entries, gently curving driveways, and mansions set back among the vineyards the area was so famous for. Many of the estates included their own wineries, which in the case of the larger operations, were allowed to produce a few thousand bottles for sale. But those were the exception, since most of the residents made their money in other ways and preferred to consume the wine they produced rather than sell it. All of which seemed fi?ne on the one hand, since Santana believed in free enterprise, yet bothered him as well since there were those like the security guard who had risked everything to protect Earth and been denied a respectable retirement. It was a fate that might very well befall him if he wasn’t careful.

The common areas, like the broad swatches of irrigated grass that fronted the streets, were groomed to perfection. So each estate was like an individual element within a larger work of art. Nothing like the military housing in which Santana had spent his youth, prior to being accepted into the academy, where experts turned him into a gentleman. But acting like the people who lived in the mansions to the left and right of him was one thing—and being like them was something else. Just one of the reasons why Santana slowed the car as he topped a rise, spotted the house that Vanderveen had described to him, and looked for a spot where he could safely pull off the road. Then, having accessed his luggage, the offi?cer did what any sensible legionnaire would do prior to launching an assault on an enemy-held objective. He took a small but powerful set of binos, waited for a break in traffi?c, and crossed the road. A camera mounted high atop the nearest streetlamp tracked his movements.

The grassy verge sloped up to a waist-high stone wall that served to defi?ne the estate’s boundaries. And, judging from appearances, the Vanderveen property was quite large. As Santana brought the glasses up to his eyes and panned from left to right, he saw rows of meticulously pruned vines that were the ultimate source of the Riesling that the Vanderveen family was so proud of. He could also see some pasture beyond, a white horse that might have been the one the diplomat liked to ride, and a cluster of immaculate outbuildings. The house itself was a straightforward three-story Tudor, and Santana knew that it was within that structure that the woman he loved had been raised, prior to being sent off to a series of expensive boarding schools.

But rather than pursue a career in science or business as she easily could have—Vanderveen had chosen to follow her father into the world of politics and diplomacy. A not especially profi?table career path, but one that Charles Winther Vanderveen could well afford, thanks to his inherited wealth.

Santana heard a whirring sound, felt a puff of displaced air hit the back of his neck, and was already in the process of turning and reaching for a nonexistent sidearm when the airborne robot spoke. “Raise your hands and stay where you are,” the globe-shaped device advised sternly.

“Or I will be forced to stun you consistent with Community S-reg Covenant 456.7.”

Santana raised his hands, and was forced to answer a series of security-related questions before the robot fi?nally offered a pro forma apology and sailed away. The incident was humiliating, and if it hadn’t been for the opportunity to spend time with Vanderveen, the soldier would have left Napa there and then.

Having guided his rental car in between the stylized stone lions that stood guard to either side of the steel gate, Santana was forced to pause while a scanner checked his retinas. Only then was he allowed to proceed up the gently curving driveway that passed between an ornate fountain and the front of the house. Strangely, the mixture of emotions that Santana felt was reminiscent of going into combat. The well-packed gravel made a subtle crunching sound as the tires passed over it, and by the time the vehicle rolled to a stop, a woman dressed in riding clothes was already exiting the front door followed by two human servants and a domestic robot. She had carefully coiffed gray hair, a slim athletic build, and covered the distance to the car in a series of leggy strides.

But what Santana found most striking of all was the woman’s face, which though older, was so similar to her daughter’s that there was absolutely no doubt as to who she was. “Captain Santana!” Margaret Vanderveen said enthusiastically. “We’re so glad you’re here! I hope the trip up from Vandenberg was comfortable.”

Prior to making the journey, Santana had been careful to brush up on proper etiquette, and therefore waited for his hostess to extend her hand before reaching out to shake it. The grip was strong and fi?rm, as was to be expected of someone who worked side by side with the people who tended her vines. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,”

Santana said formally. “I can see where Christina got her looks.”

“Please call me Margaret,” the woman replied easily.

“And I can see how you managed to turn my daughter’s head! Please, come in. Thomas, Mary, and John will take care of your car and luggage.”

Santana wondered which name applied to the robot, as he turned to retrieve a professionally wrapped package from the backseat, before allowing himself to be led inside. A formal entranceway emptied into a spacious great room that looked out over verdant pasture toward a turreted home perched on a distant hill. Though large, the home seemed smaller than it was because of all the artwork that Charles Vanderveen had not only inherited but brought home from a dozen different worlds. All of which had been integrated into an interior that was both eclectic and warm. A tribute to Margaret Vanderveen’s eye—or that of a professional decorator.

“Please,” Margaret Vanderveen said. “Have a seat. What can I get for you? A drink perhaps? I’d offer something to eat, but dinner is only an hour away, and Maria would be most unhappy if I were to spoil your appetite.”

“A drink sounds good,” Santana allowed. “A gin and tonic if that’s convenient.”

“It certainly is,” the matron replied as she rang a little bell. “And I think I’ll join you.”

There was the soft whir of servos as the robot appeared, took their orders, and left the room. Santana took that as his opportunity to present Mrs. Vanderveen with the carefully wrapped box. “Here,” he said awkwardly. “I had this made on LaNor.”

As Margaret Vanderveen accepted the present, she discovered that it was surprisingly heavy. Although hostess gifts weren’t important to her, the fact that the young offi?cer had gone to the trouble of bringing one spoke to his manners, and a desire to make a good impression. Both of which were promising signs. Especially given his roughand-tumble beginnings. “Why, thank you, Antonio! That was unnecessary, but the Vanderveen women love presents, so I therefore refuse to give it back.”

Mrs. Vanderveen was clearly attempting to be nice to him, so Santana allowed himself to relax slightly and wondered where Christine was. Out for a ride perhaps? Or gone shopping? There was no way to know, and he was afraid to ask lest the question seem rude. The wrapping paper rattled as Margaret Vanderveen took it off to reveal a highly polished wooden box. Intricate relief carvings covered the top and all four sides. Later, when the matron had time to examine them more closely, she would discover that they were battle scenes in which her daughter had played a role.

But given the weight of the object, Margaret Vanderveen knew that the box had been designed to contain something more important. Something which, judging from Santana’s expression, he hoped she would like. Having found all of the little brass hooks that held the lid in place, Mrs. Vanderveen pushed each of them out of the way and removed the top. A sculpture nestled within.

“There are some truly remarkable artisans on LaNor,”

Santana explained. “The locals refer to the carvers as ‘wood poets,’ and for good reason.”

As Margaret Vanderveen removed the wood sculpture from its case she found herself looking at a likeness of her daughter’s face that was so lifelike that it took her breath away. And then, before she could clamp down on what her mother would have regarded as an inappropriate display of emotion, tears began to fl?ow down her cheeks. “It’s very beautiful,” the matron said feelingly. “And, outside of Christina herself, perhaps the nicest gift that I have ever received. Thank you.”

The reaction was much stronger than anything Santana might have hoped for, but he wasn’t sure how to handle it, and he felt a tremendous sense of relief when the robot arrived with their drinks. That gave Mrs. Vanderveen an opportunity to excuse herself for a moment. Her eyes were dry when she returned. “Sorry about that,” she said. “But the likeness is so good that it took me off guard. Antonio—”

“Please,” Santana interrupted. “My friends call me Tony.”

Margaret Vanderveen smiled and nodded. “Tony, the truth is that I have some bad news to share with you, and I’ve been stalling. A few weeks after Christine came home on vacation, she was asked to join President Nankool’s personal staff and felt that she had no choice but to do so.”

The older woman’s eyes seemed to beseech Santana at that point as if begging for understanding. “She knew you were on the way here,” Mrs. Vanderveen said. “And she knew there was no way to reach you in time. Believe me, Christine was absolutely beside herself with concern about how you would feel, and many tears were shed right here in this room. But there’s a letter,” the matron added. “This letter, which she left for you.”

The letter had been there all along, sitting between them, concealed in a beautiful marble box. The lid made a soft thump as she put it down. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change for dinner,” the hostess said tactfully. “Ring the bell when you’re ready, and one of the servants will show you to your room.”

The soldier said, “Thank you,” and stood as his hostess got up to leave. Once she was gone, he sat on the couch. The drink was still there, so he took a pull and returned the glass to its coaster. Then, with hands that shook slightly, Santana opened the envelope. As a faint whiff of perfume found his nostrils, the legionnaire was reminded of what it felt like to bury his face in Vanderveen’s hair.

“My dearest Tony,” the letter began. “By now you know that I was called away by the one thing that can take precedence over you—and that is my duty to the Confederacy. And if we were not at war, even that would be put aside so that I could be with you!

“But these are troubled times, my dearest. Times when bombs fall on innocent cities, when missiles destroy unarmed ships, and when all that we both hold dear is at risk. So I beg your forgiveness, trust that you of all people will understand, and look forward to the moment when your arms will embrace me once again.

“With love and affection, Christine.”

The name was a little blurry, as if a tear might have fallen on it before the ink could dry, and Santana felt something rise to block the back of his throat. He wanted to run, to get as far away from the house that she had grown up in as he could, but it was too late for that. So the offi?cer fi?nished his drink, slipped the letter into the inside pocket of his new sports coat, and rang the little bell. The robot, whatever his name was, had clearly been waiting. PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

By the time Booly received the summons and arrived at what had once been Nankool’s private conference room, there was standing room only. The members of Vice President Jakov’s inner circle, including Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot, were seated around the long oval table, leaving everyone else to stand along the walls. Doma-Sa had been given a huge Hudathansized chair consistent with his status as a head of state. But others, Madame X and Chien-Chu included, weren’t so lucky. Booly, who found himself crammed in next to his wife’s uncle, whispered into the cyborg’s plastifl?esh ear.

“What the hell is going on, Sergi? This wasn’t on the schedule.”

“No,” the entrepreneur, politician, and reserve admiral agreed. “It wasn’t. And that was no accident! I used to pull the same stunt myself. . . . There’s nothing like a surprise meeting to catch the opposition off guard.”

Booly looked at the room and back again. “The opposition being?”

“Anyone who was close to Nankool,” Chien-Chu answered matter-of-factly. “And that includes you.”

Booly had never seen his relationship with the president that way, since he was a soldier, and sworn to serve whatever person held the offi?ce. Including Jakov, were he to succeed Nankool. But it looked like the vice president had other ideas and intended to marginalize the Military Chief of Staff. Preliminary to replacing him? Yes, Booly decided, and wondered which one of his subordinates would be put in charge of the Confederacy’s military forces. There was a stir as Jakov entered the room from what had been Nankool’s offi?ce. The politician nodded and waved in response to a variety of greetings before stepping up to the table and looking around. “Hello, everybody—

and thanks for coming on such short notice. But, as all of you know, we face something of a crises. President Nankool is dead or missing. And, absent information to the contrary, the fi?rst possibility seems to be the more likely of the two.”

Jakov paused at that point and his staff, led by Kay Wilmot, nodded in unison. “It’s been my hope that our intelligence people would be able to fi?gure out what happened to the president,” Jakov continued. “And I know they’ve done their best. But time has passed, and there are those who feel we should activate the succession plan before word of what happened in the Nebor system leaks out. Because if we fail to stay out in front of this thing, the news could result in panic.”

Booly had to give Jakov credit. Rather than call for the activation of the plan himself—the politician had arranged for some of his cronies to do it for him. And one of them, the senator from Worber’s World, was quick to come to his feet. “The vice president is correct,” the blandfaced politician said fervently. “All of us feel badly about President Nankool, but we’re at war, and it’s absolutely imperative that we have strong leadership!” Wilmot had written those words and was pleased with the way they sounded as she added her voice to the chorus of agreement from those seated around her.

“The fi?rst step,” Jakov continued, “is to issue a carefully worded press release. A confi?rmation vote will be held soon thereafter. With that out of the way, we’ll be free to tackle some new initiatives, which could trim years off the confl?ict and save millions of lives. More on that soon.”

Doma-Sa’s hard fl?inty eyes made contact with ChienChu’s artifi?cial orbs at that point, and even though they were from very different cultures, each knew what the other was thinking. There was only one way that Jakov and his sycophants could shorten the war—and that was to give the bugs a large portion of what they wanted. A period of relative peace might follow such an agreement. But at what price? Because ultimately the bugs would settle for nothing less than everything. A servo whined as the businessman’s hand went up. “May I say something?”

It had been Jakov’s hope, and Wilmot’s as well, that neither Chien-Chu nor Doma-Sa would hear about the meeting quickly enough to attend. But both were present, and given the past president’s undiminished popularity, there was little the vice president could do but acquiesce.

“Of course!” Jakov said heartily. “What’s on your mind?”

“Simply this,” the cyborg said bleakly. “We know the president was planning to assume a false identity in order to blend in with the other POWs. So, if you announce that Nankool is missing, the bugs may very well take another look at the prisoners and quite possibly identify him. At that point the Ramanthians will almost certainly make some very public demands. What will happen then? Especially if it looks like you were in a hurry to succeed him?”

Nankool was popular, very popular, so Jakov knew what would happen. A lot of voters would be unhappy with him. So much so that they might seek to block or even reverse his confi?rmation. Especially if ex-president Chien-Chu stood ready to oppose him. But the facts were the facts, and like it or not, the cyborg would have to bow to reality. “You make an excellent point,” Jakov replied smoothly. “But surely you don’t believe we can wait indefinitely. . . . How would we explain the president’s continued absence?”

Jakov had a point, and Chien-Chu knew it, so the entrepreneur went for the best deal he thought he could get. The key was to buy time and hope that word of Nankool’s fate would somehow fi?lter in. Then, if the president was dead, the cyborg would throw his support behind Jakov and try to exert infl?uence on whatever decisions the politician made. “Thirty days,” Chien-Chu said soberly. “Let’s give the intelligence-gathering process thirty days. Then, if there’s no word of the president’s fate, I will support your plan.”

The vice president would have preferred fi?fteen days, or no days, but didn’t want to dicker in front of his staff. That would not only appear unseemly but smack of desperation. Besides, assuming that Chien-Chu kept his word, the expresident’s support would virtually guarantee a speedy confi?rmation process. “Thirty days it is then,” Jakov allowed. “In the meantime, it’s absolutely imperative to keep the lid on. Is everyone agreed?”

There was a chorus of assent, but Wilmot knew her sponsor was likely to blame her for the way the meeting had gone, since she was the one who had put the idea forward. But Nankool was dead, Wilmot felt sure of that, and the day of succession would come. And when it did, ChienChu, his stuck-up niece, and the rest of Nankool’s toadies were going to pay. The thought pleased the assistant undersecretary so much that she was smiling as the meeting came to an end.

PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Having surrendered the rental car to the traffi?c control system, Santana took his hands off the steering wheel and pushed the seat away from the dashboard. It was early afternoon, the Vanderveen estate was behind him, and he was happy to be free of it. Not that Charles and Margaret Vanderveen hadn’t been kind to him. They had. But what all of them had in common was Christine, and without her there to bind the three of them together, dinner had been stiff and awkward.

Diplomat Charles Vanderveen had taken the opportunity to tell his wife about the importance of the hypercom, Santana’s role in capturing the all-important prototype, and his recent promotion, all intended to build the offi?cer up. A kindness Santana wouldn’t forget.

But when dessert was served, and Santana announced his intention to leave the following morning, neither one of the Vanderveens objected. And now, as the car carried the legionnaire south into the San Diego-Tijuana metroplex, Santana was looking for a way to kill some time. Fortunately, there was a ship lifting for Adobe in two days. That would allow him to save some leave and rejoin the 1st Cavalry Regiment (1st REC) earlier than planned. Now that he was a captain, Colonel Kobbi would almost certainly give him a company to command. And, after the casualties suffered on Savas, it would be necessary to create it from scratch. It was a task the offi?cer looked forward to and dreaded at the same time.

The vehicle’s interior lights came on as the sprawling city blocked the sun, and the car entered the maze of subsurface highways and roads that fed the teeming beast above. A hab so large that the westernmost portion of it fl?oated on the surface of the Pacifi?c Ocean. But Santana couldn’t afford the pleasures available to people like the Vanderveens, not on a captain’s salary, and felt his ears pop as the car spiraled down toward the Military Entertainment Zone (MEZ), where his credits would stretch further.

An hour later Santana had checked into a clean but nofrills hotel, stashed his luggage in his room, and was out on the street. Not a normal street, since the “sky” consisted of a video mosaic, but a long passageway lined by garish casinos, sex emporiums, tattoo parlors, cheap eateries, discount stores, and recruiting offi?ces.

Nor was Santana alone. Because hundreds of sailors, marines, and legionnaires fl?owed around him as they searched the subterranean environment for something new to see, taste, or feel. Most were bio bods, but there were cyborgs, too, all of whom wore utilitarian spiderlike bodies rather than war forms. Ex-criminals for the most part, who had chosen a sort of half-life over no life, and served a very real need. Especially during a period when the Confederacy was literally fi?ghting for its life. Even if people on planets like Earth seemed unaware of that fact as they continued to lead their comfortable lives.

The legionnaire was dressed in nondescript civvies, but the denizens of the MEZ knew Santana for what he was, and it wasn’t long before hustlers, whores, and con men began to call out from doorways, sidle up to tug at his sleeve, and pitch him via holos that exploded into a million motes of light as he passed through them. Most were little more than human sediment who, lacking the initiative to do something better with their lives, lived at the bottom of the MEZ cesspool. But there were some, like the one-armed wretch who sat with her back to a wall and had a brain box clutched between her bony knees, who fell into a different category. Men, women, and borgs who had been used by society only to be tossed away when their bodies refused to accept a transplant, or they became addicted to painkillers, or their minds crumbled under the strain of what they had seen and done. Santana paused in front of the emaciated woman, saw the 2nd REP’s triangular insignia that had been tattooed onto her stump, and nodded politely. “When were you discharged?”

The ex-legionnaire knew an offi?cer when she saw one, even if he was in civvies, and sat up straighter. “They put me dirtside three years ago, sir. . . . As for Quimby here,”

the vet said, as she tapped the brain box with a broken fi?ngernail. “Well, he’s been out for the better part of fi?ve years. Ever since his quad took a direct hit, his life support went down, and he suffered some brain damage. A civvie was using him as a shoeshine stand when I came along. So I saved the money to buy him. He’s overdue for a tune-up though—so a credit or two would help.”

Santana knew she could be lying but gave her a fi?ftycredit debit card anyway. “Take Quimby in now. Before you buy any booze.”

The woman grinned toothlessly as she accepted the piece of plastic. “Sir, yes, sir!”

Santana nodded, and was just about to leave, when a raspy voice issued forth from the beat-up brain box. Though not normally equipped with any sort of speaking apparatus, Quimby’s brain box had been modifi?ed for that purpose. And while far from functional, the creature within could still think and feel. “I’m sorry, sir,” Quimby said apologetically. “But there were just too many of them—and we lost Norley.”

Santana felt a lump form in the back of his throat.

“That’s okay, soldier,” he said kindly. “You did what you could. That’s all any of us can do.”

The crowd swallowed the offi?cer after that, the woman stood, and lifted Quimby off the sidewalk. “Come on, old buddy,” she said. “Once we get those toxins fl?ushed out of your system, we’ll charge your power supply and go out for a beer.”

“There were just too many of them,” Quimby insisted plaintively. “I ran out of ammunition.”

“Yeah,” the woman said soothingly, as she carried the cyborg down the hall. “But it’s like the man said. . . . You did everything you could.”

It was hunger, rather than a desire to see a fi?ght, that drew Santana to the Blue Moon Bar and Fight Club. A wellknown dive in which the patrons were free to eat, drink, and beat each other senseless. The interior of the club was about a third full when Santana entered. That meant there were plenty of seats to choose from. Especially among the outer ring of tables that circled the blood-splattered platform at the center of the room. It squatted below a crescent-shaped neon moon that threw a bluish glare down onto a pair of medics as they tugged an unconscious body out from under the lowest side-rope. That left the twelve-foot-by-twelvefoot square temporarily empty as those fortunate enough to survive the previous round took a much-deserved break. Santana chose a table well back from the platform, eyed the menu on the tabletop screen, and ordered a steak by placing an index fi?nger on top of the cut he wanted. A waitress appeared a few moments later. She was naked with the exception of a thong and a pair of high-heeled shoes. Most of her income came from tips generated by allowing patrons to paw her body. And even though the waitress did the best she could to produce a pouty comehither smile, there was no hiding the weariness that she felt. “So, soldier,” the woman said for what might have been the millionth time. “What will it be? A beer? A drink? Or me?” Her saline-fi?lled breasts rose slightly as her hands came up to cup them.

“Those look nice,” Santana allowed, as he eyed the giant orbs. “But I’ll take the beer.”

The waitress looked relieved as she wound her way between the tables and headed for the bar. She had a nice and presumably natural rear end, which Santana was in the process of ogling, when a commotion at the center of the room diverted his attention. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

the short man in the loud shirt said importantly. “The battle began with six brave sailors, and fi?ve legionnaires, who gave a good account of themselves until the last round, when all but one was eliminated. So, with a total of three sailors left to contend with, our remaining legionnaire is badly outnumbered. Of course you know the rules. . . . New recruits can join the combatants up to a maximum of six people per team, one Hudathan being equivalent to two humans.”

The short man raised a hand to shade his eyes from the glare. “So who is going to join this brave legionnaire? Or would three additional sailors like to come up and help their comrades beat the crap out of her? She could surrender, of course. . . . Which might be a very good idea!”

The sailors, all male, had climbed up onto the platform by that time and were in the process of slipping between the ropes. The legionnaire, who was quite obviously female, was already there. She wore her hair short fl?attop style, and a black eye marred an otherwise attractive face. The woman stood about fi?ve-eight, and judging from the look of her arms and legs, was a part-time bodybuilder. Her olive drab singlet was dark with sweat, and a pair of black trunks completed the outfi?t. Her hands and feet were wrapped with tape, but the only other protective gear the legionnaire had was a mouthpiece that made her cheeks bulge. If the soldier was worried, there was certainly no sign of it as she threw punches at an imaginary opponent.

There were loud catcalls from the naval contingent, plus laughter from a sizable group of marines, but no one appeared ready to join the woman in the ring. That struck Santana as surprising, because in keeping with their motto Legio Patria Nostra (The Legion Is Our Country), legionnaires were notoriously loyal to each other. But by some stroke of bad luck it appeared the young woman and he were the only members of their branch present. And the last thing the offi?cer wanted to do was be part of a stupid brawl.

“Uh-oh,” the short man said, as his voice boomed over the bar’s PA system. “It looks like the odds are about to change!”

Santana saw that two additional sailors were climbing into the ring, both confi?dent of an easy victory. Suddenly the odds against the lone legionnaire had changed from three to one to fi?ve to one. But rather than leave the ring as she logically should have—the woman continued to jab the air in front of her.

Santana sensed movement and turned to fi?nd that the waitress with the large breasts had arrived with his steak. The huge slab of meat was still sizzling, and the smell made his stomach growl. “That looks good,” the offi?cer said as he got up from the table. “Keep it hot for me.”

The waitress glanced toward the ring and back again.

“Okay, hon, but you’ll have to pay now. Because if those sailors send you to the hospital, then the boss will take your dinner out of my pay.”

Santana sighed, paid for the steak, and threw in a substantial tip. “Like I said, keep my food warm.”

The waitress wondered why such a good-looking man would want to get his face messed up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, honey,” she said kindly. “Your steak will be waiting in the kitchen.”

“Wait a minute!” the short man proclaimed, as Santana began to make his way down the aisle. “What have we here? A legionnaire perhaps? A knight in shining armor?

Let’s hear it for our latest contestant!”

Everyone, the sailors included, wanted a real contest, so a cheer went up as the offi?cer removed his shirt and shucked his shoes. The MC gave Santana a mouthpiece and pointed to the lengths of tape that hung from one of the side-ropes. “Help yourself, bud, and good luck to ya. . . .”

As Santana began to wrap his hands, his brain kicked into high gear. The latest sailors to enter the ring were clearly inebriated. Would it make more sense to take them out fi?rst? Assuming that such a thing was possible. Or leave the drunks in, hoping they would get in the way?

And what plans if any did his new ally have in mind?

As Santana climbed into the ring the naval contingent handed a bottle of booze up to their team, who continued to trash-talk the Legion, while passing the bottle around. That gave the legionnaire a chance to get acquainted with his teammate. “My name’s Santana. . . . And you are?”

Before the young woman could answer, it was fi?rst necessary to remove the protective device from her mouth. Her left eye was swollen shut by that time—and Santana could see that her upper lip was puffy as well. “Gomez,”

the woman said thickly. “Corporal Maria Gomez.”

“Glad to meet you, Corporal,” the offi?cer said. “Although I wish the circumstances were different.”

The eye that Santana could see was brown and fi?lled with hostile intelligence. “You’re an offi?cer,” she said accusingly. The statement was tinged with disappointment. Santana raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I am. Is that a problem?”

“It could be,” the noncom said fl?atly. “No offense, sir, but when was the last time you were in a barroom brawl?”

Santana had been fi?ghting for his life only two months before, but he knew what the soldier meant, and he answered in kind. “Ten, maybe twelve years ago.”

“Then I’d say you’re a bit rusty,” Gomez replied. “Sir.”

The honorifi?c had been added as an obvious afterthought, and Santana couldn’t help but grin. “You don’t like offi?cers much, do you?”

“I wouldn’t go to a meeting without one,” Gomez replied disrespectfully. “But when it comes to a fi?stfi?ght, then no sir, I don’t have much use for ’em.”

“Fair enough,” Santana replied gravely. “So, given your obvious expertise, how should we proceed?”

“We’ll take a corner and defend it,” the noncom replied confi?dently. “And, since at least two of the swabbies are drunk, they’ll get in the way as their buddies try to rush us.”

“I like it,” Santana said agreeably. “What sort of intel can you provide?”

“None of them use their feet well,” Gomez answered clinically. “But the big bastard has plenty of power—

which is why I was standing here all by myself until you showed up.”

“No,” Santana objected. “That’s why you were alone, not why you were standing here. Maybe you would be kind enough to explain that to me.”

Something fl?ickered deep within the noncom’s good eye. “I’m here because I like a good fi?ght, no fucking asshole has been able to put me down so far, and the Legion don’t run.”

Santana might have answered, but the gong sounded, a cheer went up, and the battle was on. There wasn’t any ceremony. Just a loud bong, followed by a reedy cheer, as Gomez and Santana bit their mouthpieces. They stood side by side, with their backs to a corner, a strategy that made it diffi?cult if not impossible to attack them from behind.

Like Gomez, Santana had been taught the fi?ne art of kickboxing by the Legion, which considered the sport to be the martial art of choice for everyone other than special ops. They were expected to master other disciplines as well. But, as both of them assumed the correct stance, Santana could see that his teammate’s form was superior to his. So the legionnaire brought his eyes up, tucked his elbows in against his ribs, and reduced the distance between his legs. The offi?cer knew the key was to put about 50percent of his weight on each leg, with his right foot slightly forward and fi?sts held shoulder high. Gomez saw the adjustments, nodded approvingly, and made a minute adjustment where her attitude toward offi?cers was concerned.

In the meantime, the sailors were closing in. Given their recent successes against the legionnaires, plus the advantage that went with numerical superiority, the navy team expected an easy victory. Because of that, plus the scrutiny of those in the audience, the entire group wanted in on the kill. So the sailors charged in, but given the way the space narrowed, only three were able to make direct contact. That improved the odds as the fi?rst blows were struck.

The main reason that Gomez was still on her feet was the legionnaire’s ability to kick. Because most men had more upper-body strength than she did, the noncom knew the battle would be over if they got their hands on her. So now, as a drunk shuffl?ed forward, Gomez brought her right leg up in the bent position and struck with the ball of her foot. The sailor saw the kick coming, made a clumsy attempt to block it, but was way too slow. The blow struck his sternum, forced the air out of his lungs, and sent him reeling backwards.

That was when the rating collided with one of the two men who had been forced to wait and knocked the unfortunate sailor off his feet. Both went down in a fl?urry of uncoordinated arms and legs. The marines in the audience thought that was funny and laughed uproariously. Meanwhile, Santana was fi?ghting to hold his own against the man Gomez had warned him about. The sailor wasn’t a kickboxer, and didn’t need to be, given powerful shoulders and a quick pair of hands. Worse yet was the fact that the big noncom was taller and heavier than the legionnaire was.

The offi?cer managed to defl?ect another blow with raised hands, fl?icked his head to one side, and felt a searing pain as a bony fi?st grazed the left side of his head. His ear was on fi?re, and Santana resisted the temptation to reach back and touch it. The gunner’s mate grinned happily and shuffl?ed his size-fourteen feet.

The legionnaire could smell the other man’s foul breath as he took a step backwards and readied a front-leg roundkick. With his leg cocked, the offi?cer turned sideways and put everything he had into the kick. Santana heard a satisfying grunt as his shin made contact with the other man’s groin. But the noncom was wearing a protective cup, so other than being forced to take a couple of involuntary steps backwards, the sailor was largely unaffected. The momentary respite gave Santana the opportunity to pummel the second drunk with a series of quick jabs, the last of which brought a torrent of blood gushing out of his nose. Then, as the unfortunate rating sought to stem the fl?ow with his fi?ngers, a blow from Gomez put the drunk down for good. But four opponents were still on their feet—and they were pissed.

Having been bested once, and chided for it by the audience, the fi?rst drunk was determined to teach the Legion bitch a lesson. And, foggy though his thinking was, he knew her feet were the key. In an act that was part inspiration and part desperation, the rating made a diving grab for the woman’s legs.

Gomez saw the move coming, tried to leap up out of the way, but was a hair too slow. A pair of powerful arms wrapped themselves around her calves, the noncom came crashing down, and a loud cheer went up. “Stomp her!”

someone shouted, and two of the sailors were quick to seize upon the opportunity.

Unable to rise, and therefore unable to protect herself, all Gomez could do was curl up in the fetal position and try to protect her head as dozens of blows connected with her body. The sailors weren’t wearing boots, thank God. . . . But each kick hurt like hell.

Santana wanted to help, and would have, had it not been for the big sailor with the ham-sized fi?sts. The two of them had traded at least a dozen blows by that time, but in spite of the new cut over the noncom’s right eye, the swabbie showed no signs of tiring. If anything, the gunner’s mate appeared to be enjoying himself. Finally, Santana locked both hands together, brought them down over the other man’s head, and jerked him in close. Then, having shifted his weight to his front leg, the legionnaire brought the other leg up in a classic side-knee strike. He felt the blow connect with the petty offi?cer’s solar plexus, knew he had scored, and heard a shrill whistle. Somebody shouted, “Freeze! Military Police!”

Santana would have been happy to obey the order, except one of the men who had formerly been stomping Gomez, chose that particular moment to take a roundhouse swing at his head. The blow connected, the lights went out, and it felt as if someone had snatched the platform out from under the legionnaire’s feet. There was a long fall into darkness followed by a wonderful feeling of peace. The fi?ght was over.