“I wouldn’t know about that,” Dietrich replied, eyeing her chest. “The lieutenant sent me to get you.”
Given the fact that Vanderveen was attractive and there were more human males on LaNor than human females, the FSO was used to being eyeballed. Both by legionnaires and the virtually identical Jonathan Alan Seebos attached to the Clone embassy. Most of the offenders were a good deal less obvious however. The foreign service officer raised her eyebrows. “If you’re finished staring at my breasts, perhaps you would carry a message to the lieutenant . . . Tell him I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
Dietrich’s eyes came up to meet hers. They registered no sign of embarrassment. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell him. The cart is out front.” So saying, the corporal did a neat about-face and marched out of the office.
Vanderveen shook her head in amusement and walked down the hall. Even the most luxurious of LaNorian toilets was little more than a slit trench fed by a stream of water. It was her ambition to make the journey into Polwa and back without being forced to use one of them.
Fifteen minutes passed before the doors to the embassy opened, and Vanderveen walked out into the morning sunlight. The sight that awaited her caused the FSO’s jaw to drop. One of the embassy’s enclosed two-wheel carts had been brought around front. Like all such conveyances, the LaNorian carriage included a back step on which either guards or servants could ride, a box-shaped passenger compartment complete with windows, a perch on which the driver could sit, and poles to which a razbul could be harnessed. Except that the draft animal was missing . . . and a Trooper II stood between the traces instead!
Santana came forward to greet Vanderveen, but she spoke first. “What’s the meaning of this absurdity? Are you out of your mind?”
The legionnaire stopped where he was. Part of his mind, the male part, couldn’t help but notice how pretty the foreign officer was. She had shoulder-length blond hair, strikingly blue eyes, and full red lips, both of which formed a straight line.
The other part of Santana, the military part, felt a rising sense of anger. “No, ma’am. By using Corporal Snyder in place of a draft animal we increase our potential firepower by more than 2000 percent and do so without violating Imperial regulations pertaining to the size and composition of off-world groups, parties, and other assemblages traveling within the boundaries of the Imperial city.”
It was a clever idea, Vanderveen had to give the officer that, and the words used to justify the plan had been lifted right out of the Imperial decree titled: “Rules and Regulations attendant to movement of off-world beings within the confines of Polwa.” Not only that, but Imbulo was correct, and the lieutenant was nice to look at.
Still, a cart pulled by an off-world cyborg was bound to attract a lot of attention and might prove provocative. “That’s all very nice, Lieutenant,” Vanderveen said coolly, “but please allow me to draw your attention to the fact that the purpose of this outing is diplomatic rather than military.”
Santana took a full step forward, which placed him well within her personal space. Rather than raise his voice he lowered it so only she could hear. “I assume you are aware that two women were murdered in Polwa.”
Vanderveen wanted to take a step backward but refused to do so. “Yes, one of them was a friend of mine.”
Santana nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that, but the fact remains . . . A crowd materialized out of nowhere, marched through the streets, and pulled your friend out of her clinic. That’s when they stripped her naked, lifted her body into the air, and lowered it onto a stake. Based on information obtained from paid informants, it appears that they went to some lengths to ensure that the stake was lodged in her anus rather than her vagina before grabbing her arms and pulling downward. I was on the south wall at the time and could hear her screams from there.
“The purpose of the military escort is to ensure that you don’t suffer a similar fate. Furthermore, it may interest you to know that Captain Seeba-Ka not only approved these arrangements, but assigned a T-2 to pull the ambassador’s cart earlier this morning. Now, if you’ll allow me to do my job, I will allow you to do yours. Do we understand each other?”
Never, not in all of her twenty-five years, had anyone ever been allowed to speak to Christine Vanderveen in such a manner, and she fought for control. Her eyes narrowed. “Understood, Lieutenant . . . Now let’s see if you can get me to my appointment without killing anyone, which, based on the evaluation in your P-1, appears to be the only thing you’re good at.”
It was a churlish thing to say, and Vanderveen could see the words slam into Santana like bullets fired from a gun. A veil dropped in front of his eyes. The same veil that upperclassmen, many of whom were from families like hers, had seen at the academy. The officer gave a short jerky nod and took a full step backward. “I’ll do my best.”
With the exception of those who worked in the fields, LaNorian females seldom if ever wore pants. So Vanderveen was dressed in a blouse, a jacket, and a long black skirt. It was slit along both sides in order to ease her movements, and Dietrich watched a long white leg appear then disappear as the FSO entered the cab.
Santana followed the woman into the passenger compartment leaving Dietrich and Fareye to mount the back step while Private Hixon rode in the driver’s seat.
Snyder, who had accepted her role as draft cyborg with characteristic good humor, used her graspers to grab the traces, and pulled the cart away from the curb.
Like her peers on LaNor, Snyder was an upgraded variant of the trusty Trooper IIs that had served so valiantly throughout the last three wars.
One arm was equipped with an air-cooled .50 caliber machine gun. The other boasted a fast-recovery laser cannon. Even without the dual missile launchers, which the armorers had removed for the trip into Polwa, the cyborg was still one of the most potent killing machines ever constructed. She could run at speeds up to fifty miles per hour and operate in a wide variety of environments, including the black of night. All of which meant that her presence alone was equivalent to a squad of biobods.
But Snyder was a person, a human being in an electromechanical body, something that some officers had a tendency to forget. The fact that Santana not only liked cyborgs, but had rescued one under fire, had made the rounds within hours of his arrival. The result was that all of the company’s box heads were pulling for the loot even if they had to haul carts around in order to please him.
The metal-clad wheels bumped on the cobblestones as the cart passed over the Jade River on its way toward the city’s South Gate. Vanderveen was sitting on the left and caught a glimpse of the imposing Transcendental Cathedral before storefronts intervened to close it off. The edifice seemed too large, too awkward for LaNor, and she wondered why the Confederacy’s bureaucracy would prohibit the importation of plants lest they do harm to the native ecosystem but felt no responsibility where ideas were concerned.
Santana cleared his throat. “Here, clip this to your waistband. It’s set to the same frequency that I’m on—and Lance Corporal Bagano is monitoring our transmissions back at the barracks.
“Should something happen to Dietrich, Fareye, Hixon, and me go to Snyder. There are toeholds on the backs of her legs. Climb up and hang on . . . she’ll bring you out.”
Vanderveen accepted the radio and tucked it away. “You never stop, do you? The soldier-boy thing runs twenty-seven hours a day.”
Santana raised an eyebrow. “That’s what we have in common. We’re very consistent.”
Vanderveen frowned, tried to formulate a good retort, and failed. She didn’t mean to laugh but did so anyway. “Did you just call me a bitch?”
Santana grinned. “No, ma’am. It’s like my father used to say: ‘Life is a bitch—girls are a blessing.’ ”
The laughter was open and honest. Santana discovered that there was something about the sound that made him want to hear more. But the cart had ground to a halt by then, and an Imperial guard appeared at the right-hand window. Short stilts enabled t
he LaNorian to see inside and he was clearly unhappy. There was a slight, almost imperceptible echo as both translators regurgitated his words. “What is the meaning of the big machine? What permissions do you have?”
Santana was about to try and bullshit his way through the checkpoint when Vanderveen leaned forward. Her voice was calm and soothing. “Is Factor Wah Heh around by any chance? I’d like to speak with him, please.”
The guard frowned, seemed to consider the matter, and stumped away. A full five minutes passed, during which all manner of traffic built up behind the cart, and southbound commerce ground to a halt.
Finally, his movements made to the accompaniment of the reeps, squawks, and croaks produced by LaNorian livestock, not to mention the invective produced by their owners, the FSO spotted the short stocky figure she knew to be Wah Heh coming their way. He wasn’t wearing stilts, so Vanderveen passed in front of Santana, opened the door, and let herself out.
The legionnaire was about to follow when he saw the LaNorian official offer an extremely deep bow, which Vanderveen returned in kind. The officer paused as the twosome bowed for a second time, then parted company.
Vanderveen returned to the cab, some sort of signal was given, and the cart jerked forward. “So,” Santana said, “who was that? And why did he clear the way?”
“Wah Heh is the Tax Factor assigned to what we regard as the South Gate, but those in Polwa think of as the North Gate.
“I met him at a diplomatic function a couple of months ago, listened to his troubles, and convinced Margo Imbulo to program a handheld calculator with LaNorian numerals. Although his boss isn’t aware of it, Wah Heh can complete a full day’s work in about half an hour. That leaves him with a lot of time for naps.”
Santana raised an eyebrow. “What if he uses the calculator to construct a neutron bomb?”
“Then you can shoot him.”
Both of them laughed, the sound leaked through the leather cab, and was audible on the other side. Dietrich looked at Fareye, and the Naa rolled his eyes. “Officers . . .” the look said. “It must be nice.”
From Polwa’s northernmost gate, the cyborg-drawn cart made its way south past the Te Sa tenements and onto the so called Great Way, which generations of Emperors had used for parades, ceremonials, and other demonstrations of how important they were.
As befitted such a street it boasted two lanes, a planting strip that ran down the middle, and was fronted by nearly indistinguishable government buildings. They had tray-shaped roofs that functioned to gather rainwater and funnel it down into underground cisterns, deep eaves that served to protect the walkways below, and were trimmed in red.
All of the structures were made out of wood, and in spite of the heavily embossed bronze water reservoirs located at each corner, there were gaps where individual buildings had burned down. Those ministries that happened to be in favor were quickly rebuilt. Those organizations that weren’t had little choice but to erect lean-tos and do the best they could among the ruins.
Santana had never been in the city before and decided that in spite of the poverty, the open sewers, and the smoke-polluted air, Polwa had a certain energy, a kind of dusty charm, that made him want to get out and explore.
The cart entered what amounted to a traffic circle and swung to the right. Vanderveen pointed to the heroic sculpture around which all the vehicular traffic was forced to go. “That’s the last Emperor . . . Most LaNorians agree that he loved Shi Huu—though it’s not clear if the feeling was reciprocal. The inner city is off to our right. If you look hard, you can see a section of wall through the trees.”
And so it went until the cart made a turn to the right and entered the Shawa District, where many members of the petty nobility maintained town houses.
Santana had the impression of high walls, low, tray-shaped roofs, and lush vegetation. Alleys provided access to stables and a way for the LaNorian equivalent of tradespeople to deliver food and other necessities to their wealthy clients.
The streets, like the one they were on, were reserved for private carts. Servants stopped to stare as the cyborg jogged by, nobles peered from second-story balconies, and a razbul attempted to bolt.
Then, just as Vanderveen started to worry about the impact their passage might have on the otherwise peaceful neighborhood, the cart slowed and Snyder pulled over to the curb. A gatekeeper appeared out of the shadows, hesitated as if unsure of whether it was safe to approach the off-world machine, and was visibly relieved when Vanderveen opened the door and stepped outside. Santana followed. “Would you like me to come or stay?”
An hour earlier the FSO would have told the officer to stay. Now, for reasons she was quite sure of, she wanted him to come. Vanderveen eyed his sidearm. “Can you leave that behind?”
Santana smiled and released the pistol belt. “What? You’re afraid I’ll shoot the host?”
“Something like that,” the diplomat agreed. “It’s supposed to be a friendly visit, and a sidearm isn’t all that friendly.”
Santana kept his radio and translator but placed the weapon inside the cab. Then, having directed a meaningful look at Corporal Dietrich, he followed Vanderveen through the gate.
Hixon, who still qualified as something of a newbie, watched the officer go. “So, Corp, what did the look mean?”
Dietrich smiled. “It meant ‘keep a sharp eye out, monitor the radio, and tell Hixon not to lean on the cart. It looks sloppy.’ ”
Hixon pushed herself away from the vehicle and looked embarrassed. “You’re kidding, right?”
Dietrich shook his head. “Nope. I can read the loot’s mind. That’s why I am a corporal while you are a lowly private.”
Fareye snickered, Snyder laughed, and the legionnaires did what soldiers have done for thousands of years: They waited.
Vanderveen and her escort followed the gatekeeper through a lush garden, up a short flight of stairs, and onto a broad veranda.
An elderly female rose from her chair and shuffled forward. She wore a peach-colored wind-on dress that matched some of the blossoms in the garden. Fabric swished, and her platform shoes made a clacking sound as she walked. Vanderveen bowed, so Santana followed suit. “Madame Las Laa,” the FSO began, “it’s an honor to meet you. My name is Christine Vanderveen—and this is Lieutenant Santana. Harley Clauson sends his regrets—but was summoned to a meeting with Minister Dwi Faa. He hopes you will forgive him.”
Madam Las Laa bowed in return. She looked frail, but her voice was surprisingly strong. “Welcome to my humble home. It was kind of you to come so far to see me.”
Vanderveen bowed again. “The journey was pleasant. Your home is very beautiful.”
Madam Las Laa bowed in acknowledgment. “Thank you. Now, if you would be so kind as to step inside, I have a guest who would like to meet with you.”
Vanderveen felt her pulse quicken. The meeting with Las Laa was a cover! Someone else wanted to meet with Clauson, someone who couldn’t do so out in the open and would now be forced to deal with her. It might be something—or it might be nothing. It was interesting either way. The diplomat delivered her reply. “I would be honored to meet with your guest.”
“Excellent,” the LaNorian matron replied. “Please follow Duu Tas . . . The lieutenant and I will tour the garden.”
The last statement was by way of an order rather than a request. Santana looked at Vanderveen, saw her nod, and extended his arm. “Thank you, Madame Las Laa, I would love to see your garden.”
It was gracefully done, and Vanderveen felt a sense of gratitude as she followed the diminutive maid inside the house.
The better part of two hours had passed by the time Vanderveen emerged from the house and joined her hostess out on the veranda.
Santana had been through the entire garden by then, sipped innumerable cups of tea, and was listening to a full inventory of Madame Las Laa’s physical ailments when the diplomat finally appeared.
It took another fifteen minutes for the twosome to extricate
themselves, enter the cab, and head back toward Mys. “So,” Santana said as the cart bumped along, “who was the mysterious houseguest anyway?”
“His name is Mee Mas,” Vanderveen answered levelly, “and he’s the dead Emperor’s nephew.”
“Sounds interesting,” the officer said dutifully. “What did he want?”
“What he wants,” Vanderveen said thoughtfully, “is to depose the Empress, take over the planet, and join the Confederacy.”
4
* * *
Aptitude for war is aptitude for movement.
Napoleon I,
Maxims of War
Standard year 1831
* * *
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
Like those of the other senior members of the embassy staff, Major Miraby’s office was located on the third floor looking out over the riverfront park, the dubious waters of the Jade River, and the native quarter beyond. Rather than the battlefield mementos that many senior officers liked to scatter around their offices, Miraby’s was decorated with pictures of him standing with a variety of VIPs.
As Santana, Beckworth, and Seeba-Ka stood waiting for their commanding officer to enter, the lieutenant saw photos of Miraby standing next to General Booly, Miraby conferring with War Commander Doma-Sa, and Miraby laughing at one of President Nankool’s jokes. All in his Class A’s, all in official settings, and all indicative of a largely bureaucratic career.
There was the sound of footsteps as Miraby entered the office, said, “At ease,” and circled his fortresslike bana wood desk. As the major took his seat the other officers did likewise. Consistent with his origins, Seeba-Ka chose one that would put his back to a wall. “So,” Miraby said, “how much have you people heard?”
News traveled fast within the confines of the embassy, and all three of the officers believed they had a pretty good idea what was going on, but nobody said so. Miraby, who liked to give briefings, used the back of an index finger to smooth his mustache. “All right then, I’ll run it down for you.”
For More Than Glory Page 10
