The hatch opened to reveal a Ramanthian tri-person. Their space suits, luggage, and food grubs were racked on a heavily overloaded robo-floater. All three aliens wore identical black cowls that served to hide most of their insectoid-looking faces. They touched pincers to proboscis and bowed in unison. Chien-Chu did likewise. The formalities thus observed, both parties went their separate ways.
The industrialist hadn’t taken more than three steps when one of Anguar’s many aides came rushing up. He was human, balding, and somewhat chubby. Beads of perspiration dotted a heavily furrowed brow. His hand felt damp and weak. “Citizen Chien-Chu! My name is Burton. Halworthy Burton, assistant to the president. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you at the lock. Please allow me to extend my heartfelt apologies. . . . The reception for the new senator from Drath ran five minutes over, Governor Bork had a heart attack in chambers, and the Haldar Amendment is coming up for a vote. Not that any of those matters excuse the way you’ve been treated. No, no, certainly not. The president left strict instructions. Come . . . I’ll take you to his office.”
Much to his combined relief and amusement Chien-Chu was never called upon to say a single word during the journey from the lock to Anguar’s heavily guarded office. Burton had nothing to say and was happy to say it.
But the trip through Friendship’s maze of corridors and halls was fascinating nonetheless. Chien-Chu never ceased to be amazed by the diversity of intelligent life that flourished in one little comer of the galaxy. Amazed, and awed, for like the many races of man, each species brought its own science, art, music, literature, and traditions to an interstellar civilization that was unparalleled in its complexity, richness, and depth.
Yes, the necessary accommodations were almost always difficult, and very often messy, but well worth the effort. How horrible it would be if the Hudathans managed to destroy this rich tapestry of life, only to hang a single monochromatic shroud in its place.
“And this,” Burton said grandly, “is the president’s office.”
Chien-Chu looked around and was amazed by the extent to which a decorator-being had managed to take artifacts, paintings, sculptures, and fabrics from dozens of worlds and integrate them into a wonderfully subtle and eclectic whole.
But as positive as the coming together of disparate races might be, there were plenty of problems, and Anguar had security to match. Lopez and Johnson disappeared, Burton excused himself, and a new set of agents, six in all, supervised as Chien-Chu passed through the latest in scanning frames, and was ushered into a spacious suite.
Anguar had increased the gravity within his quarters and worn the dreaded exoskeleton with an eye to his visitor’s comfort and the requirements of the day ahead. He hurried forward. Both men embraced.
“Sergi! The new you looks wonderful! How clever you were . . . staging your own death. I was most upset. And it worked for quite a while. Our intelligence people stumbled onto your true identity while investigating a man named Harold Conklin. Sorry about that . . . but I wouldn’t want you to think we did it on purpose.”
Chien-Chu was relieved to hear it, assuming Anguar was telling the truth, which he probably was. His answer did credit to the politician he’d been in the past. “And you look even younger than the last time I saw you. How do you manage it?”
Though fully aware that the human was playing to his well-known vanity, Anguar was honored by the fact that the industrialist would go to the trouble, and generated a human-style smile. “By having sex every chance I get. Which is damned seldom anymore. Too much work. How ‘bout you? Is that rig fully functional?”
Chien-Chu laughed at Anguar’s directness and brushed the question aside. “Why Conklin? How did he come to your attention?”
Anguar had side-articulated eyelids. They opened and closed. The smile disappeared. “Simple. When not stealing money from your company, or abusing his position as an executive, Citizen Conklin passed his time selling secrets to the Clone Hegemony. The design specs for the Viper are an excellent example.”
Chien-Chu was shocked. “The Viper? It’s the best we have.”
“Exactly,” Anguar agreed. “Come, you’ll be more comfortable in the sitting area.”
Once both beings were seated and the industrialist had refused the refreshments that his body no longer needed, the conversation turned even more serious. Anguar’s huge light-gathering eyes had a slightly luminous quality. They were locked on the cyborg’s twin-vid cams. “Never mind the Viper technology Sergi, it’s a minor problem compared to the one we need to discuss. The Hudathans are the real threat.”
Chien-Chu nodded soberly. “Tell me what happened.”
“Better yet I’ll show you,” Anguar replied. “The first part anyway . . . before General Norwood was killed and the battle station fell to the Hudathans.”
The industrialist’s heart sank as a wall holo popped on. What followed was a monotone-voiced narration of some of the most horrific battle footage he’d ever seen, complete with multiple SURCAM-generated angles, and background sound. The last shots, those of General Norwood’s brutal execution by War Commander Poseen-Ka, and Hudathan troopers fighting their way through the battle station’s corridors, confirmed his worst fears. The prisoners had escaped, a brand-new Hudathan fleet was on the loose, and every single human being on or around Worber’s World had been murdered. All hope that war might still be avoided faded to black in concert with the video.
Both beings were silent for a moment, shaken by the images they’d seen, and depressed by the enormity of the task ahead. Chien-Chu remembered the seemingly normal, almost cheerful corridors. “Do the senators know?”
Anguar replied with a human-style shake of the head. “No, not yet. I will tell them in my address to the general assembly, scheduled two hours from now. I wanted to speak with you first.”
The industrialist spread his hands. “I’m honored . . . but don’t know what to say beyond the obvious. We must learn from past mistakes. The emperor waited too long. We must respond quickly, respond with everything we have, and show no mercy. I was weak and the men and women of Battle Station Alpha XIV paid for my mistakes.”
Anguar looked concerned. “Do not blame yourself, Sergi. My people have a saying: ‘Strength can be found in common rock, compassion lives in the heart.’ You did the right thing. And I agree with your analysis. As do my generals and admirals. Assuming that the Senate grants us the authority, the Confederacy will respond with all the force at its command, but certain problems will remain.”
Chien-Chu knew a cue when he heard one. “Problems? What sort of problems?”
Anguar was silent for a moment, as if considering his answer. “Please don’t be offended by what I’m about to say.”
Chien-Chu shrugged. “Be direct, old friend, I can take it.”
“Yes,” the Dweller said thoughtfully, “I think you can. The problem is that the human race is the most warlike species the Confederacy has, and due to your remarkable fecundity, one of the most populous.”
“Excuse me,” Chien-Chu interjected angrily, “but the Confederacy has been attacked, and it seems to me that you need a warlike species or two.”
“Of course we do,” Anguar replied evenly, “the outcome of the war will depend on our largely human military forces. And that means that a disproportionate number of humans will be wounded or killed. Thousands, perhaps millions of human lives will be lost, all under the direction of a government they don’t fully control. How long will your species put up with that before the calls for secession begin?”
Chien-Chu considered what Anguar had said. He was right of course. There had always been people who thought mankind should go it alone. And a disproportionate number of human casualties, coming so soon after the disastrous first war, would play right into their hands. “So spread the responsibility, arm all of the member races, and insist that they fight.”
“Ahh,” the president said, “if only it were that simple. The Dra‘Nath are in hibernation and will remain there
for another two years. The Arballazanies are shaped like gigantic worms. It would take a ship the size of this one to accommodate two of them. The Poooonara are even more fragile than my race and have no word for ‘weapon.’ The Say’lynt occupy thousands of square miles of ocean. I could go on and on. The point is that while all the member races evolved to deal with the conditions found on their particular home worlds, only a few, like the Ramanthians, the Naa, and the humans, evolved to deal with a threat like the Hudathans.”
“So, what are you saying?” Chien-Chu asked impatiently. “That a defense is doomed to failure?”
“Of course not,” Anguar said dismissively. “I’m saying that some species will be critical to the war effort, others will be useful, and some will play no role at all. What I need, no, what the Confederacy needs, is someone to study that middle category, to find ways to utilize their various abilities, and publicize whatever success they have.”
“So that we humans will feel better about the massive casualties we’re about to take.”
“Exactly,” Anguar agreed cheerfully. “And that’s where you come in.”
Chien-Chu stared into the other being’s huge eyes. He had underestimated his successor. The Dweller didn’t want advice . . . he wanted cannon fodder. Happy cannon fodder.
For one brief moment the industrialist wondered if the separatists were right, if the human race should go its own way, but the knowledge of what would happen to the undefended races drove the thought from his mind. “All right, I understand the necessity, but why me?”
The politician mustered a human smile. “Who better to convince the human race than another human? And not just any human, but a past president? And not just any past president, but one returned from the dead?”
The counterattack had begun.
13
Accurate information cuts deeper than the finest blade.
Grand Marshal Nimu Wurla-Ka (ret.)
Instructor, Hudathan War College
Standard year 1956
Clone World Alpha-001, the Clone Hegemony
Booly thought Marine Major Stephanie Warwick-Olson was the smartest, sexiest, most fascinating woman he’d ever met. When he tried to figure out why, he couldn’t quite decide. Was it the way she paced back and forth like an animal in a cage? The long, angular body? So skinny it shouldn’t be sexy but was? The big eyes? High cheek-bones? Lips? Or was it her mind? Laser fast and hard as steel . . . Yes, there was an age difference, but so what? Her voice jerked him back to reality. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lieutenant Booly?”
The briefing room was large enough to accommodate the platoon’s Trooper IIs plus the quad that had been assigned to him for this particular mission. Every one of Booly’s eighty-plus legionnaires were staring at him and he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what to say. He felt sweat surface through his fur, knew his mouth was hanging open, and wanted to die. In fact he was just about to admit that he didn’t know what she’d said when a now-familiar voice came over his ear plug. “Yes, ma’am . . . surprise is the key.”
Booly echoed Parker’s words, saw Warwick-Olson nod thoughtfully, and knew that she knew. He wasn’t sure how she knew, since the noncom had transmitted the message via the platoon’s command frequency, but she knew nonetheless. Did she know why as well? He hoped not, and forced himself to concentrate on the briefing.
“So,” Warwick-Olson continued evenly, “that’s the high-level view. By eliminating the cell, we silence a source of anti-Confederacy propaganda and make the planet more secure for President Anguar’s upcoming visit. Which is why I have temporary command of your platoon. Questions? No? Good. Now that we have the high-altitude stuff out of the way, let’s take a stroll through the rocks and trees.”
The next hour was packed with a detailed assessment of how the underground cell operated, its well-documented ties to Clone World Beta-002, and a wealth of other information, including each member’s genetic makeup, their relationships to each other, the weapons they preferred, favorite foods, and other personal minutia. So much information. Booly started to wonder: How had the major or the spooks she worked with obtained this stuff anyway? The academy’s instructors had taught him that even good intelligence summaries were about half fact and half guess work . . . so where did all the hard facts come from? He waited for a pause and raised his hand. Warwick-Olson nodded in response. “Yes, Lieutenant?” “We seem to have an unusual amount of information at our disposal. Could the major comment on how it was gathered? And how reliable it is?”
Warwick-Olson was already looking his way. Her words leaped the gap like electricity arcing between opposite poles. Or so it seemed to Booly, although the older officer showed no signs of similar feelings. “A fair question, Lieutenant. But one I can’t answer without compromising classified information. Suffice it to say that I have a high level of confidence in this intelligence. . . . So high that I’d be happy to take the point. Good enough?” There were chuckles from around the room. The legionnaires weren’t all that fond of marines but the major was okay.
Booly swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. “Yes, ma’am. That’s more than good enough.”
“Excellent. Now. let’s take a look at the neighborhood. Routes in, routes out, and our control points.”
An aerial map filled the wall behind her and Warwick-Olson produced a light pointer. It circled the blocks in question, stabbed major arterials, and hovered over one particular building. It grew larger, filled the screen, and rotated.
Booly tried to concentrate, tried to hear what she said, but discovered that the major’s olive green utilities had an unfortunate tendency to disappear without warning.
Whenever that occurred, the legionnaire found Warwick-Olson’s pert breasts, narrow waist, slim hips, and long, lean legs to be very distracting. So much so that it would have been quite embarrassing had he been forced to stand up. No such disaster took place, however, so that he was able to get the major properly clothed by the time the briefing was over, and the troops were dismissed. There was a lot of good-natured talking and laughing as the platoon cleared the hall. Booly lingered for a moment and was rewarded with a private audience. It didn’t go well. “Lieutenant.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You seemed distracted during the briefing. Is there a problem? A gap in my presentation skills, perhaps?”
“No. ma’am! You have excellent presentation skills.”
Warwick-Olson nodded slowly. Her lips made a hard, thin line. “I agree. I do have good presentation skills . . . which means that the problem lies elsewhere. I could have chosen any platoon in this damned city but I chose yours. Why? Because you made an instant reputation for yourself by restoring discipline to a neglected command. Your CO was impressed, General Mosby was impressed, and I was impressed. All by a piss-ant wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant who can’t pay attention to a briefing.”
The major’s eyes narrowed down to little more than slits. “Well, listen, Lieutenant, and listen good. Because if I catch a bullet tomorrow morning, that will leave you in command, and the way things stand right now, half the platoon might die because you were daydreaming. Now take this disk, study my plan, and have it memorized by morning. Fail, and I will drag your ass in front of the company CO. Get it?”
The disk was no larger than an antique quarter and hit the center of his palm with enough force to depress his hand. Booly hadn’t been so thoroughly chewed out since his first year at the academy. A bullet would have been preferable to the shame and embarrassment he felt at that moment. His voice was a croak. “Ma‘am! Yes, ma’am!”
“Good. Now get your ass out of here.”
Booly snapped to attention, did a textbook-perfect about-face, and marched towards the door. It was the longest walk of his life.
It had been scheduled to be a sunny day, but the morning brought fog and a thin, steady drizzle. The platoon, formed up into heavily armed squads, stood waiting by their vehicles. Booly, exhausted from a sleepless night spent studyi
ng the major’s plan, noticed that she was the only one who had equipped herself with rain gear. Did that mean what he thought it meant? That she had some clout with the Clone Weather Control people? No, the clones wouldn’t even give the Confederacy the time of day, much less the kind of weather they wanted. The woman was maddening.
Booly ran his eye over his troops one last time, checked what he saw against the carefully memorized plan, and found everything to his liking. He gathered his courage, closed on the spot where Warwick-Olson stood consulting an olive drab porta-comp, and offered a snappy salute.
The major paused and looked down her nose at him. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Thanks for pointing me out to any snipers that might be lurking around.”
Booly felt stupid and let his hand fall like a wing-shot bird. “Sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”
Warwick-Olson nodded. “Good. I’d like to live long enough to see my thirtieth birthday. Now, describe plan Alpha.”
Booly fought the desire to think about the years that separated them and forced himself to focus on the plan of attack. “We move into the designated area from four different directions, seal the main arterials with Trooper IIs, and close on building 4321. The quad will deal with enemy armor should any appear. A pair of Marine assault boats will close off any possibility of an airborne escape.
Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle Page 16
