For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  There were shacks there, along with all manner of less permanent shelters, and pens filled with animals. These were leveled by a force of heavily armored razbuls that preceded the main infantry column and laid waste to everything in their path.

  Santana was shaving when the alarm rang and still had patches of foam on his face as he grabbed his jacket and followed Corporal Dietrich out through the back of the barracks, up a steep flight of stone stairs, and onto the walkway that ran along the top of the twelve-foot-thick wall. In spite of the fact that it was only 0713, the prevailing winds had pushed Polwa’s eternal light brown haze north to Mys, where the locals supplemented the pollution with their own coal-fed cook fires.

  The Imperials were sweeping down along the west wall by then, the solid thump, thump, thump of their open-toed hobnailed boots pulverizing what remained of precious food stores, tiny well-kept gardens, and miscellaneous household items.

  Representatives from all of the various embassies had mounted the wall and could do little more than watch as the squatters, most of whom were able to escape with little more than their lives, screamed and ran away from the walls. Their animals, those lucky enough to survive, squealed, squawked, and grunted as they hopped, dashed, and flapped in every possible direction.

  The Jade River bisected Mys from east to west and might have offered something of an obstacle had it not been for the sturdy barges tied end to end in an effort to form temporary bridges on both sides of the city. Boots thundered on wood as the LaNorians crossed the tributary, arrived at the point where the northern part of Polwa abutted the southern extension of Mys, and came to a ceremonial stop.

  Santana discovered that he had a towel in his hand and used it to wipe the rest of the foam off his face. The second platoon was on duty and first Lieutenant Mary Beckworth materialized at his side. She had wide-set eyes, a no-nonsense mouth, and wore a single earring, which dangled from her left ear. It was in the form of a circle and torch—the emblem of the First REC. The Class B khaki uniform had lost some of its creases during the long humid night but still looked professional. Santana liked her and hoped the feeling was mutual. “Good morning, Mary, what’s going on?”

  The other officer grimaced. “An Imperial messenger rode in an hour ago. They had to get Pas Rasha out of bed in order to receive him. It seems the Empress is worried about our safety and sent some of her household troops to protect us.”

  The conversation was interrupted as the flow of troops stopped, trumpets blared, and the entire column performed a well-coordinated right-face thereby creating countless six-person files. Then, responding to orders from their officers, the soldiers marched exactly one hundred paces to the west, did an about-face, and faced Mys. There was no way to see what was occurring off the east wall, but Santana figured it would look about the same.

  “So,” the legionnaire said, “assuming the soldiers were sent to protect us, how come they’re facing in rather than out?”

  “That’s a good question,” Beckworth replied. “A damned good question indeed.”

  The trumpets sounded again, clouds of dust rose as a long train of two-wheeled carts appeared from the north, and split at the same point the troops had, following the walls south toward Polwa. The barges bucked like live animals as the first heavily laden carts rumbled over the Jade River, reached the end of the line, and turned toward the west. The whole thing was well executed and obviously meant to impress.

  “It looks like they plan to stay for a while,” Beckworth observed dryly.

  “Yes,” Santana agreed. “It sure as hell does.”

  It took two days for the Imperials to settle in, establish their various encampments, and discover the obvious. The plain was a miserable place to camp. The sun baked the soldiers during the day, insects bit them during the night, and boredom eroded their morale. But that was where the Empress wanted them—and that’s where they would stay. The dry season deepened and time seemed to slow.

  NEAR THE VILLAGE OF NAH REE, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  In spite of the fact that the Busso family was a long way from their comfortable little house back on Earth, they still did many things the same way. Bethany Busso typically went to bed an hour earlier than her husband and therefore got up first. By the time Natalie, ten, and Mark, thirteen, had finished their showers, and her husband had pecked her on the cheek, breakfast was ready.

  Sometimes Bethany served sponsor-supplied Mission Rations (MRs), which Mark liked, and the rest of the family hated. But that was rare since the Bussos had gradually become accustomed to their own versions of LaNorian fare. The menu that morning included fried kas cakes, molo fruit, and half a protein bar each. Frank said grace, and the meal began.

  Despite Bethany’s best efforts to slow them down, the children had a tendency to eat quickly so they could go outside and play before school started. That particular day was no exception. Natalie finished first, thanked her mother, and dashed out the back door. Mark gobbled his fruit, used a napkin to wipe his mouth, and was close on his sister’s heels.

  Frank Busso had just taken a sip of carefully rationed coffee, and was about to comment on the day ahead, when he heard Natalie scream. The missionary came to his feet and headed for the door. His mug fell, coffee splattered onto the floor, and Bethany rushed to a window.

  The screams had stopped by the time Frank Busso arrived in front of the mission. Natalie sobbed as her brother put his arm around the little girl’s shoulders and guided her back toward the kitchen. His face was white and there was a tremor in his voice. “It’s Nuu Laa, Dad . . . I’ll tell Mom to stay where she is.”

  Uncertain of what he would find, the missionary rounded the front of the dome, saw the twenty-five-foot-tall T that marked the mission for it was, and realized something had been added. There, at the foot of the Transcendental T, a cluster of poles had been planted. Each supported something round, but from a distance Busso couldn’t tell exactly what they were. As the missionary moved forward he felt a cold clammy hand grab his stomach and squeeze. Then he was there, just beyond the line of demarcation for Security Zone Three, and close enough to see what his children had seen.

  Each gore-drenched stick bore a LaNorian head, all of which had been arranged so they appeared to be looking upward, as if worshiping the off-world symbol that towered above them. Frank Busso recognized Nuu Laa, her mate, and all three of their children.

  A strange inarticulate noise issued from deep within Busso’s throat, his stomach rejected the recently consumed breakfast, and the missionary puked on his own feet. Finally, having nothing more to give, Busso used a sleeve to wipe his mouth. Then, with his back to the dome, he scanned the surrounding area. The sun seemed unnaturally bright. The air was heavy on his skin. The ground seemed to roll beneath his feet. Way off in the distance, on the road to Nah Ree, a rider could be seen. He or she watched for a moment longer, wheeled, and rode away.

  Suddenly, for the first time since he and his family had landed on LaNor, the human felt truly afraid.

  ABOARD THE CHIEN-CHU ENTERPRISES’ SUBMERSIBLE PLATFORM SEADOWN, APPROXIMATELY FIVE HUNDRED MILES DUE EAST OF POLWA, IN THE OCEAN KNOWN AS THE GREAT WET.

  The cold gray sky seemed to wheel as the wind pushed the seemingly endless ranks of blue-green waves toward the west, lifted the two-thousand-ton submersible drilling rig twenty feet into the air, then lowered the twin hulls back into a trough. A welter of spray shot up into the air, was caught by the wind, and whipped away. Though capable of propelling herself from place to place, the Seadown was something of a compromise, which meant that she wallowed like a pig.

  Chien-Chu, still playing the part of diver-rigger Jim James, peered out through the wheelhouse as Les Foro, a fellow cyborg, conned the Flyfish in toward the docking area located between the larger vessel’s twin hulls. Given the need to move around beneath the ocean as well as on top of it, the Seadown had a clean, streamlined hull.

  Having studied the vessel in advance, the industrialist knew that i
f viewed from above the ship would resemble a capital H, with a saucerlike drill housing located at the center and smooth catamaran-style hulls that flared to either side.

  Spray flew up from the Flyfish’s bow, splattered across the window, and was attacked by a pair of hardworking wipers. Foro put the wheel over to compensate for the manner in which wave turbulence tried to push the hydrofoil to port, spoke into his headset, and applied more power.

  Chien-Chu hung on to a grab bar as the tender surged forward, passed into the relatively calm area between the Seadown’s hulls, and entered what the crew referred to as the grab. The industrialist felt the hydrofoil’s hull start to rise as a wave lifted both vessels upward, and heard Foro say, “Now!”

  There was a gentle thump as a pair of computer-operated “arms” cradled the hull—and a momentary sense of vertigo as the machinery lifted the tender up off the surface of the sea. Then the bottom seemed to drop out from under Chien-Chu’s feet as the Seadown slid into the next trough.

  “Fun, huh?’ Foro asked, as his big, blunt, plastiflesh fingers flipped a series of switches.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” the industrialist lied. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem,” the other cyborg replied. “And that stuff I told you . . . that’s between you and me, right?”

  Chien-Chu grinned. “What stuff?”

  Foro laughed and continued to run through the shutdown procedures. The fact that he had felt it necessary to check spoke volumes. Chien-Chu had taken advantage of the journey down the Jade River and out into the ocean to pump the other cyborg for information. Foro had been cautious, understandably so, but a picture had emerged nonetheless.

  According to the cyborg, Boad and his henchmen ran what amounted to a criminal dictatorship aboard the Seadown. The crew, all of whom were cyborgs, were forced to pay for lost or broken equipment. Once on board, all incoming and outgoing communications regardless of media were monitored for “inappropriate content,” by which the station manager meant any mention of him, his toadies, or their illicit activities. Violations were punished with a three-month “blackout” of all personal communications “privileges.” There were darker activities, too—things Foro hinted at but wouldn’t elaborate on.

  Servos whined as the port lock opened, the Flyfish was pulled inside, and deposited on a cradle. Foro hooked a thumb toward the tender’s stern. “You might want to grab your stuff and report to the man. That faster you show up, the better Boad will like it. You’ll find a ladder out there.”

  The industrialist thanked the other cyborg, retrieved his duffel bag, and felt his body make the necessary adjustments as he left the warmth of the watertight wheelhouse for the dankness of the marine lock. The external hatch had been sealed by then, but the deck was wet. The entire area, which would serve as something akin to an underwater garage when the Seadown was submerged, was long but relatively narrow. There was plenty of space though.

  In addition to the Flyfish, which, though designed for surface use, could still withstand the same underwater pressures that the Seadown could, Chien-Chu saw a variety of six-man, two-man, and one-man undersea sleds racked along the port bulkhead, along with a long line of carefully numbered lockers.

  Unsure of where to go, the industrialist intercepted a spider-shaped robot. Its body was made of stainless steel, its legs were equipped with octopus-like suction cups, and a large number “3” had been stenciled onto both sides of the machine’s metal torso. Something whirred, and the machine stopped as Chien-Chu stepped in front of it. “I’m looking for Mr. Boad. Directions please.”

  Consistent with its function Number Three’s personal interaction software provided the newcomer with an answer that was direct and to the point. “To reach the platform manager’s office you must pass through lock P-1 or P-2, take a lift to deck one, and cross over to hull two. Once on the other side drop to deck two and look for the appropriate sign.”

  There wasn’t much point in thanking a machine, but the industrialist did so anyway. He passed through lock P-2, heard the thump of machinery somewhere nearby, and entered one of two lifts. The interior smelled of fresh paint.

  A buzzer sounded, the cyborg stepped off the platform and turned to his left. The “bulge,” as the industrialist thought of it, consisted of an open space filled with all manner of mysterious machinery. Judging from the vertical structure located at the center of the space, this was the platform from which drills were pushed down through Seadown’s hull in order to retrieve core samples from the ocean’s floor. Two catwalks, one to either side of the bulge, served to convey foot traffic from one hull to the other.

  As Chien-Chu made the crossing he saw three cyborgs, a couple of robots, cables that snaked every which way, racks filled with pipe, welding equipment, workbenches and all manner of other gear. An air wrench screeched, a length of chain rattled through a pulley, and a hammer rang on steel. The cyborg’s sensors detected traces of ozone in the air, along with vaporized lubricants, and the tang of seawater.

  Once on the other side it was relatively easy to find the lifts, drop one deck down, and look for the correct door. The industrialist noticed that the interior was spotless. Whatever Boad’s failings might be, maintenance wasn’t one of them.

  The cyborg paused in front of a plaque that read: “THOMAS A. BOAD, PLATFORM MANAGER,” and knocked on the door. His plastiflesh knuckles made a dull thumping sound. The hatch was slightly ajar, and the response was nearly instantaneous. “Come.”

  Chien-Chu stepped over the coaming and entered the platform manager’s office. What he saw was impressive indeed. Boad was not only large—he was huge!” So big that the industrialist suspected that the cybernetic body would only barely pass through a hatch.

  There was no theoretical upper limit on how large a cybernetic body could potentially be—Chien-Chu knew of some highly specialized “forms” that were larger than the Seadown herself—but the size of everyday cyborgs was constrained by cost, the social-cultural environment in which they expected to operate, and by what the industrialist thought of as “the freak factor,” meaning that most borgs wanted to look as much like biobods as possible.

  Not Boad, however, who not only wanted to look impressive, but dominate those around him. The face he had chosen was broad and craggy. He rose from behind the gray metal desk to tower over the industrialist in what could only be interpreted as an attempt to intimidate him. Though not comprised of actual flesh and blood, his dark, almost black eyes seemed to glow with pent-up animosity. A verbal attack stood in for the normal “Welcome aboard.”

  “Who the hell gave you permission to leave that shipping crate? Foro’s report indicates that you were sitting around shooting the shit with the warehouse staff when he arrived. What the hell do you think this is? Some kind of freaking vacation? That crate cost money. . . Three hundred and seventy-three credits, which I will deduct from your pay.

  “Now, before you get into any more trouble I suggest that you take your plastic ass down to crew quarters, find your slot, and log on. We have rules on this tub, important rules, and now’s the time to learn them.

  “And remember this . . . There ain’t no way off this pus ball except through me, so watch what you think, watch what you say, and watch what you do. Otherwise, you could be here till your power runs down and your crew mates decide to cannibalize your body for spare parts. Questions? No? Then get the hell out of here.”

  It was tempting to end the charade right there, to declare who he was and seize control of the ship. But there was a good deal to learn yet, and given Boad’s attitude, he would probably resist. Would others support him? Yes, quite possibly, which was why Chien-Chu backed out of the cabin.

  Boad laughed as the Seadown rolled, the newbie fell on his ass, and pulled himself up again. A storm was coming—but not in his world. The platform manager dismissed the cyborg named Jim James from his mind, opened a heavily encrypted file, and scanned his favorite spreadsheet. Not a corporate spreads
heet, but his spreadsheet, and the purpose for which he lived. Not sex, since that was largely denied him; not power, since money could buy that, but wealth. Great wealth . . . and the sooner the better.

  THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANT OF LANOR

  It was nighttime as Santana made his way past the deeply shadowed garden, through the light that pooled next to the barracks, and along the path that led to the west wall. Most of the staff had left for the night, which meant that except for the ambassador, his family, and their personal staff, the embassy was empty.

  Most of the professional staff maintained apartments in the southeast corner of Mys, often referred to as the corporate sector, because most of the off-world offices were located there. The locals lived in Dig Town or farther to the south within Polwa itself.

  The sky was clear and the light from LaNor’s twin moons glazed the surfaces around him as the legionnaire emerged onto the top of the wall. A sentry was posted there, and her rifle snapped into the vertical position. Her name was Hixon, Alice Hixon, and her white kepi seemed to gleam in the moonlight. Santana returned the salute, said, “As you were,” and took a moment to look out toward the west.

  Had it not been for the manner in which the moonlight touched the top of their tents, and the hundreds of coal-fed fires that eyed him from the darkness, the officer would never have guessed that an army occupied the night.

  The Jade River shimmered a half mile to the south, turning toward the city, prior to diving under the very wall on which Santana stood. “Pretty isn’t it?”