When All Seems Los

16.

Wars are fought in many ways—and in many places.

—Clone Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven

Standard year 2840

THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47) The Drac embassy consisted of a ten-story-tall block of windowless concrete that seemed to crouch between the high-rise buildings that rose all around it. But though not especially interesting to look at, the structure’s fl?at roof was the perfect place for VIPs to land and take off. And, given that Triad Hiween Doma-Sa qualifi?ed as such a person, his air car was immediately cleared for landing. There was a solid thump as Runwa Molo-Sa put the Hudathanmade vehicle down on the well-illuminated pad. Heavily armed Drac security offi?cers hurried forward to meet the Hudathan dignitary and his aide as they stepped out onto the surface of the fl?at roof. The Dracs wore headto-toe black pressure suits. And, because their faces were obscured by breathing masks, it was almost impossible to tell them apart. Not that Doma-Sa wanted to become better acquainted with the treacherous breed. Though offi?cially neutral, it was well-known that the Drac Axis was at least psychologically aligned with the Ramanthians, which put them in the same lowly category as the Thrakies insofar as Doma-Sa was concerned.

But the methane breathers had a navy, and therefore the ability to project power, so it would be foolish to ignore them. Especially given the fact that Doma-Sa’s race had been forced to forgo having ships of their own in order to gain membership in the Confederacy and thereby escape their dying planet. Which had everything to do with Doma-Sa’s presence. Because if the triad could do or say anything that would help prevent the Dracs from actively entering the war on the Ramanthian side, then the painfi?lled evening would be worth the sacrifi?ce. Having confi?rmed that the Hudathans were invited guests, the seemingly interchangeable Dracs led the giants into a featureless elevator that fell so fast the 350-pound triad wondered if his feet would come up off the fl?oor. The platform slowed quickly and coasted to a stop. The door opened onto a public area already crowded with partygoers. Most of the guests were Thrakies, which made sense, given that Starfall belonged to them. The rest of the crowd consisted of humans, a couple of Finthians, four exoskeletonequipped Dwellers, and a handful of other aliens. They all stood around and pretended to like each other as they sipped, snorted, and siphoned intoxicating liquids into their bodies.

Like the building’s exterior, the interior had a utilitarian feel, and because Dracs were color-blind, there was nothing to brighten the atmosphere. The human partygoers were sure to notice, but it was of little interest to Doma-Sa, who could perceive color but wasn’t especially interested in it.

Being a head of state, as well as the Hudathan representative to the Confederacy, Doma-Sa was one of the highestranking individuals present and therefore in great demand. But rather than circulate, the way most diplomats did, the Hudathan put his back to a wall and allowed the asskissers, lie tellers, and social sycophants to come to him, which they quickly lined up to do. And, predictably enough, the topic everyone wanted to talk about was Marcott Nankool. Was the chief executive dead? Would Vice President Jakov assume the presidency? And if he did, how would that impact the war?

The answers to such questions were obvious—or so it seemed to Doma-Sa. Yes, Nankool was probably dead. Yes, Jakov would assume the presidency. And yes, that would have an impact on the war. Because as with so many squats, the human politician was a spineless piece of dra, who would rush to cut a deal with the bugs so that dreamy-eyed elites on Earth could sleep better at night. But the triad knew there wasn’t any place for the truth in a roomful of liars, so he told everyone who asked that there was a very good chance that Nankool was still alive and might very well be rescued. Not because Doma-Sa was in love with what he often thought of as the Confederation of Stupid Beings, but because the Hudathan people would be vulnerable without a strong star-spanning government, and his fi?rst duty was to them.

And that’s what the Hudathan was doing when his conversation with the Finthian ambassador came to a close, and the brightly plumed diplomat stepped away. The noise level in the room suddenly decreased as a female Ramanthian appeared in front of him. “This is the Egg Orno,” Molo-Sa said by way of introduction. “Mate to ex-ambassador Alway Orno—who was assassinated a few weeks ago.”

The mention of the name, plus the relationship, took Doma-Sa back to the day when he and the Egg Orno’s other mate had faced off on the surface of Arballa. It had been hot that day, with high, puffy clouds that seemed to sail across a violet sky.

There were rules against dueling aboard the orbiting Friendship—so the fi?ght had been scheduled to take place on the arid planet below. No one lived on the surface of Arballa, least of all the wormlike Arballazanies, who dwelt deep underground.

But everyone wanted to see the fi?ght, so all manner of shuttles had been employed to ferry dozens of diplomats, politicians, and senior offi?cials down to Arballa, where the would-be spectators were forced to don a variety of exotic breathing devices in order to move around on the planet’s inhospitable surface.

By mutual agreement, a bowl-like depression had been chosen as the site of the contest. Horgo Orno entered the natural arena fi?rst. Doma-Sa remembered feeling the fi?rst stirrings of fear as the Ramanthian stood there with his well-oiled chitin gleaming in the sun. And now, as the enormous Hudathan looked down into the Egg Orno’s shiny eyes, he suspected that the female was frightened but still had the courage to face him. The question was why. The Egg Orno had been on Hive the day that her beloved Horgo fought the big ugly Hudathan. So this was the fi?rst time she had seen him. The alien had a large humanoid head, a low-lying dorsal fi?n that ran front to back along the top of his skull, and funnel-shaped ears. His skin was gray, but would turn white if the temperature were to drop, and black were it to rise. “It’s an honor to meet you,”

Doma-Sa said gravely. “However, I would be lying if I told you that I regret the ex-ambassador’s death. Or that of your other mate, although he fought bravely and died a warrior’s death. Of that you can be proud.”

The Hudathan had been truthful, and the Egg Orno was strangely grateful for that. “Thank you, Excellency,”

the Ramanthian replied gravely. “Both for your honesty and the words of respect for Horgo. But I’m not here to discuss the way my mates died but to avenge them.”

Those words were enough to bring Molo-Sa forward to shield Doma-Sa’s body with his own. But the triad put out a hand to restrain him. “Thank you,” the Hudathan said gratefully. “But I don’t believe the Egg Orno will attack me.”

“No,” the Ramanthian agreed. “I won’t. . . . Although I would if I could. I’m here to discuss the relationship between the late ambassador and the Jakov administration. Which, if I’m not mistaken, will be of considerable interest to you.”

That alone was suffi?cient to start a buzz of conversation, and Doma-Sa knew better than to hold what could be a sensitive discussion in a public place. “That sounds interesting,” the triad responded noncommittally. “Would you be available to talk about it in an hour or so? Or would you like to make an appointment for another day?”

“This evening would be fi?ne,” the Egg Orno replied gratefully. “Please let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

“We will,” Doma-Sa assured her. “And one more thing . . .”

The Egg Orno looked up at him. “Yes?”

“I meant what I said about the War Orno, but I had no desire to hurt you, and I’m sorry that I did.”

There was a long moment of silence during which the beginning of a strange bond began to form. And after they left the party, and spent more than two hours talking within the security of the Hudathan embassy, the bond grew even stronger. That was something that might well have been of interest to both Vice President Leo Jakov and the Ramanthian Queen. Had either been aware of it.

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

The funeral pyres crackled as the orange-red fl?ames rose to enfold the dead nymphs, and the rich, fatty odor of cooked meat fi?lled the air, as six columns of black smoke rose to stain an otherwise-pristine blue sky. Efforts to repair the security fence were still under way, and Ramanthian outposts all around the camp remained on high alert, as Maximillian Tragg crossed the compound to the administration building. There was no way to know exactly why he had been summoned, but the overseer assumed the Mutuus were going to assign more of the reconstruction work to the POWs. That was fi?ne with the renegade because the prisoners were easier to control when they were busy.

As Tragg approached the headquarters building, he noticed that four Ramanthian troopers had been posted outside the front door rather than two as in the past—one of many changes resulting from the nymph attack. The human had to surrender his weapons and remove his boots before being allowed to enter the richly decorated throne room. It was a ritual the renegade had performed dozens of times before. Except this time there was something different in the air, a tension that could be seen in the way that the impeccably dressed commandant held himself, the fact that the War Mutuu’s sword was symbolically unsheathed, and the presence of six heavily armed soldiers. All because of the nymphs? Or was there another reason as well? The mercenary felt cold lead trickle into his stomach. Tragg lowered his eyes and bowed respectfully. “Greetings, Excellencies—”

That was as far as the renegade got when a baton struck him across the kidneys. The pain was excruciating, and he went down hard. “Don’t strike the animal’s head, and don’t break any of his bones,” the War Mutuu instructed as the blows continued to fall. Tragg had curled up into a ball by that time, with his arms around his head, as the troopers continued to beat him. It hurt, but the renegade knew more about pain than they did and had a tolerance for it. So he took comfort from the orders that the War Mutuu had given and waited for the assault to end.

“That’s enough,” the commandant said, after what felt like an hour but was actually no more than fi?fteen seconds.

“Help him up.”

It felt as if every bone in his body had been broken as the Ramanthians lifted Tragg up off the fl?oor. But that wasn’t the case, and even though the renegade’s knees were a bit weak, his legs were strong enough to support his weight.

“Now, having been punished, the animal wants to know why,” Commandant Mutuu said coldly. “The answer is simple. . . . Thanks to our brilliant scientists, a fasterthan-light communications device has come into being, which means offi?cials on Hive can communicate with planets like Jericho in real time. Such calls are rare, however. . . . So, imagine our surprise when Chancellor Ubatha called to inform us that a very special guest is staying here at Camp Enterprise. A person you chose to protect or, even worse, were so negligent as to overlook. Which is why you were punished.”

A moment of silence ensued, which Tragg chose to interpret as permission to speak. Clearly, assuming that he understood the Ramanthian correctly, a VIP of some sort was hiding among the prisoners. But who? The informer might have told him, but he was dead. “Thank you for the clarifi?cation, Excellencies,” the renegade said humbly.

“Please be assured that had I known such a person was present I would have notifi?ed you immediately. . . . Am I permitted to know the identity of this individual?”

“Yes,” the commandant allowed loftily. “You are. More than that, it’s our expectation that you will fi?nd this person and bring him to us.”

Tragg nodded. “If he’s here, then I’ll fi?nd him. Who is he?”

“His name is Marcott Nankool,” Mutuu replied. “And, until recently, he was president of the Confederacy.”

Tragg didn’t have eyebrows. Not anymore. But the scar tissue over his eyes rose. Nankool! A very big fi?sh indeed. Who was pretending to be someone else. A deception of that sort should have been impossible, would have been impossible, had it not been for the unforgivably sloppy way in which the POWs had been processed immediately after the surrender. That meant the POWs had been laughing at him all this time, because with the single exception of the informer, he’d been unable to get any of the others to fl?ip. The realization made the renegade angry—and brought blood to his badly scarred face. “Don’t worry,”

Tragg said grimly. “Now that I know Nankool is here, I’ll fi?nd him.”

“I hope so,” the War Mutuu put in, as he joined the conversation. “But there’s another possibility isn’t there?

The possibility that you killed him? Or allowed him to die? That would be very unfortunate indeed. Especially for you.”

Tragg tried to visualize the faces of the people he had shot in hopes of eliminating that possibility, but their features were lost to him, along with whatever impulse had led to their deaths. A lump fi?lled the back of his throat, and he was barely able to swallow it. But what about all the prisoners that you and your troops killed? He wanted to ask. But such a question would have been suicidal, so the renegade maintained his silence.

“You have until sunset,” Commandant Mutuu said sternly. “Find Nankool or die.”

It was uncomfortable in the tree, very uncomfortable, especially having spent the previous night in it. However, it did provide the scouts with an excellent vantage point from which to observe the layout and daily routines within the POW camp. Starting with the funeral pyres that were lit just after sunup and continuing with the routines that followed. Information was being recorded and continuously edited for playback to the rest of the legionnaires when Team Zebra regrouped that evening.

But there was only so much that one could learn from staring at the compound. And the process was somewhat depressing given what poor condition the prisoners were in. So Santana, Shootstraight, and Bozakov took turns staring through the powerful binos. And, as luck would have it, the Naa was on duty when the commotion started.

“There’s some sort of ruckus going on inside the wire,” the legionnaire observed as he panned the glasses from left to right.

Santana paused with a spoonful of mixed fruit halfway to his mouth. He was seated on one branch with his boots resting on another. The only thing he lacked was some sort of backrest. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“I’m not sure,” Shootstraight replied as he turned to pass the binos to the offi?cer.

Santana ate the fruit that was sitting on the spoon, tipped the contents of the can into his mouth, and savored the last dollop of juice. Once the can had been deposited in a dangling garbage bag, the legionnaire wiped his fi?ngers on his thighs before reaching out to take the binos. Interestingly enough, not a single patrol had ventured into the surrounding jungle since the nymph attack the day before. Probably out of fear that a sortie could trigger another attack. The hesitancy could work in Team Zebra’s favor so long as the nymphs left the off-worlders alone. Being so far up in the air, the offi?cer found it diffi?cult to look through the binos without becoming disoriented and had to grab a branch in order to steady himself as he eyed the compound. Shootstraight was correct. It appeared that all the POWs, including those who were sick, were being herded toward the center of the compound where the human with the dark goggles was waiting.

A man Santana had fi?rst seen back on Algeron, when General Booly and the others showed him the video of POWs being marched through the jungle, including shots of Christine Vanderveen. And more recently he had learned even more about the man named Tragg from media specialist Watkins, including the nature of their private feud.

The cyborg would be overjoyed to learn that his nemesis was still present on the planet—but the company commander had other concerns. Why were the prisoners being mustered he wondered? And more than that, who was the person sitting behind Tragg, in the gazebo-like structure?

The binos were powerful, but the target was a long ways off, and no amount of fi?ddling with the zoom control was suffi?cient to bring the fuzzy image into focus. That was the moment when Tragg pulled a pistol and shot one of the POWs in the face.

Vanderveen had just fi?nished her breakfast, and was about to leave the gazebo, when Tragg returned from the HQ

building. The overseer was limping, and judging from his expression, extremely angry. “Stay here,” he ordered curtly. “We’re going to have some fun when this is all over. Or, at least, I’m going to have some fun. You’ll be sorry you were ever born.” And with that he was gone. The threat was frightening enough, but when all of the POWs were ordered to assemble at the center of the compound, the diplomat knew something bad was about to happen. What she didn’t anticipate was just how bad it would be. That became clear once the prisoners were assembled and Tragg stood in front of them. The everpresent monitors amplifi?ed his voice and produced a slight echo. There were no preliminaries. Just a straightforward demand that left no doubt as to how much the overseer knew. “One of you is President Marcott Nankool. . . . You will step forward now.”

After months of confi?nement, the POWs were far too sophisticated to respond to a statement like that one. But they stiffened, as if waiting to receive a blow, and it came as Tragg shot Corporal Karol Gormley in the face. The right side of her skull exploded outwards, showering those beyond with blood and brain matter as her rail-thin body collapsed.

“Marcott Nankool is male,” Tragg emphasized, as he tilted the gun upwards and a wisp of smoke trickled out of the barrel. “That means I can shoot every single female present without any fear of making a mistake. So, I’ll say it again. One of you is President Marcott Nankool. You will step forward now.”

There was a pause, followed by a mutual gasp of consternation, as a heavily bearded man took one step forward. “My name is Marcott Nankool,” he said in a loud clear voice. “Please holster your weapon.”

FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON,

THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

In spite of his hard-won reputation for fi?stfi?ghting, and his undeniable strength, Quickblow Hammerhand was afraid of the dark. And the ex-legionnaire wasn’t all that fond of enclosed spaces, either. Which was why the trip from Naa Town into Fort Camerone required every bit of the courage and self-discipline the warrior possessed. The journey had begun in the local funeral home, where Hammerhand and three other volunteers had been required to lower themselves into MilSpec coffi?ns that had been preloaded with weapons and ammunition. “I always fi?gured I’d wind up in one of these,” Fastspeak Storytell said cheerfully. “But I assumed I’d be dead!”

The comment was worthy of a chuckle and got one from the other veterans, but something blocked Hammerhand’s throat as one of the undertaker’s sons closed the coffi?n’s metal lid and began to fasten the latches. The ex-legionnaire wanted to scream but wasn’t about to reveal the weakness he had worked so hard to conceal for more than forty years, and thereby run the risk that they would leave him behind. A fate even worse than dying inside a pitch-black coffi?n. So the Naa bit his upper lip and focused on the pain.

Hammerhand could hear the sound of muffl?ed conversation as the supposedly empty coffi?ns were loaded onto a wagon—followed by a period of extended silence as a hardworking dooth pulled the heavily loaded conveyance up toward the fort. That delay was bad enough. But, unfortunately for Hammerhand and his companions, other vendors were already lined up in front of the open gate. The result was a long, and for Hammerhand torturous, wait.

Eventually, after what seemed like a week, the wagon drew level with the guard station. Although many of what Vice President Jakov and his staff considered to be critical security functions were presently being handled by marines, the fort was still being run by the Legion. A necessity given the fact that they outnumbered the jarheads a hundred to one. So the Sergeant of the Guard knew the undertaker’s number two son, and having seen him at least a couple of times a week for many months, nodded politely. “Good morning, Citizen Bodytake. What have you got for us?”

“Four coffi?ns,” the Naa replied, as his breath fogged the air. “And a horrendous hangover.”

The sergeant knew a thing or two about hangovers and smiled sympathetically. “I know what you mean. . . . If you would be so kind as to eyeball the scanner, and place your thumb on the sensor pad, we’ll process you in.”

Bodytake removed a glove, thumbed the pole-mounted pad, and knew that his retinas were being scanned as he did so. It took less than a second for the fort’s computer to compare the incoming biometric data to the undertaker’s fi?le and approve it. “All right,” the sergeant said, as he waved the wagon through. “As for the hangover . . . Drop a pain tab into a cup of hot caf, add a half teaspoon of gunpowder, and chase it with a beer. It works for me!”

Bodytake thanked the legionnaire for the advice and held his breath as the wagon rattled through an ice-encrusted framework. The purpose of the device was to detect common explosives, radioactive materials, and large quantities of metal. And that raised an important question. Would the small arms stored in the coffi?ns trigger the detector? But no alarms went off as the wagon rolled through, so the undertaker felt free to take a deep breath as he neared the gate. Meanwhile, less than two feet away, Hammerhand was at war with himself. He uttered a whimper as the wagon began to move—and took comfort from the gun in his hand. Though never a pleasant place to be, the pit had gradually been transformed from a reasonably well-run military detention facility into a badly crowded prison where murderers, thieves, and deserters rubbed shoulders with noncoms, offi?cers, and government offi?cials who had been arrested on trumped-up charges and jailed so that Vice President Jakov and his toadies could consolidate their power without fear of opposition. That meant the political prisoners were vulnerable to all sorts of predation, or would have been, except for the presence of Legion General Bill Booly. Because, contrary to what seemed like common sense, the vast majority of the criminals interred in the pit were still willing to take orders. So long as the orders came from someone they respected.

Realizing that, Booly and the other offi?cers who had been arrested for purely political reasons quickly went to work reorganizing the prisoners into squads, platoons, and companies, and thereby restored them to a system of discipline they were familiar with. And most of the legionnaires not only welcomed the newly imposed sense of order but the feeling of purpose that accompanied it, because even the least sophisticated prisoners could see that the vice president was abusing his power. There were exceptions, of course. Psychopaths and the like, who were soon confi?ned to a prison-within-a-prison, where the other convicts kept them under lock and key. The new warden didn’t approve of the arrangement—but was powerless to stop without triggering a full-scale riot. So as the days passed, the prisoners were systematically reintegrated into the Legion as the marines looked on. Which was a step in the right direction but brought Booly very little peace because he knew that with each passing day, Jakov’s grip on the bureaucracy, and therefore the government, grew tighter and tighter. And with the vote to confi?rm him being held in a couple of weeks—rumor had it that many senators were ready to accept what they saw as inevitable.

But there was nothing that he or the other offi?cials could do but formulate some contingency plans and try to stay in shape as time continued to pass. So, in an effort to keep the legionnaires both fi?t and occupied a round of kickboxing tournaments had been organized. And that’s where Booly was, judging a fi?ght between two spider forms, when a long, hollow scream was heard.

It came from above and echoed between the tiers, as a marine fell toward the bottom of the pit. He was a machine gunner. Or had been back before Quickblow Hammerhand threw the unfortunate jarhead over the rail. His body made a sickening thud as it hit the duracrete fl?oor. That was when the Naa commando took control of the unmanned weapon, lifted the gun up off the pintle-style mount, and opened fi?re on the warden’s offi?ce located on the opposite side of the canyonlike abyss. Glass shattered, empty casings fell like a brass rain, and Booly came to his feet. “This is what we’ve been waiting for!” the offi?cer bellowed. “You know what to do!”

Though not really expecting a rescue attempt, Booly and his staff had formulated plans for that eventuality, along with several others. So even though a third of the inmates were a bit slow on the uptake, two-thirds responded appropriately, as Hammerhand and his companions engaged the guards.

There were only two ways to enter or exit the pit, and both came under immediate pressure as the marine guards were forced to cower beneath a hail of airborne shoes, toothbrushes, and even an artifi?cial limb or two. All intended to keep them occupied while the would-be rescuers cut their way through layers of security.

Having been freed inside the storeroom where the normally empty coffi?ns were kept, the lightly armed Naa straightened their uniforms and stepped out into the hall. Then, having assumed an air of grim authority, the invaders headed for the pit. The stratagem couldn’t last forever, though, and their luck ran out when they tried to bluff their way into the prison and were forced to knife three guards. The challenge was to release enough prisoners quickly enough to hold the facility against the reinforcements that would soon arrive from elsewhere. Which was why Hammerhand followed the walkway he was on halfway around and opened fi?re on the second checkpoint. Because the facility had been designed to keep people in, rather than keep them out, the marines found themselves caught between a rock and a hard place. So when Hammerhand let up on the trigger, a white rag appeared, followed by six inches of the rifl?e barrel it was attached to. Two minutes later, the marines were facedown on the duracrete fl?oor while prisoners streamed past the control station and were formed into companies. Shots could still be heard elsewhere in the facility. But rather than send a mob to deal with marine holdouts, Booly ordered Major Drik Seeba-Ka to arm a single platoon of handpicked prisoners and secure the rest of the prison.

That move was met with considerable resentment on the part of the hard-core inmates, who not only wanted a chance to run amok but had scores to settle with the guards. But thanks to the manner in which they had been integrated into units controlled by strong no-nonsense NCOs, discipline was maintained. “We need to push our way out of the pit,” Booly told Colonel Kitty Kirby. “Or they’ll seal us inside. That’s what I would do.”

Kirby nodded grimly. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“And, Colonel . . .”

“Sir?”

“Do everything you can to minimize casualties. The marines are on our side, or will be, if we can put things right.”

Kirby came to attention and offered a salute. “Yes, sir!

Camerone!”

Booly returned the gesture, and because some of the troops had witnessed Kirby’s comments, the familiar shout went up. “CAMERONE!”

In spite of the fact that he had not been confi?rmed as president, Jakov had nevertheless taken over Nankool’s offi?ce, and was seated behind the missing man’s desk. And though not given to physical demonstrations of emotion, it was clear to everyone, including Assistant Undersecretary Kay Wilmot, that the vice president was extremely angry. “So, let me see if I understand,” the politician said coldly. “While you sat on your hands, a group of Naa terrorists were allowed to enter the fort and free hundreds of prisoners. Is that correct?”

“No,” a voice from the back of the room said. “That isn’t true. . . . There were only four of them, which hardly qualifi?es as a ‘group,’ and they aren’t terrorists.”

The crowd seemed to part of its own accord to reveal someone none of them recognized. A short, rather plump man, with black hair and Eurasian features. Just one of the bodies billionaire Admiral Sergi Chien-Chu could “wear”

when he chose to do so. And not the one that Jakov’s security forces had been looking for.

The stranger smiled woodenly. “What they are,” the businessman added reasonably, “is patriots. A title to which none of you can lay claim.”

Jakov was about to order his security detachment to arrest the intruder when there was a disturbance in the corridor. There was a shout, followed by a scuffl?e, and the sound of a single pistol shot. Then, before any of the offi?cials could react, General Bill Booly entered the room. The fi?ghting had been brisk, but was short-lived, as word of the prison break began to spread. Because the vast majority of the Legion continued to be loyal to Booly, as were many of the senior marine offi?cers, who resented the way in which they had been used. Now, with the exception of a few diehards, the battle to retake Fort Camerone was all but over.

The general, still clad in his prison-issue sweats, looked Jakov in the eye. His voice was hard and as cold as the outside air. “Good afternoon, Mr. Vice President. Unlike you and your cronies—we believe in the rule of law. So, consistent with the constitution, you will remain in offi?ce until President Nankool returns or you are confi?rmed. In the meantime, orders to the military will have to be cleared with the Senate’s leadership before my staff or I will be willing to act on them. Is that clear?”

Jakov felt a sudden surge of hope. And why not?

Nankool was almost certainly dead. And since each and every one of the senators was subject to political pressure of one sort or another, all he needed to do was squeeze, bully, or bribe them. So, if Booly and his band of starryeyed dreamers were stupid enough to grant him the gift of time, then who was he to refuse it? And later, once the presidency was his, each and every one of the bastards would be taken out and shot. “Yes,” Vice President Jakov said thoughtfully. “The situation is very clear indeed.”

17.

There are times when men have to die.

—United States Secretary of War Henry StimsonStandard year 1941

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

The sun rose slowly, as if reluctant to give birth to another day, and was nearly invisible above a layer of gauzy clouds. Bit by bit the heat penetrated the planet’s surface and began to tease moisture up out of the ground. The resulting mist shivered whenever a breeze came along to tug at it—

but seemed reluctant to part company with the row of crosses that appeared to fl?oat over it. Twelve of the POWs had been crucifi?ed. Not because of anything they had done, but because of something they hadn’t done, which was to reveal Nankool’s presence to the Ramanthians. That was Maximillian Tragg’s claim anyway. But as Vanderveen stood on one of the two crosspieces that were fastened to the centermost pole, she knew it was more than that. Especially in her case. Because to the renegade’s psychotic way of thinking, she had betrayed his trust. And made him look ridiculous, which was more than the mercenary’s fragile ego could handle.

There was something else, too. . . . Because once the newly constructed cross was laid out on the ground, and the diplomat had been forced to take her place on it, Tragg began to refer to her as “Marci,” a woman the renegade hated so much he insisted on driving the nails through Vanderveen’s wrists personally. The diplomat didn’t want to scream, and was determined not to, but the pain proved to be too much. So Vanderveen emptied her lungs as the spikes went in and saw how much pleasure that gave Tragg just before she fainted.

When Vanderveen awoke her cross was upright and fi?rmly planted in the ground. The center of what Tragg called his “garden.” Fortunately, most of the diplomat’s weight was supported by the crosspiece under her feet. The innovation was intended to extend both her life and her suffering. Which, without water, would probably last another fi?ve or six days. Or more if it rained. Not that it mattered because Vanderveen was in an altered state of consciousness when a shoulder-launched missile hit the watchtower located at the southeast corner of the compound. There was an explosion, followed by a loud boom, as hundreds of pieces of debris fell slowly toward the ground. That was followed by more explosions as the T-2s fi?red missiles at carefully selected targets, and large gaps began to appear in the fence.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Corley Calisco said, as the bombardment began. “The cavalry has arrived.”

Having fi?red their missiles, the ten-foot-tall war forms left the protection of the jungle, crossed the free-fi?re zone, and poured through newly created gaps in the security fence. There they were met by stiff resistance from the Ramanthian defenders, who, having been reinforced in the wake of the nymph attack, responded with a hail of gunfi?re from assault weapons, crew-served machine guns, and rocketpropelled grenades. Jas Hargo, the cyborg responsible for Major Hal DeCosta’s murder, placed one of his big podlike feet on a subsurface mine. There was a loud crump as the shaped charge went off and sent a jet of white-hot plasma upwards. The resulting explosion killed the bio bod who was strapped to the cyborg’s back and blew the T-2’s head off. It fell, rolled for a few feet, and came to rest looking upwards. That was when Hargo saw Snyder coming his way, and shouted

“No!” as a big metal pod descended on his face. Like his mount, Santana was completely oblivious to the manner of Hargo’s death as the cyborg’s brain box was crushed under him. Because just about all of the offi?cer’s attention was focused on the camp and the situation around him. Resistance was stiff, but that was to be expected, and the fi?rst objective had been achieved. The security fence had been breached—and Team Zebra had entered the compound! But where was Nankool? Batkin was in charge of fi?nding the chief executive but had yet to report in.

Snyder’s body began to jerk rhythmically as she opened fi?re with her .50-caliber machine gun. The big slugs tore into a fi?le of recently arrived Ramanthian troopers and ripped them apart. That was when the company commander spotted the row of crosses and knew the POWs must have been crucifi?ed after his departure the day before. One more group of people to remember once the extraction phase of the operation began.

It was a subject Santana continued to worry about because the pickup ships should have been in contact with him by then. Had the task force been intercepted? And, if so, what if anything could he do about it? But those thoughts were interrupted as Snyder spoke over the intercom. “Look at the cross in the middle, sir. Is that Miss Vanderveen?”

“No,” Santana responded automatically. “It can’t be because . . .” But then, as the offi?cer turned his head, he caught sight of some blond hair and made a grab for his binos. Snyder knew Vanderveen, having met the diplomat on LaNor, and could zoom in on any object she chose to.

So if the cyborg said that the person on the cross was Christine, then it might be true. And when the offi?cer brought the binos up he knew it was! More importantly, judging from a slight movement of her head, Vanderveen was alive!

That realization drove everything else out of Santana’s mind. Fearful that Vanderveen might be killed by a stray bullet, Santana hurried to pull the plug on the intercom and hit the harness release. Snyder started to object as the offi?cer hit the ground, but spotted a Ramanthian with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, and had to respond. Gomez was about a hundred feet away and watched in horror as Santana began to run. “Alpha Two-Six to Alpha Six,” the noncom said desperately, but received no reply as bullets whispered around the legionnaire. Meanwhile the gazebo-like structure at the center of the compound exploded into a thousand fi?ery pieces, and a series of explosions marched across the camp. The assault, which had been so focused to start with, was beginning to falter. Gomez was about to urge her cyborg forward, in hopes of reestablishing contact with Santana, when an RPG hit her T-2’s chest. The noncom felt the resulting explosion, knew both of them were falling, and hit the harness release. Gomez felt herself fall free, but took an unintended blow from one of Vantha’s outfl?ung arms, and the lights went out.

The attack on Camp Enterprise made the War Mutuu angry rather than frightened, which was why the Ramanthian took his sword and exited the administration building through the front door. He should have been killed immediately, as were two of his bodyguards, but it was as if nothing could touch the haughty warrior. Those POWs still strong enough to do so had joined the battle by then, some with weapons acquired from dead Ramanthians and others with little more than improvised spears. Two of them ran straight at the War Mutuu, hoping to impale the Ramanthian on their sharpened sticks, but the warrior twisted away. Steel fl?ashed, and blood sprayed the ground as the fi?rst human went down. The second screamed something the War Mutuu couldn’t understand, took a cut at the Ramanthian’s retrograde legs, and made contact. The warrior stumbled and regained his balance, just as an SLM made violent contact with a Ramanthian air car. There was a primary explosion, quickly followed by a secondary, as the vehicle crashed into the dispensary. Most of the patients were killed. But there was no time to consider such developments as the War Mutuu deployed his wings, jumped into the air, and cut the second POW down. The human produced an ear-piercing scream as the blade sank into his shoulder, but the sound was abruptly cut off, as the warrior’s sole surviving bodyguard shot the wounded prisoner. That was when the stern-faced aristocrat saw that one of the invading animals had abandoned the protection of his cyborg and was in the process of running toward the crosses. The War Mutuu had no particular interest in the POWs Tragg had chosen to crucify but wasn’t about to allow an attacker to give them aid. A bullet hummed past the Ramanthian’s head, and a chunk of shrapnel missed him by inches as the warrior turned toward the crosses and began to advance. Finally, after years of patient waiting, his moment of glory had come.

Because of his status as a civilian, Watkins was the last member of Team Zebra to enter the compound, albeit on a lumbering RAV rather than a T-2, since all of the war forms were required for combat. That made for a slower ride but provided the media specialist with a relatively steady platform from which to record everything he saw and heard. But as the robot paused to fi?re a burst from its nose gun, Watkins was only marginally aware of the battle he’d been sent to cover. Because the only thing the civilian really cared about was fi?nding Maximillian Tragg and killing him. The problem was how? Reinforcements had arrived by then, and a T-2 exploded as it took a direct hit from an RPG.

Meanwhile, another guard tower fell and crushed a fi?le of bugs under its weight, as the battle continued to ebb and fl?ow. All this seemed to suggest that it would be impossible to fi?nd Tragg, until Watkins noticed that a fl?ight of three silvery remotes were headed toward the airfi?eld and remembered the pictures of Tragg walking through the jungle accompanied by a coterie of robots, including the type now headed north. The bastard was trying to escape!

Excited now, Watkins slid down off the RAV and began to run. And, thanks to the capabilities of his electromechanical body, the cyborg was fast. The media specialist had a rocket launcher slung across his back along with a reload. The weapons bounced painfully as he ran. A Ramanthian machine gunner had noticed the interloper by then and turned his weapon in that direction. Geysers of dirt fl?ew up all around Watkins as he zigzagged across what had been the camp’s assembly area and made for the fence beyond. “Don’t worry, Marci,” the cyborg said. “I’ll get the bastard this time. . . . And he’s going to pay!”

Vanderveen could see giants striding through the lazy ground mist, hear the sporadic rattle of automatic fi?re, and smell the acrid smoke. And there, standing right in front of her, was Antonio Santana! That was impossible, of course, so it must be a dream. A wonderful dream in which he had come to rescue her. The legionnaire’s visor was up, and his face was fi?lled with concern. “Christine? Can you hear me?

Don’t worry. . . . We’ll have you down in a minute.”

It seemed so real that Vanderveen tried to respond. But try as she might nothing came out of her mouth until she saw the War Mutuu appear out of the billowing smoke.

That was when the words fi?nally took form. “Tony! Behind you!”

Santana whirled to fi?nd that a Ramanthian was ready to strike. And because the warrior’s sword was already up in the air, poised to split the offi?cer in two, there was no time in which to do anything other than push the assault weapon up with both hands. But the War Mutuu’s monomolecular blade sliced through the CA-10’s steel receiver as if it were warm butter and would have gone on to bury itself in the legionnaire’s skull had the soldier been even a fraction of a second slower to react.

The Ramanthian jerked his weapon loose, raised it over his head, and brought it back down again. Fortunately, Santana was in the process of throwing himself backwards by then. He landed on his back as the superthin blade sliced through empty air.

That was the War Mutuu’s cue to raise his sword for what should have been an easy kill, and what would have been an easy kill, had it not been for Maria Gomez. Because as a horrifi?ed Vanderveen looked on, a much-bloodied legionnaire lurched out of the smoke and threw herself forward.

Santana felt Gomez land on top of him, and as he looked up into a pair of pain-fi?lled eyes, the offi?cer saw something he would never forget. A look of longing the likes of which he’d never seen before. Then it was gone as the War Mutuu’s blade sliced through the noncom’s body armor and into her spine.

The Ramanthian withdrew his sword, and was about to take another cut, when he heard the telltale whine of servos. Though delayed, Snyder arrived in time to see Gomez die, and that made the T-2 angry. So when the War Mutuu turned to confront the cyborg she chose to fi?re her fl?amethrower rather than the .50-caliber machine gun. There was a whoosh, as the liquid fuel hit the Ramanthian, followed by a solid whump as the warrior was enveloped by a cocoon of orange-yellow fl?ames. That was followed by a series of bloodcurdling screams as the aristocrat began a horrible dance of death.

The end came when Santana managed to roll out from under Gomez, scrambled to his feet, and drew his pistol. It took three shots to put the War Mutuu down. But even as the Ramanthian’s chitin crackled, and his internal organs began to sizzle, the sword clutched in his charred pincer continued to shine.

Meanwhile, Santana forced himself to concentrate on his command. It wasn’t easy, not with Vanderveen still standing on the cross above him, but the legionnaire knew the entire team was counting on him to provide direction. Fortunately, the data on his HUD, plus what the offi?cer could see with his own eyes, suggested that Team Zebra was well on its way to controlling the camp. But they hadn’t found Nankool yet, more Ramanthian reinforcements were probably on the way, and there was no sign of the goddamned navy. “This is Alpha Six,” the company commander said. “We’re going to need some tools and a couple of medics to get the people down off those crosses. And has anyone seen Batkin? We need to grab the target and get the hell out of here.”

Vanderveen’s throat was bone dry—and her voice was hoarse. “Look in the administration building. The commandant has him.”

Santana was going to thank her when what sounded like a runaway train rumbled overhead. That was followed by an earsplitting crack as a large crater materialized at the center of the compound. A windmilling T-2 fell out of the air, landed with a sickening crunch, and was half-buried by falling dirt. Even though they ran the risk of hitting their own troops, the Ramanthians had decided to fi?re energy cannons from orbit rather than allow the compound to be overrun. “Damn it,” Santana said, as what sounded like another freight train rattled through the atmosphere. “Where are those ships?” There was no reply other than a loud explosion, the continued clatter of a machine gun, and the sound of another scream.

The administration building shook as something struck the ground outside. A blizzard of dust particles came loose from the rafters to drift down through a momentary shaft of sunlight even as a burst of machine-gun bullets passed within a foot of Marcott Nankool and ripped holes in the wall beyond.

But if those things bothered Commandant Mutuu, the impeccably dressed Ramanthian showed no sign of it as he poured hot water through a strainer fi?lled with goldcolored leaves. “There,” the aristocrat said contentedly, as he reached over to remove a cup of amber liquid from under the fi?lter. “Please be so good as to tell me what you think. Is the Oburo Gold superior to the Zecco Red? Or is it the other way around?”

The bizarre tête-à-tête between Nankool and the effete commandant had been triggered by the human’s obvious knowledge of Ramanthian etiquette. A capacity which, to Mutuu’s mind at least, signaled the presence of someone who, if not an equal, had a profound understanding of Ramanthian culture. And that, combined with the prisoner’s rank, made the human worth interacting with. Having accepted the tumbler of hot liquid, Nankool sucked some of the tea into his mouth and swirled it around. It was a noisy process, and intentionally so, because that signaled enjoyment. The brew tasted like battery acid, or what Nankool imagined battery acid might taste like, and it was all he could do to get the bitter stuff down. And no sooner had the chief executive swallowed than an errant rocket-propelled grenade smashed through a window and lodged itself in the opposite wall. The human gritted his teeth and waited for the weapon to explode. It didn’t.

“Come now, don’t be reticent,” the Ramanthian insisted. “What do you think?”

“The Zecco Red was superior,” Nankool said decisively.

“But just barely.”

“Exactly!” Mutuu agreed eagerly. “The difference between the two is slight, almost indistinguishable to all but the most discerning of palates, yet suffi?cient to set one above the other. It’s so pleasant to have a visitor who appreciates the fi?ner things in life.”

“Thank you, Excellency,” Nankool replied humbly.

“You’re too kind. Now, having refreshed ourselves, I wonder if we should seek cover? The battle seems to be heating up.”

“There’s no need to worry about that,” the commandant said dismissively. “The War Mutuu will soon put things right.”

“I wouldn’t count on that if I were you,” Oliver Batkin said, as he coasted into the throne room. “Not unless your mate has the capacity to return from the dead.”

It had taken the spy a while to locate Nankool, cut a hole large enough to pass through, and enter the building. Now, as the cyborg hovered at the center of the room, the Ramanthian produced a small weapon. An energy gun from the look of it—which he brought to bear on President Nankool. Or tried to bring to bear as Batkin fi?red a single .50-caliber round. The impact threw the aristocrat backwards and brought a delicately painted panel crashing to the fl?oor along with him.

“Nice shot,” Nankool said appreciatively, as he came to his feet. “And you are?”

“Resident Agent Oliver Batkin,” the cyborg replied formally. “Presently attached to the team sent to bring you out.”

Nankool felt his spirits soar as an assault weapon rattled outside. “That’s wonderful!”

“It’s good,” Batkin allowed cautiously, “but something short of wonderful.”

The president frowned. “Why’s that?”

“It’s a long story, Mr. President,” the spy replied wearily. “But suffi?ce it to say that the naval units that were supposed to pick us up are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were intercepted—or maybe the mission was canceled. We’re screwed either way. Still, the offi?cer in command of the mission knows his stuff, so let’s get you out of here. . . . Please keep your head down. It would be a shame to lose it at this point.”

The long, silvery space elevator pointed at Maximillian Tragg as the renegade ran for his life. The overcast had begun to burn away by then, revealing white streaks left by high-fl?ying Ramanthian fi?ghters and the blue sky beyond. The aircraft had been on standby thus far but would go into action the moment that the Confederacy Navy appeared. It was just one of many factors Tragg would be forced to take into account as he sought a way off Jericho. That was why the overseer was jogging toward the airstrip, in hopes of fi?nding a way off the planet’s surface, when a shoulder-launched missile struck a Sheen robot. The resulting shock wave was powerful enough to knock Tragg off his feet. Which was just as well, because a second rocket was already on its way, and blew the remaining android to smithereens. Sharp pieces of shrapnel fl?ew in every direction and might have killed the human had he been standing.

Watkins felt a sense of satisfaction as he dropped the launcher and began to advance on his intended victim. Two of the silvery remotes continued to hover above and behind Tragg, but the Ramanthian-made machines were a lot less formidable than the Sheen robots had been, and one of them went down as the cyborg fi?red the assault weapon he carried. “Stand up, you bastard!” the media specialist ordered, “So I can look into your eyes while I shoot you down!”

Tragg was confused as he came to his feet. Not only had he never seen his assailant before, but the man wasn’t wearing a uniform, so who the hell was he? That didn’t prevent the renegade from fi?ring one of his pistols at the stranger however.

Watkins staggered as the slugs slammed into his body armor, laughed out loud, and continued to advance as Tragg tried for a head shot and missed. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” the media specialist demanded, as a shuttle lifted from the airstrip to the north. “I’m the one who burned my signature into your ugly face!”

Tragg looked at the man and looked again. Marci’s brother? No, that was impossible! Yet who else would say something like that? The renegade lowered the pistol.

“Watkins?” he inquired unbelievingly. “Is that you?”

“It sure as hell is,” the cyborg replied grimly. “So get ready to die.”

“Let me see if I understand,” the overseer said as he began to stall for time. “You survived the fi?ght on Long Jump and followed me here, all because of Marci? You are a fool. But I’m glad you came, because that will give me the opportunity to kill you all over again, and do it right this time!”

Watkins raised the assault weapon, placed his fi?nger on the trigger, and was just about to fi?re when the remaining monitor came within range. The robot had very little in the way of armament but a single shot from the machine’s stun gun was suffi?cient to paralyze what remained of the cyborg’s nervous system. And without instructions to the contrary—his electromechanical joints buckled and he dropped to his knees. The assault weapon clattered as it hit the ground, and Watkins collapsed facedown in the dirt.

Meanwhile there was a roar of sound as a Ramanthian aerospace fi?ghter came in low over the camp, released a stick of bombs, and screamed away. The ground shook as a series of overlapping explosions merged into a single uninterrupted CARRRUUUMP. Geysers of dirt shot up into the air, took half a dozen bodies along with them, and fell back down again. It was impossible for Tragg to know which side was winning, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was the passage of time. So when the renegade went to fl?ip the cyborg over, he was in a hurry. Watkins “felt” a boot hook under his body and roll it over. A halo of blue sky surrounded his brother-in-law’s head. The cyborg ordered his body to respond, to do something, but there was no reaction. “So, shithead,” Tragg said contemptuously, as he pointed the pistol downwards.

“I assume Marci’s dead by now—so say hello to the silly bitch for me.’ ”

Watkins saw a fl?ash of light, felt a sense of release, and knew he had failed.

With both of the Mutuus dead, along with most of the camp’s defenders, Team Zebra owned the cratered landscape. But without a way to escape, and under continual attack from above, it was a pyrrhic victory. Which was why Santana, Nankool, and a few others were huddled at the bottom of a bomb crater trying to come up with a plan as the airstrikes continued. “It doesn’t matter why the navy isn’t here,” Santana said pragmatically. “What we need to do is fi?nd a way off this planet. How about the shuttles at the airfi?eld?” he inquired hopefully.

Technically, Commander Peet Schell outranked the legionnaire, but lacked the skills to fi?ght a ground action and knew it. He was an expert on spaceships, however, and was quick to weigh in as another fi?ghter began its run.

“I’m sorry, Captain, but we wouldn’t get far. Not without some sort of hyperdrive.”

“Maybe we could use the shuttles to hijack one of the ships in orbit,” Lieutenant Farnsworth suggested. “They have hyperdrives.”

“Yes, they do,” the heavily bearded naval offi?cer agreed.

“But a successful hijack attempt would require the element of surprise. And once we steal a couple of shuttles, the Ramanthians would be expecting us to attack the orbiting ships.”

“That’s true,” Nankool said, as he spoke for the fi?rst time. “But what about the Imperator?”

Schell frowned. “She has a hyperdrive,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s true. . . . But what about the space elevator? It’s like a twenty-three-thousand-mile-long anchor chain.”

“Could we cut it?” Santana wanted to know. “Because the bugs wouldn’t expect something like that.”

“No,” Schell replied, as a steadily growing sense of excitement began to grip him. “They sure as hell wouldn’t!

And yes, assuming you have some explosives, we can cut it. Which I would enjoy a great deal.”

“Can we ride the space elevator up?” Farnsworth wanted to know. “Why steal shuttles if we don’t have to?”

“No, the elevator was designed to bring a whole lot of tonnage down to the surface in a short period of time,” the naval offi?cer answered. “But that’s okay. My people can fl?y anything. . . . And that includes Ramanthian shuttles. So, let’s go!”

It was a crazy plan, an insane plan, but anything was better than sitting in the ruins of Camp Enterprise waiting to die. So Santana sent Farnsworth plus a squad of war forms off to the airfi?eld. Two pilots were assigned to go with them—and help secure two Ramanthian shuttles. Once they were gone, the legionnaire worked with the surviving noncoms to organize an evacuation. Most of the sickest POWs had been killed when the dispensary was destroyed, but even the so-called healthy prisoners were weak, and some had been wounded. So the most critical patients were put aboard the RAVs, which could handle two people each, while those like Vanderveen were loaded onto makeshift stretchers. The rest were forced to walk. That meant that the entire column was vulnerable to air attack as the POWs and their would-be rescuers emerged from hiding to walk, limp, and in some cases hop toward the airfi?eld.

It didn’t matter where Santana was. Not at that particular moment, so the offi?cer chose to stay with Vanderveen as a pair of fi?ghters circled the camp and prepared to attack the POWs. So when the diplomat opened her eyes, it was the legionnaire she saw, walking at her side. Santana turned to look down at her, saw that her eyes were open, and took hold of her right hand. That hurt, but Vanderveen didn’t care, as the Ramanthian planes strafed the slowly twisting column.

But there was a price to be paid for attacking the war forms, as one of the Ramanthian pilots found out when a heat-seeking missile entered his port air intake and exploded. The fi?ghter came apart in midair, was consumed by an orange-red fi?reball, and transformed into metal confetti. Santana saw spurts of dust shoot up as pieces of debris landed around them and gave silent thanks as the badly mauled column made its way out onto the tarmac. “Pick up the pace!” he shouted. “Get in among those shuttles before the fi?ghters make another run!” There were four atmosphere-scarred shuttles parked next to the airstrip, and it was the legionnaire’s hope that the Ramanthian pilots would be reluctant to fi?re on them. The POWs responded as best they could, and the occasional rattle of gunfi?re was heard as Farnsworth and his detachment continued to mop up what remained of the airfi?eld’s security detail.

It wasn’t long before the cavalry offi?cer spotted Watkins and went over to kneel beside the body. The cyborg was lying on his back, staring sightlessly up at the sun, with a blue-edged hole between his eyes. Tragg, Santana thought to himself. The bastard is alive.

And as if to prove the offi?cer’s conclusion, there was a sudden burst of gunfi?re as one of the previously quiescent shuttles suddenly came to life and lifted off its skids. The copilot’s saddle-style seat was too uncomfortable to sit on, so Tragg had been forced to crouch next to the Ramanthian pilot. He aimed the gun at the bug’s head as a hail of bullets fl?attened themselves against the fuselage. “If I die, then you die, asshole. So get me out of here.”

Having seen his copilot gunned down in cold blood, the alien took the threat seriously and applied additional power. Thrusters roared as the shuttle gained speed and took to the air. The hard part was over, or so it seemed to Tragg, as Jericho’s surface fell away. Thraki ships were in orbit, or so he assumed, and the furballs would do just about anything for money. And, thanks to the heavy money belt strapped around the renegade’s waist, he could afford to pay. It was chancy, but Tragg was a gambler and always willing to place a bet. Especially on himself.

18

Never give up hope! Because when all seems lost, a hero will appear, and lead the way.

—Looklong Spiritsee

A Book of Visions

Standard year 1967

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

Dark gray smoke billowed up from what had been Camp Enterprise, a muffl?ed explosion was heard as fl?ames found their way into the armory, and engines screamed as a shuttle clawed its way into the sky. Santana had no way to know who was aboard, but assumed some of the Ramanthians were making a run for it, and he swore bitterly. Because the combined force of rescuers and POWs were going to require two shuttles, and only two remained. “Speak to me, Bravo Six,” the offi?cer said into his lip mike. “And tell me that the rest of those ships are secure. Over.”

“Roger that,” Lieutenant Farnsworth replied. “We weren’t able to capture any Ramanthian pilots—but the swabbies claim they can fl?y these things. Over.”

“I sure hope they’re right,” Santana responded, as the tail end of the column passed by. “It’s my guess that the fi?ghters will receive permission to fi?re on the shuttles any moment now, so load them quickly. Over.”

“I’m on it,” Farnsworth replied. “My platoon will provide security until all of the POWs have boarded. Out.”

Conscious of how precious each passing second was, Santana threw himself into the process of getting the POWs onto the shuttles. For a while it seemed as if the offi?cer was everywhere, shouting encouragement and lending a hand whenever one was needed. Vanderveen could hear him even though she was strapped to a stretcher and took pleasure in the sound of his voice. Then Santana was there kneeling beside her and checking the straps that would hold the diplomat in place once the ship was airborne. The offi?cer smiled. “I went to your home, but you stood me up.”

Vanderveen looked up into his eyes. “I know I did—

and I’m very sorry. Did you get my note?”

Santana nodded soberly. “Your mother gave it to me.”

“Were you angry?”

“No,” the offi?cer replied honestly. “But I was disappointed. You owe me.”

“Yes,” Vanderveen agreed, as tears began to well up in her eyes. “I do. We all do.”

She would have said more, wanted to say more, but that was when Commander Schell came into view. If he thought the tête-à-tête was strange, he kept his opinions to himself. “We’re ready, Captain. . . . Or as ready as we’re likely to be.”

That was when Santana felt the vibration beneath his boots and realized the shuttle’s engines were running. “I’m glad to hear it, sir. Let’s load the rest of my team and get the hell out of here.”

Schell grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”

An additional fi?ve minutes were required to get Farnsworth and his people aboard the other shuttle and strap everyone in. Santana stood at the top of the ramp as the last T-2 lumbered aboard Ship 1. And, when he lowered his visor to get a look at the heads-up display, the offi?cer was shocked by what he saw. More than half of his thirty-person team had been killed on the surface of Jericho. The knowledge was suffi?cient to dampen any sense of jubilation the legionnaire might otherwise have felt as the ramp came up, and the shuttle wobbled into the air. It wasn’t easy for the navy pilot to manipulate the strange knob-style controls at fi?rst, but she soon caught on, and it wasn’t long before the ship began to gain altitude.

“Well done!” President Nankool said heartily as he appeared at Santana’s elbow.

“Thank you, sir,” the legionnaire replied as he reached up to grab a support. “I’m sorry it took so long—and I’ll be damned if I know where the pickup ships are.”

“Batkin fi?lled me in on the political aspect of this,”

Nankool said bleakly. “And it’s my guess that the mission was canceled. But that’s for later. We have a battleship to steal fi?rst!”

There was something infectious about the chief executive’s cheerful optimism, and it gave Santana an insight into how Nankool had been so successful in the past and why Vanderveen believed in him. Before the cavalry offi?cer could agree, however, both men were thrown to the deck as the pilot put the shuttle into a tight right-hand turn.

“Sorry about that!” a female voice said tightly. “But the bugs want to play. . . . So, hang on to your hats!”

Santana didn’t have a hat, but he had a helmet, which he clutched under one arm as he helped Nankool crawl over to a bulkhead where one of the more able-bodied POWs helped strap the chief executive down. And just in time, too, as the shuttle banked the opposite way and shook as it passed through the turbulence created by a Ramanthian fi?ghter. And so began an airborne game of cat and mouse as the Ramanthians attempted to shoot the hijacked shuttles down while the humans sought to clear the atmosphere, knowing that the conventional aircraft wouldn’t be able to follow. Of course space-going fi?ghters might very well attack the moment they entered space, but that couldn’t be helped, and the pilots could only cope with one problem at a time.

And it wasn’t easy, especially for Lieutenant Jerry Woda, who was fl?ying Ship 2. Partly because of the unfamiliar controls but mostly because of a bad engine, which explained why crude staging had been positioned next to the ship when the legionnaires took possession of it. And that pissed the pilot off because both he and the other POWs had been through a lot and didn’t deserve to die. But deserving or not it soon became clear that they were going to die as a fi?ghter locked on to the ship’s tail and began to fi?re its energy cannons. “Okay,” Woda said, as blips of blue energy tore past the control compartment. “You wanna dance? Let’s dance.”

There was only one way the uneven contest could end. That’s what all three of the Ramanthian fi?ghter pilots believed as they took turns shooting at the severely underpowered shuttle. And they were correct, or mostly correct, as Woda put Ship 2 into an extremely tight turn. Suddenly two of the enemy pilots found themselves rushing straight at the unarmed shuttle at a combined speed of eight hundred miles per hour. There was time, but not very much, as Woda steered Ship 2 straight at one of his pursuers. “I’m sorry,” the pilot said over the intercom. “But at least we’re going to take one of the ugly bastards with us!”

There was no opportunity for the POWs and the legionnaires to react as both aircraft merged into a communal ball of fi?re. But they would have approved, especially as a second fi?ghter ran into the fi?ery debris and sucked a chunk of metal into its engine. The resulting explosion was visible from many miles away but didn’t mean much to the nymphs who witnessed it from below. Because all they felt was an abiding hunger—and the momentary roll of thunder was soon forgotten.

Everyone aboard Ship 1 had experienced weightlessness before, and welcomed it, because they knew that conventional aircraft couldn’t follow them into the vacuum of space. Not that they were safe given the fact that any warship larger than a patrol boat was sure to carry fi?ghters designed for combat outside planetary atmospheres. But how would such units be deployed? Santana wondered. Would they be ordered to attack the stolen shuttles? Or kept close in order to protect whatever ship they belonged to? Because the bugs had every reason to expect a Confederacy task force to drop hyper. The legionnaire’s thoughts were interrupted by the pilot’s voice.

“This is Lieutenant Tanaka,” she said somberly. “I’m sorry to announce the loss of Ship 2 and all those aboard. They took two fi?ghters with them, however—and allowed us to clear the atmosphere. Our ETA aboard the Imperator is fi?fteen minutes. There are no fi?ghters on the way as yet. . . . More when I have it.”

Farnsworth and fully half of the company’s surviving team members had been aboard the other shuttle, so the announcement hit Santana like a blow to the gut. But it was important to try and neutralize the emotional impact associated with the loss and get ready for what lay ahead. The legionnaire freed himself from the tie-downs and made his way out to the center of the cargo compartment. The running dialogue was intended to distract the mixed force of sailors and legionnaires from the loss of Ship 2 and focus their minds on the task ahead. “Okay,” Santana said. “If you don’t have a weapon, and you’re healthy enough to fi?ght, then draw one from Sergeant Ibo-Da. And remember . . . There are some very good reasons why boarding parties rarely use projectile weapons. Like the possibility that you might destroy the very thing that you’re trying to capture. So be careful with those slug throwers.

“Once we put down inside the landing bay, the T-2s will exit fi?rst,” Santana continued. “Sergeant Fox and Private Urulu will neutralize whatever kind of reception party the bugs have waiting for us. Commander Schell, if you would be so kind as to supply some qualifi?ed people to blow that space elevator, you can count on Sergeant Snyder and Private Ichiyama to get them there.”

“No problem,” the naval offi?cer said approvingly. “However, I suggest that the demolition team avoid fi?refi?ghts, and go straight to the space elevator.”

“Roger that,” Santana agreed. “Once the landing bay is secured, the rest of us will head for the control room. And it would be a good idea to keep our pilots out of the fi?ghting unless you’d like to walk home. Does anyone have questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Shootstraight put in. “How are we going to get off this tub without pressure suits?”

It was an obvious problem, or should have been, except that the legionnaire hadn’t thought of it. Fortunately, Schell was there to fi?eld the question. “Rather than blastproof doors, the Imperator’s launch bay is protected by a permeable force fi?eld. So the landing area will be pressurized. Unless they have the means to bring the ship’s overshields back online that is. . . . In which case we are in deep trouble.”

“Aren’t you glad you asked?” Bozakov inquired, as he slapped a fully loaded mag into his assault rifl?e. That produced some very welcome laughter, for which Santana was grateful, as the shuttle began to close with the ancient dreadnaught.

Confi?dent that preparations were under way, the cavalry offi?cer went back to check on Vanderveen. All of the naval personnel were better at zero-gee maneuvers than the soldier was, but by being careful never to release one knob-style pincer-hold before securing the next, Santana managed to pull himself back toward the stern without coming adrift.

Having received some pain tabs and antibiotics from the legionnaires, not to mention plenty of water to wash them down with, Vanderveen was feeling better by then. So when Santana arrived, he found the diplomat working side by side with a navy med tech to prepare for the likelihood of additional casualties. One of the RAVs had been taken aboard, and with some help from the diplomat, the supply-starved corpsman was in the process of looting it.

“Isn’t this the same woman I found nailed to a cross?” the cavalry offi?cer wanted to know.

“It is,” Vanderveen admitted. “But that was then—and this is now. One of the navy docs looked me over and says I’ll be fi?ne. . . . Assuming nobody shoots me.”

“I want you to stay on the shuttle until the fi?ghting is over,” Santana said sternly.

“Or what?” the diplomat wanted to know.

Santana recognized the same defi?ant look he had fi?rst seen on the planet LaNor. He smiled sweetly. “Or I’ll tell your mother and let her deal with you.”

Vanderveen laughed, the shuttle slowed, and Tanaka’s voice came over the intercom. “We’re sixty seconds out—

prepare for landing. And remember, there’s a good chance that the Imperator’s argrav generators are still running, so prepare for the sudden restoration of gravity.”

“Be careful,” Vanderveen said softly, as she looked up into Santana’s eyes. “We have some unfi?nished business to take care of.”

“Yes,” Santana agreed solemnly. “We certainly do.”

ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DREADNAUGHT IMPERATOR

As seen from the Imperator’s enormous fl?ight deck, the permeable force fi?eld looked like a blue whirlpool. It rotated from left to right and crackled as it spun. The movement could have a mesmerizing effect if viewed for too long. Which was why File Leader Sith Howar was careful to look away from time to time in spite of the fact that a shuttleload of alien escapees might arrive at any moment. The whole affair had been handled badly. That was Howar’s opinion. First, his superiors mistakenly assumed that the animals would attempt a rendezvous with a Confederacy relief force. Then, when the enemy ships failed to materialize, the higher-ups assumed the escapees would attempt to board one of the merchant vessels and positioned all of the available fi?ghters to block such an effort. Finally, when it became clear that the humans were headed for the Imperator, the eggless incompetents dumped the whole mess on him. “You will defend the space elevator to the very last trooper.” Those were his orders—and there was no mention of reinforcements.

Still, having become acquainted with the slaves during the time they’d been aboard the warship, Howar was confi?dent of his ability to eradicate the aliens. The accomplishment would hasten both his promotion and the point at which he could transfer to a more civilized world. Such were the Ramanthian’s thoughts as the incoming shuttle nosed its way in through the center of the whirling force fi?eld and immediately put down on the durasteel deck. The boxy vessel was already taking small-arms fi?re by then, but nothing too powerful, lest the defenders inadvertently damage the dreadnaught’s hull.

Still, one of the crew-served energy projectors was able to score a direct hit on a landing skid. That caused the vessel to slump sideways but in no way impeded the ramp, which was in the process of being lowered when four T-2s jumped down onto the blast-scarred deck.

File Leader Howar had heard about human cyborgs, and even fought some of them via virtual-reality training scenarios, but never actually confronted one. So when four of the exotic creatures appeared, and opened fi?re with their arm-mounted weapons, the offi?cer was shocked by the sheer violence of the attack. The fi?re from more than two dozen assault weapons served to slow the cyborgs but in no way damaged them, as the legionnaires began to advance. Howar fi?nally found his voice as bolts of coherent energy scored direct hits on the same crew-served energy weapon the Ramanthian was counting on to stop the alien monstrosities. “Take cover!” he shouted unnecessarily, and hurried to obey his own order.

Meanwhile, confi?dent that the other cyborgs had the situation under control, Snyder and Ichiyama took off at a trot. Each T-2 carried a gunner’s mate plus enough explosives to sever the twenty-three-thousand-mile-long space elevator. Something they needed to accomplish quickly before bug reinforcements arrived on the Imperator. A possibility that, though not apparent to Howar, was crystal clear to his most senior noncom, an irascible veteran who had taken the liberty of stationing himself aboard the traveling chain-hoist positioned high overhead. So while one of his troopers activated the machine, which put the boxy control module into motion, the oldster was standing on the observation platform ready to drop grenades on the cyborgs as they passed below. And the initiative would have been successful, too, had it not been for Oliver Batkin, and the agent’s ability to fl?y. “Sorry to disappoint you,” the cyborg said as he rose directly in front of the surprised noncom. “But it isn’t nice to drop things on people.”

A single shot from the spy ball’s .50-caliber gun was suffi?cient to kill the Ramanthian as the unsuspecting T-2s passed beneath him. That brought the second Ramanthian outside to be dispatched in a similar fashion. With that accomplished, Batkin departed. Taking control of a battleship was no easy task—and there were plenty of things for the spy to do.

Although two of the hulking cyborgs had departed the launch bay, two of the fearsome machine-things remained, so Howar was careful to keep his head down as his troops sought fi?ring positions among a mountain of cargo modules. Having concealed themselves, the Ramanthians were free to fi?re on both the T-2s and the shuttle, an effort intended to pin the POWs down until help arrived. That was the theory anyway, until the shuttle wobbled into the air and began to advance!

Santana, Shootstraight, and Bozakov were standing on the partially extended ramp as the shuttle lifted off. It was hard to maintain their footing given how unsteady the ship was, but each man was secured to the Ramanthian vessel by a cargo strap, which allowed him to lean forward without falling off.

Within moments of taking to the air, Tanaka began to rotate the shuttle so that the stern pointed at the stack of cargo modules. That gave Santana a good look at the enemy’s position, as well as the rest of the bay and the shuttles parked there. There were no signs of activity around the other ships, for which the offi?cer was grateful. Bullets began to ping around the legionnaires as Tanaka backed the shuttle toward the Ramanthian stronghold, and energy bolts splashed the hull as the bio bods returned fi?re. And a devastating fusillade it was as the ship passed over the pile of cargo modules, thereby allowing the threesome to fi?re down on the bugs below. That sent the Ramanthians shuffl?ing every which way as the bio bods pursued them with short bursts of fi?re.

Santana suspended fi?ring just long enough to throw three well-aimed grenades before bringing his assault weapon back up again. The resulting explosions threw body parts and chunks of debris high into the air as Shootstraight fi?red shot after well-aimed shot into the maze below. Each bullet brought one of the enemy soldiers down as the shuttle slid back and forth above their exposed heads.

Howar wanted to surrender at that point, but knew he couldn’t, as the shadow cast by the shuttle slid across his face. So he struggled to remain upright in spite of the downward pressure caused by the roaring repellers, said a mental good-bye to both of his mates, and looked death in the eye. The human with the black hair fi?red, and Howar fell. It wasn’t the way things were supposed to end. The fi?ghting continued for another two or three minutes, but with no leadership, and having lost the high ground, it wasn’t long before the last of the enemy troopers went down. The shuttle landed shortly thereafter, which gave Santana an opportunity to inspect the battlefi?eld, but the sight of so many broken bodies brought him no pleasure, only a moment of relief, followed by a vast weariness and the knowledge that more work remained.

Having been alerted to the invasion by File Leader Howar, a group of Ramanthian naval personnel were quick to open fi?re on the cyborgs and their riders as they left the lift and turned into a corridor. And, like their peers in the launch bay, they were completely unprepared for what ensued. The barricade they had thrown across the passageway outside the cargo-handling facility did very little to stop the large-caliber bullets or the bolts of coherent energy that Snyder and Ichiyama fi?red at them. So it was only a matter of seconds before the ten-foot-tall invaders marched the length of the hall and killed the last defender. Though not fully operational yet, the space elevator was secured to a specially designed framework located just beyond the air lock the Ramanthians had attempted to defend. And having worked aboard the ship, the ex-POWs knew they wouldn’t be able to enter the airless space without pressure suits.

So it was agreed that the sailors would prepare the explosive charges, and the cyborgs would place them. Then, once everything was ready, the charge would be triggered from the hallway.

Having won the battle in the corridor, and with one of the demo packs dangling from her massive neck, Snyder felt confi?dent as she followed Ichiyama into the lock. Both cyborgs had to bend over in order to enter and were forced to remain in that position as the air was pumped out of the chamber.

The T-2s half expected to run into an ambush once the hatch cycled open, but nothing happened. That allowed them to enter the cavernous hold and look around. Roughly half the space was taken up by color-coded cargo modules. Various pieces of half-lit cargo-handling equipment were parked in the surrounding murk, and while some of them continued to radiate heat, there were no signs of Ramanthian personnel in the area. “It looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves,” Snyder said approvingly.

“Let’s get this over with.”

The head end of the space elevator was directly in front of them. It consisted of a massive framework that had been tied into the ship’s steel skeleton and supported a computercontrolled winch, which was there to keep the cable from becoming too taut or too loose. A system of guides kept the cable centered and prevented it from making contact with the surrounding hull.

Lower down, just below the crosspiece that supported the winch, Snyder could see the platform from which the specially designed self-braking cargo modules could be loaded onto the elevator. Ichiyama saw it, too, and immediately made his way out onto the ramp so he could place his charge. Knowing that one demo pack would be more than suffi?cient to sever the cable, Snyder was content to merely watch.

Such were the legionnaire’s thoughts as a giant pincer plucked the cyborg off the deck and lifted her up into the air. The loader was at least ten times larger than the T-2, and controlled from a compartment located in the machine’s blocky head, which was where a technician and inveterate slacker named Gontho was taking a nap until a series of radio messages woke him up. But rather than rush into battle, and potentially get himself killed, Gontho was content to remain where he was until the enemy cyborgs appeared below. At that point it was a simple matter to take the loader off standby and grab hold of the nearest war form. It was a feat the Ramanthian could accomplish with minimal risk to himself. Now, confi?dent that he could destroy the Confederacy cyborg, Gontho began to squeeze.

Snyder “felt” the huge metal pincers start to close and struggled to free herself. But the legionnaire soon discovered that she was going to die. Not like the last time, when the medics pulled her back from the brink, but for real. “Blow charge two,” Snyder ordered over the radio.

“And do it now!”

“What?” one of the gunner’s mates wanted to know. “I thought Ichiyama was going to plant the charge.”

The cyborg knew the bio bod couldn’t see them and was understandably confused. “He is,” Snyder confi?rmed, as her torso shattered under the unrelenting pressure. “But I want you to trigger charge two, and I outrank your swabbie ass. So, blow the pack now!”

The bio bod did as he was told, and the demolition charge attached to Snyder’s chest exploded. It destroyed the Trooper II and blew a large hole through the loader’s torso. Gontho swore as his controls went dead, the machine staggered, and tried to right itself. The Ramanthian hit his hatch release, but nothing happened, as Ichiyama called on the gunner’s mates to trigger his charge. That produced a fl?ash of light, but no sound to go with it, as the space elevator fell through the hole and into space. The signifi?cance of that registered on Gontho’s brain just as the technician felt the badly damaged loader topple forward. He screamed, “No!” but there was no one to hear as both the operator and his machine fell through the hatch and entered space. However, rather than follow the cable down as the tech feared he would, the War Gontho soon found himself in orbit. He screamed over a radio that no longer worked, watched his air supply continue to dwindle, and cursed his rotten luck. Gontho had an excellent view of Jericho, however, even if he couldn’t fi?nd the serenity to enjoy it, and was soon consumed by the surrounding darkness.

The space elevator didn’t fall at fi?rst because roughly half of it was still weightless. But without the dreadnaught to serve as a counterweight, it wasn’t long before the bottom half of the twenty-three-thousand-mile-long cable began to pull the top half down. And once that process began, the rest was inevitable.

The fi?rst hint that something was wrong came when the free-falling superstrong cable began to tug at its anchor point. Which, unbeknownst to the Ramanthians stationed around it, had been systematically weakened during the installation process. Metal clanged on metal, and the cable jerked spasmodically, thereby alerting the ground crew to the fact that something was wrong. However, it wasn’t until an upper-level jet stream took hold of the errant space elevator, and pulled the free end toward the east, that the Ramanthians realized the full extent of the danger they were in. But it was too late by then, as the cable plucked the anchor assembly out of the pyramid it had been secured to and converted the heavy-duty hardware into a massive fl?ail!

A variety of competing forces caused the superstrong cable to whip back and forth across the adjoining airstrip. It leveled the terminal building with a single blow, made a loud cracking sound as it cleared fi?fty acres of jungle, and erased what remained of Camp Enterprise. Then, as Jericho’s gravity continued to pull more of the line down, the ground shook as if in response to an earthquake. The cable was falling in fi?ve-and ten-mile-wide coils by that time. Each loop scoured portions of the planet clean as it was pulled sideways and sent clouds of dust thousands of feet up into the air. And it all happened so quickly that Vice Admiral Tutha had no more than felt a tremor and looked up to see hundreds of fl?yers burst out of the Hu-Hu tree in front of his headquarters building than the free end of the cable destroyed 80 percent of his command. Including the prefab structure he was standing in. But by some stroke of luck, Tutha emerged from the debris almost entirely unscathed, to wander aimlessly through the wreckage of what had been the largest military base on Jericho. Later, after all of the damage assessments were completed, it would turn out that 7,621

Ramanthians had been killed by the collapsing space elevator.

Of course that wasn’t the worst of it. Somewhere, out in the jungle, tens of thousands of nymphs were about to emerge from the wilding stage. Which was the moment when teams of specially trained civilians were supposed to gather the youngsters in and begin the process of socializing them. Except that wouldn’t happen now. Which meant thousands of the Queen’s offspring were going to die, or worse yet, live like savages in the primordial jungle. The horror of that was too much to bear, and the offi?cer was busy searching the debris for a weapon with which to take his own life, when the energy stored inside a coil of cable located three miles to the north was suddenly released. The whiplike space elevator lashed out, erased a major river, and sent a tidal wave of soil fl?owing over the spot where Tutha had been standing. Meanwhile, many miles above the devastation, the Imperator fl?oated free.

19

Where law ends, tyranny begins.

—William Pitt, First Earl of Chatham

Speech in the House of Lords

Standard year 1770

ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DREADNAUGHT IMPERATOR

The Imperator’s spacious control room was located deep within the ship’s hull, where it was safe from missiles, torpedoes, and cannon fi?re. Everything except the least likely threat of all: a single alien armed with two pistols. But there Maximillian Tragg was, with a blood-splattered offi?cer lying dead at his feet, and a gun clutched in each fi?st. Ten Ramanthians of various ranks and specialties stood arrayed before him. Some were frightened, but most were angry, and ready to attack the human if given the chance. Also witness to the tableau, but invisible in the glare produced by the overhead lights, was a tiny sphere. It bobbed slightly as air from a nearby ventilation duct fl?owed around the device.

“Okay,” Tragg said levelly. “Now that I have your attention, listen up. In case you haven’t heard, a group of POWs murdered Commandant Mutuu, stole two of your shuttles, and landed one of them on this ship. Now, having cut the space elevator loose, they’re going to come here in hopes of taking control. A plan which, if successful, will land you in a Confederacy POW camp. Or,” the renegade continued, “you can take me where I want to go and return home safely. The choice is yours.”

None of the Ramanthians found either option to be very appealing as the ensuing silence made clear. “Let’s try it again,” Tragg insisted, as he shot a junior offi?cer in the head. “Either you will do what I say, or you will die!”

“All right,” one of the offi?cers said, as the reverberations from the gunshot died away. “We’ll do as you say.”

Batkin had been “watching” the scene unfold via the tiny marble-sized remote, which had threaded its way through the ship’s ventilation system and into the control room. “He just murdered another member of the bridge crew,” the cyborg said, as he swiveled his globe-shaped body toward Santana. “And the bugs are beginning to cooperate. That will allow Tragg to take the ship wherever he wants.”

The two of them, along with a combined force of legionnaires and ex-POWs, had arrived outside the control room, only to fi?nd that the access hatch was locked from within. Not by the Ramanthians, as they initially supposed, but by Tragg. Who, having been refused passage aboard a Thraki ship, had taken refuge on the Imperator.

“We have to get in there,” Santana said grimly. “Can your remote open the hatch?”

“Maybe,” the cyborg allowed doubtfully. “I could take a run at the door switch. But the remote is so small, it might not pack enough mass to close the circuit. And Tragg isn’t likely to give me any second chances.”

“But what if we could distract him?” Santana wanted to know. “So you could take two, or even three tries if that was necessary?”

“That would be wonderful,” the spy ball agreed. “What have you got in mind?”

“I will need access to the ship’s PA system,” the offi?cer answered. “So we can talk to Tragg. . . . As for the rest, well, we’ll see. Maybe the sonofabitch believes in ghosts and maybe he doesn’t.”

Meanwhile, knowing that the POWs had cut the space elevator loose, the Ramanthians threw everything they had at the Imperator. And, because it was going to take at least half an hour to bring her drives back online, the dreadnaught was an easy target for all of the fi?ghters, patrol boats, and destroyers that came after her. But at Tragg’s urging the bridge crew had been able to restore the battleship’s overshields—which meant none of the weapons thrown at her were actually hitting the hull. Not yet anyway, although that could change because the systems involved hadn’t been maintained in a long time. And the much-stressed force fi?eld could fail at any moment. That possibility was very much on Tragg’s mind as the renegade sat with his back to a corner and felt the hull shake as a torpedo struck the ship. The Ramanthians were forced to grab pincer-holds as one of the lights went out and particles of decades-old dust avalanched down from above. I won’t be able to keep all of them under control, the fugitive thought to himself. Not for two or three weeks in hyperspace. So it would make sense to kill four of fi?ve of the bastards the moment we get under way. But which ones? Such were Tragg’s thoughts as a female voice came over the intercom. “Max?

Can you hear me? This is Marci.”

Tragg felt ice water trickle into his veins. Did the voice belong to Marci? Who had returned from the dead? No! It was a trick! “You’re not Marci,” the renegade objected, as his eyes began to dart around the room. “Your name is Mary Trevane.”

Tragg wasn’t using the intercom system, but Vanderveen could hear him, thanks to an audio relay from Batkin’s remote. “No,” the diplomat replied. “Trevane is dead. You crucifi?ed her.”

The Ramanthian bridge crew looked on in alarm as the human stood and began to turn circles with both weapons at the ready. “You can hear me,” Tragg said suspiciously.

“But that’s impossible.”

“I listen to you all the time,” Vanderveen replied. “It gives me something to do while I wait for you to die. I’m looking forward to that. . . . Aren’t you?”

The hatch was locked from the inside, but by using the remote to strike the slightly concave pressure-style switch, Batkin could theoretically trigger the door. So while Vanderveen sought to keep Tragg occupied, Batkin sent the tiny device racing toward the switch. There was a loud clacking sound as the sphere made contact with the pressure switch, but the hatch remained stubbornly closed, and the spy ball knew it would be necessary to try again.

“What was that?” the renegade demanded suspiciously, as he turned toward the sound.

At least two of the Ramanthians had seen the tiny sphere hit the switch, bounce off, and sail away. But they weren’t about to say anything as the pistol-wielding madman fl?ew into a rage. “What are you staring at?” Tragg screamed at them. “Get this ship under way, or I’ll kill every damned one of you!”

Vanderveen chose that moment to switch personas.

“This is Mary Trevane,” the diplomat said over the PA system. “You can kill them—but you can’t kill me. Because I’m already dead!”

Batkin took advantage of the distraction to trigger the remote again. And because the robotic device was part of him, the cyborg went along for a virtual ride as the sphere sped through the air and smashed into the concave surface of the switch, a process that resulted in the electronic equivalent of pain.

But the results were worth it as the contacts closed, power fl?owed, and the hatch hissed open. Tragg heard the sound and whirled. But Santana had entered the control room by that time. Both men fi?red, but it was the soldier’s bullet that fl?ew true. It hit the renegade over the sternum, and while unable to penetrate Tragg’s body armor, packed enough of a whallop to throw the renegade down. Tragg fi?red both weapons as he hit the deck, but his bullets went wide as he slid backwards. A series of shots, all fi?red by Santana, struck various parts of the renegade’s body. One bullet creased the side of Tragg’s skull, two struck his right arm, and one smashed into his left. The mercenary’s pistols clattered as they hit the deck. That was the moment when a shadow fell across Tragg’s scarred face, and Vanderveen stared down at him along the barrel of a borrowed weapon. “My real name is Christine Vanderveen,” the diplomat said coldly. “This is for Marci, her brother, and me. More than that, it’s for all of those you murdered on Jericho.”

Tragg tried to fend off the bullets with his badly broken arms, but the projectiles went right through and pulped his face. The Imperator shuddered as if in sympathy as another missile exploded against her screens. That was when the president of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings arrived on the bridge. “Now that was a nice piece of diplomacy,” Nankool remarked approvingly as he looked down at Tragg. “Good work, Christine. Let’s go home.”

PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Gradually, over a period of months, what had been President Nankool’s dining room had been converted into a chamber where Vice President Leo Jakov could receive offi?cial guests. Or, as was the case on that particular morning, sit on his thronelike chair and brood. And there was plenty to brood about because, ever since the prison break, General Booly, his wife, and the rest of the Nankool loyalists had been hard at work trying to prevent his confi?rmation. And with some success, too—if the rumors could be believed. Which was why Jakov felt mixed emotions as Kay Wilmot entered the room. What kind of news will she have for me? the vice president wondered as he eyed the diplomat’s face.

Wilmot looked tired, and therefore older, which was just one of the reasons Jakov had begun to have sex with potential replacements. And there were other issues, too, such as the fact that the plump offi?cial had become far too knowledgeable about both him and his supporters, some of whom placed a high value on their privacy. That was why Wilmot wasn’t going to survive much longer regardless of how the upcoming vote turned out. “You look beautiful this morning,” Jakov lied, and waited to see her face light up.

“Thank you,” the diplomat replied. “I’m pleased to say that I have some good news for you! There are some fence sitters of course, senators who will wait until the very last second before committing themselves, but even without their support it looks like you will be confi?rmed.”

One of Jakov’s eyebrows rose slightly. “By how many votes?”

“Two,” Wilmot answered. “But,” the assistant undersecretary hastened to add, “that hardly matters does it? A win is a win.”

That wasn’t entirely true, since a narrow victory would inevitably be seen as a sign of weakness, but Jakov forced a smile. “Yes, of course. A win is a win.”

The conference room adjacent to General Bill Booly’s offi?ce was full to overfl?owing. Maylo was there, as were Colonel Kitty Kirby, Major Drik Seeba-Ka, Margaret Xanith, and Charles Vanderveen. The crowd stirred as Sergi ChienChu arrived and people made room for him. “Okay, Sergi,”

Booly said hopefully. “What have you got for us?”

“Nothing good,” the cyborg answered dejectedly.

“Based on my polling, it looks like Jakov will be confi?rmed by a narrow margin.”

Faces fell, and there was a chorus of groans as the group absorbed the news. “There is another option,” Seeba-Ka said ominously. “The Legion’s loyalty belongs to you—not Vice President Jakov.”

“No,” Booly replied wearily. “I know that’s the way such matters are settled on Hudatha, but Triad Doma-Sa is working to change that. We have a constitution, plus the body of law that supports it, that we’re all sworn to obey. To violate that oath is to become the very thing we despise.”

“In spite of the fact that Jakov broke the law,” Vanderveen agreed reluctantly.

“Unfortunately, we have no proof of that,” the legionnaire put in. “Just suspicions. So, given the political realities, I suggest that everyone prepare for the worst. You should expect to lose your jobs at a minimum. . . . And some of us may face trumped-up charges intended to put us on the defensive while Jakov and his toadies settle in. I’m sorry. I wish things were different.”

It was a sobering assessment, and one that left Booly’s allies with no choice but to shake hands glumly and go their separate ways. Booly, Maylo, and Chien-Chu remained where they were. “Don’t be alarmed if I disappear for a while, the industrialist said as he prepared to leave. “If Jakov attempts to prosecute one or both of you—I’ll be back with the best legal team money can buy. And I’ll do everything in my power to fi?nd out what happened to Nankool as well.”

Booly said, “Thanks,” as his wife went over to plant a kiss on her uncle’s cheek. Then, once the two of them were alone, the legionnaire took Maylo into his arms. The kiss lasted for a while. Finally, when they broke contact, Booly looked down into his wife’s beautiful face. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to leave Algeron prior to the vote.”

“Sure I would,” Maylo replied cheerfully. “So long as you come with me.”

Booly laughed. “Have I mentioned how annoying you are?”

“Frequently,” the woman in his arms replied. “Does that mean you’re going to divorce me?”

“Yes,” Booly replied. “As soon as I fi?nd the time. The problem is that I’m so busy.”

“Too busy for this?” Maylo inquired innocently, as she put her hand where it would do the most good.

“Hey! We’re in a conference room,” the general objected.

“So, close the door,” Maylo responded huskily. “And let’s hold a conference.”

And they did.

The space that had once served as Fort Camerone’s theater had since been converted into chambers for the Senate. The huge room contained fi?ve hundred seats. They slanted down to a fl?at area and a raised stage. The words, “Legio Patria Nostra,” “The Legion Is Our Country,” had once been inscribed above the platform in letters six feet tall. And, in spite of the fact that they had been painted over, a keen eye could still make them out.

The fi?rst fi?ve rows of seats were reserved for senators who, with very few exceptions, were present. Partly because activists representing both sides of the upcoming vote had been working to ensure a good turnout, but also because the confi?rmation process made for excellent theater, and there was a woeful lack of entertainment on Algeron. Most of the people present already knew how the vote was going to turn out, or believed they did, but it was common knowledge that the outcome would be close. So close that even a couple of defections could deny Jakov the presidency. That served to keep the level of tension high, and rather than posture the way they often did, the vice president’s supporters were maintaining a low-key demeanor. There were formalities to attend to, including the usual roll call, which preceded a long, rather dry description of the events leading up to Nankool’s disappearance and the need to replace him. That was followed by an equally boring recitation of applicable law and a review of the voting process.

Finally, with all of that out of the way, the moment everyone had been waiting for was at hand. That was when Jakov, Wilmot, and a handful of other senior advisors slipped into the chamber and stood at the back of the room. Half a dozen airborne news cams swarmed around the politician to get tight shots as breathless reporters provided voice-over narrations of the historical moment for viewers throughout the Confederacy. Because later, once the outcome was known, the resulting reports would be sent out via the new hypercom technology—a development that was bound to revolutionize both journalism and politics. Then, as the senator representing Earth stepped up to the podium, the cameras darted away from Jakov, each seemingly intent on reaching the front of the room fi?rst. Booly and Maylo had seats behind the senators, in a row reserved for senior offi?cials, and knew the networks would go to them for reaction shots.

“The voice vote is about to begin,” the senator from Earth intoned. “Please provide your name, followed by the political entity you represent and your vote. A ‘yes’ vote is a vote to confi?rm—and a ‘no’ vote is a vote to deny confi?rmation. Now, unless there are questions, we will proceed.”

And that was the moment when Triad Hiween DomaSa, who had been visibly absent from the proceedings until that point, entered the chamber via a side door. There was a thump as it closed behind him and a considerable stir as the big Hudathan made his way up onto the stage.

“Good morning,” Doma-Sa said, as he turned to face the audience. “As most of you know I represent Hudatha, and I hereby invoke the provisions of paragraph 3, of page 372, of the Senate Rules and Procedures, which allow any senator who wishes to do so to make a fi?nal statement prior to a voice vote.”

The Hudathan’s unexpected arrival, plus the nature of his demand, triggered an uproar as Jakov’s supporters voiced their objections, and the vice president’s opponents attempted to shout them down. Because like Booly’s, Doma-Sa’s loyalties were well-known. And if the triad wanted an opportunity to speak, then it would clearly be in opposition to Jakov.

So the senator from Earth called for order, the masterat-arms thumped his ceremonial staff, and the chief clerk was called upon to check paragraph 3 of page 372, to see if Doma-Sa’s assertion was correct. It soon turned out that the paragraph in question was a rather obscure section of verbiage originally intended to allow last-minute posturing by senators who were trolling for publicity. But it was rarely invoked because voice votes were rare. So after considerable grumbling from the vice president’s supporters, it was agreed that Doma-Sa could speak, although it immediately became apparent that a pro-Jakov politician would rise to counter whatever the triad put forward. The Hudathan’s voice rolled like thunder as he spoke. “As many of you know, I have been off-planet for the last month or so, having returned only hours ago. And it was while on Starfall, attending a diplomatic function, that I met the Egg Orno, mate to the late Senator Orno, and Ambassador Orno, who was known to many of you.”

That statement was punctuated by a loud clatter, as Runwa Molo-Sa opened the same side door through which Doma-Sa had previously entered, thereby enabling the Egg Orno to enter the room. Because of the war, the female was the only Ramanthian present. That, plus the shimmering robe she wore, caused everyone to stare at the aristocrat as she shuffl?ed up a ramp and onto the stage.

“What’s going on here?” one of Jakov’s supporters demanded angrily as he came to his feet. “Triad Doma-Sa has the right to speak—not stage a parade!”

That stimulated a chorus of comments both pro and con, as Booly looked at Maylo, and both of them wondered what the Hudathan was up to.

“The rules place no limitations on how I choose to speak,”

Doma-Sa rumbled. “So, shut up and listen. The robe that the Egg Orno is wearing once belonged to Ambassador Orno, who wore it when he met with Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot, on the planet Starfall. However, unbeknownst to her the garment you’re looking at consists of a photosensitive fabric which recorded everything that passed between them. Let’s watch and listen.”

There was a loud rustling noise as at least half the people in the room turned to look at Wilmot, and the fl?ying cameras jockeyed for position. The foreign service offi?cer felt a sinking sensation at that point and turned to look at Jakov. It appeared as though all of the blood had drained out of the politician’s face, and his jaw tightened as Molo-Sa connected the robe the Egg Orno was wearing to the room’s AV system. Seconds later a life-sized holo of Wilmot appeared behind Doma-Sa and began to speak.

“The situation is this,” Wilmot explained. “While on his way to visit the Clone Hegemony, President Nankool was captured by Ramanthian military forces and sent to Jericho, where both he and his companions are going to be used as slave labor.”

“That’s absurd!” Orno was heard to say. “First, because my government would take Nankool to a planet other than Jericho, and second because his capture would have been announced by now.”

“Not if the Ramanthians on Jericho were unaware of the president’s true identity,” Wilmot countered. “And we know they aren’t aware of the fact that he’s there, because we have an intelligence agent on Jericho, and he sent us pictures of Nankool trudging through the jungle. Images that arrived on Algeron fi?ve days ago.”

“You came to the wrong person,” Orno replied sternly.

“A rescue would be impossible, even if I were willing to assist such a scheme, which I am not.”

“No, you misunderstood,” Wilmot responded. “I’m not here to seek help with a rescue mission—I’m here to make sure that Nankool and his companions are buried on Jericho.”

There was a pause followed by a question. “You report to Vice President Jakov?”

“Yes,” Wilmot agreed soberly. “I do.”

“Soon to be President Jakov?”

“With your help. . . . Yes.”

There was more, but the sudden uproar made it impossible to hear, as outraged senators from both camps vied with each other to condemn Wilmot and distance themselves from Jakov. Meanwhile, conscious of the fact that the spotlight would soon shift to him, Jakov turned to leave via the back door. But Booly was waiting for the politician—as were a full squad of armed legionnaires.

“None of it’s true,” Jakov said stoutly. “The holo was faked. . . . As you well know!”

“Save it for your trial,” the legionnaire replied unsympathetically. “And while you’re sitting in prison think about this. . . . The penalty for treason is death.”

PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Captain Antonio Santana lay on his back and stared up at the sky. It was light blue, crisscrossed here and there by contrails, but entirely empty until a hawk arrived to turn graceful circles above him. More than a month had passed since the much-abused Imperator had dropped into orbit around Algeron, and Nankool had been restored to the presidency. But it seemed longer, since both the offi?cer and every other person aboard the old dreadnaught had been subjected to seemingly endless debriefi?ngs as prosecutors worked to amass evidence against Vice President Jakov and his codefendants, even as defense teams sought to counter it, and the news networks fought over scraps of confl?icting information. So viewed from the perspective of Earth, the confl?ict raging out beyond the local solar system seemed to be more about political skullduggery than a battle for survival. Meanwhile, based on what little information was available, the Confederacy was losing what the legionnaire considered to be the real war. The Ramanthians hadn’t overrun any major systems as yet, but a number of planets out along the edge of the Confederacy’s territory had fallen to the bugs, and the aliens were more aggressive of late. Some analysts attributed that development to a new and more energetic queen. Others pointed to the enormous number of Sheen ships that had been added to the Ramanthian fl?eet. But the result was the same. The bugs were coming, but the citizens of Napa Valley were oblivious to the fact as they continued to enjoy their privileged lives. But then the sky was gone as Christine Vanderveen stepped in to straddle the legionnaire and sit on his abdomen. Her hair hung like a blonde curtain around her face, and her skin looked healthy again, as did the rest of her. She was dressed in formal riding clothes. The long-sleeved white blouse served to hide the scars on her wrists. “It’s time for lunch,” the diplomat announced. “So mount up.”

Santana groaned. “Can we walk instead?”

Vanderveen laughed. It was a lovely sound—and one he couldn’t get enough of. “Walk?” she inquired. “Why would we want to do that? Especially when we have two perfectly good horses waiting not ten feet away.”

“Because it would be less painful,” the legionnaire said, as he reached up to pull her down.

“I thought you were a cavalry offi?cer,” Vanderveen replied. “A proud member of the 1st REC . . . A man of . . .”

The rest of her words were lost as their lips made contact. Santana was consumed by a vast feeling of tenderness, and everything else fell away. Part of him knew that the war was waiting. . . . But there, on a sunlit hill, the soldier was at peace.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

On January 28, 1945, 121 men led by the pipesmoking Lieutenant Colonel Henry Mucci of the 6th Ranger Battalion penetrated enemy lines in the Philippines and marched cross-country to rescue 513 survivors of the Bataan Death March being held by the Japanese. Though not based on that rescue, this book was certainly inspired by it and by the unbelievable bravery of both the rescuers and the POWs. For anyone who would like to read a full account of that amazing mission, I highly recommend the book Ghost Soldiers by Hampton Sides.