Soon after that the texture of the bottom seemed to change, the tulips disappeared, and a field of growth-encrusted tektites, or what Chien-Chu guessed were tektites, came into view. There were thousands of globular shapes, interspersed with what the industrialist thought of as flower gardens, where colonies of reclusive bivalves lived, their bright, ribbonlike tongues stabbing up to snare tiny fish and pull them down below the surface of the sand where they could be digested.
After about ten minutes had passed, the bottom dropped away, the scooter’s lights fell into a vast nothingness, and it became impossible to see.
Chien-Chu fired the scooter’s retros, coasted to a stop, and took a moment to check his readouts. The number glowed red: 778 feet. That’s how far he was below the surface. “James to Foro . . . Over.”
“I read you . . . Go. Over.”
“The bottom fell out . . . I plan to follow the cliff down. Over.”
“Roger, that. Stay in touch. Out.”
Chien-Chu twisted the throttle, pushed the control sticks forward, and allowed the machine to take him down. Little bits of something sparkled in the lights as they swirled up past the cyborg’s face. Jagged though it was, ever-inventive life-forms had evolved to live on it, their flat, leaflike organs stretched wide to catch both the nutrients that rained down from above and the tiny bit of light necessary to process them.
And it was then, just as Chien-Chu passed the 875-foot mark, that a weak signal came over his onboard receiver. Freddie was somewhere below!
James to Foro . . . Over.”
“Go. Over.”
“I’ve got a signal . . . It’s weak but steady. Over.”
“Outstanding! How deep? Over.”
“I’m at 875. Over.”
“Okay . . . proceed to 975 and call in. Wu and I are on the way . . . Over.”
Chien-Chu knew that another hundred feet would place him just twenty-five feet shy of his official limit. Close . . . but acceptable. “Roger, that. Over.”
The cyborg pushed the scooter into a nose-over and rode it downward. The signal grew louder, but not that much louder, and it was clear that the robot was still some distance farther down by the time that Chien-Chu hit the 975 mark. James to Foro . . . Over.”
“Go, James.”
“I’m at 975 . . . Still no Freddie . . . Am preparing to ascend. Over.”
Suddenly, without a word of introduction, Boad crashed the frequency. Like his body, the cyborg’s voice was big and intrusive. “This is Boad . . . Belay that ascent. The official limit on your hull is 1,000 feet, but it was built to handle 1,250, or that’s what you claimed when you applied for the job. Now get your ass down there and find that robot. It’s on the books for 250,000 credits, and I want it back.”
Chien-Chu gave the mental equivalent of a sigh. He had hoped to delay the moment of confrontation for another couple of days. Clearly that wouldn’t be possible.
The cyborg brought another radio on-line, formulated a message, and bounced if off the small spaceship that remained in orbit above LaNor. A signal was received on the Seadown, programs were altered, and changes rippled through every system on the ship. The entire process took five seconds, which though not very long, was more than sufficient to elicit Boad’s anger. “I gave you an order goddamn it, and I want a reply!”
“Okay,” Chien-Chu said, directing his scooter up toward the shimmer above, “here’s your reply . . . My name is Sergi Chien-Chu, Maylo Chien-Chu’s uncle, and I own the Seadown. None of my cyborgs will be allowed to make that dive. Not only is the potential recovery not worth the risk, we have other machines for that sort of thing, and I couldn’t care less about the money. Oh, and one other thing, you’re fired.”
The response was swift and violent. “Fired? Fired? We’ll see who’s fired! I’m going to rip that box out of your head, run your brains through a blender, and feed the results to the fish!”
There was more of the same, but the comments tapered off after Boad made an attempt to lock the swimmers out, discovered that he no longer had the authority to do so, and flew into a rage. A single blow from the platform manager’s fist was sufficient to destroy the comp on his desk, a swipe from one powerful arm leveled a cyborg who happened to be out in the corridor, and a kick from a steel-toed boot shattered the computer-controlled mechanism that provided access to the Seadown’s arms locker.
Then, having armed two of his toadies with automatic weapons, Boad made his way down to lock P-1, entered, and waited for his rebellious employee to appear. It appeared that Jim James, or whoever the bastard actually was, had some pull. But that didn’t mean shit, not on a planet like LaNor, not if you wound up dead.
The problem was that decision to wait in P-1 turned out to be a mistake. Chien-Chu, who was still en route to the Seadown, made use of the newly established data link to access the submersible’s security system, “saw” where Boad was hiding, and used an authorization code to secure both of the lock’s doors. Later, after the ex-employee tired of his cell, he would be transferred to other quarters.
Together with his two companions, the industrialist made his way to lock P-2, entered, cycled through, and took command of the ship. A battle had been fought . . . and a battle had been won. Now, barring the unexpected, it was time for a nap.
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
Given the paucity of things to do on LaNor, the off-worlders had become adept at providing their own entertainment. There were dinners, parties, and even balls, some of which became quite rowdy once the participants had consumed enough stimulants or depressants.
This particular gathering promised to be a little less rambunctious, however, given the fact that the guests of honor were all part of the multinational relief force slated to depart first thing in the morning.
The mostly LaNorian band was already warming up, and Santana could hear the faint strains of music through the open windows as he made his way down the gleaming hall, paused in front of the door marked CAPTAIN DRIK SEEBA-KA, and knocked three times. He heard the Hudathan say, “Enter!” opened the door, and took three steps forward. “Sir! Second Lieutenant Antonio Santana reporting as ordered, sir!”
Seeba-Ka was seated behind his desk. He nodded. “At ease, Lieutenant, take a load off. Would you like a drink? I tested this stuff on another member of your race and he survived.”
Santana eyed the large brown jug with the Hudathan markings. There was no telling what sort of poison might lie within but there was only one possible reply. “Sir, yes sir.”
Seeba-Ka offered the Hudathan equivalent of a smile, poured three fingers of amber liquid into a dirty glass, and passed it over. Then, having dispensed a full glass for himself, the Hudathan raised it into the air. “Camerone!”
Santana echoed the toast, took a sip of the fiery liquid, and felt it slide down his throat. There was an explosion of warmth when the substance hit bottom and a sense of well-being as the effects spread out through the legionnaire’s extremities. Then, inspired by the first toast, Santana offered a second. “Blood!”
The single word, uttered within a military context, served Hudathans as a toast, a war cry, and a statement of solidarity. Seeba-Ka nodded his appreciation, raised his glass, and said “Blood!” The container was empty when he slammed it down.
“So,” the Hudathan said as he poured another dollop of liquor into both of the glasses, “let’s formulate a battle plan.”
“Battle plan? I don’t understand.”
“I know,” Seeba-Ka replied patiently, “that’s why you need a plan. First, let’s review the strategic situation. For reasons we won’t dwell on the command structure decided to create an abomination and call it a multinational relief force.
“Then, based on specious logic, they placed this abomination under the command of a bug, who may or may not be working with the enemy.
“Finally, having screwed everything else up, and not having done their homework to begin with, they chose you as executi
ve officer (XO). A rather questionable assignment given the past conflict between you and the aforementioned bug, but a decision that lies well within the bounds of their authority.”
Santana started to say something but the Hudathan raised an enormous hand. “Hold your fire, soldier. When the sitrep is over you’ll be the first to know.
“Now, where was I? Oh yes, the command structure for your little walk in the woods. Were this just the two of you, a bug and what we Hudathans often refer to as a squat, everything would be fine. The two of you could kill each other, and LaNor would be a better place to live.
“Unfortunately, there are others involved including a squad of cloned squats, a squad of fur balls, and, ancestors help me, a squad of my own legionnaires.”
Seeba-Ka stood at that point, placed a pair of gigantic fists on the top of his desk, and leaned forward. “The point is that they deserve outstanding leadership regardless of the errors made at the command level, regardless of your emotions, and regardless of interspecies politics. You will take care of all of the soldiers under your command or pay the price . . . Do you read me?”
Santana met the other officer’s coal black eyes. “Sir, yes sir.”
“Good,” Seeba-Ka said, falling back into his high-backed chair. “Now, let’s review the ops plan . . . The Landing Zone (LZ), also known as the Strathmore Hotel’s ballroom, is located deep within enemy-held territory. Once on the ground you will establish a defensive perimeter and prepare to receive the enemy. Diplomats, soldiers, and yes, human females will attack from all directions. Hold your ground, try not to say anything stupid, and wait for extraction.”
Santana grinned at the Hudathan’s heavy-handed humor. “Sir! Yes sir!”
Seeba-Ka raised his glass. “Camerone!”
“Camerone!”
Both officers drained their glasses in a single gulp, straightened their ties, and left for the ball.
In spite of the fact that the Strathmore Hotel had been constructed by a human along the lines of hotels on his native planet, a great deal of thought had gone into the needs and preferences of other species as well.
Vanderveen entered the establishment through a door so enormous that it could accommodate even the largest Hudathan, climbed risers so low that they would be comfortable for even the shortest Thraki, passed under beams so high that a Prithian could perch on them, and was shown into a ballroom that while large also featured nooks and alcoves where small groups could gather and the Hudathan ambassador could press his back against a sturdy wall.
The room featured high vaulted ceilings, three glittering chandeliers, a wooden dance floor, a side platform where the band had already started to play, and a stage on which amateur theatricals, voice recitals, and other entertainments were sometimes held. On this occasion it was empty with the exception of a podium and a mike.
Vanderveen exchanged greetings with Ishimoto-Forty-Six, Ambassador for Clone Hegemony, along with several members of his largely identical support staff before moving on to say hello to Dogon Doko-Sa, who in his role as the Hudathan ambassador was also the ranking military officer on LaNor, since his race made no distinction between the two functions.
Then, as the human diplomat continued to move toward the band, she ran into the diminutive Fynian Isu Hybatha, the Thraki ambassador, and three members of her staff, including Flight Warrior Garla Try Sygor and some of her subordinate officers.
A little farther on Vanderveen paused to warble a carefully practiced greeting to the brightly plumed Prithian diplomat named Sca Sor. He trilled in delight and patted her on the back. He had a yellow beak, and his eyes bulged with emotion. “Very good, my dear! Much better than last time. Before long we will equip you with wings and set you free over Prithia!”
It was his favorite jest where Vanderveen was concerned—and one the Prithian had made use of on two previous occasions. The diplomat laughed, accepted a glass from a passing waiter, and continued on her way. A quick glance was sufficient to establish that Santana was nowhere to be seen. An area of interest she was only barely willing to admit to.
In keeping with the diversity of their audience, the band had been forced to master a broad repertoire of musical traditions many of which required them to make use of synthethizers. Now, as they launched into a Thraki standard, “Flight to Freedom,” Harley Clauson could be heard playing the trumpet.
Sweat poured off the FSO’s face as he funneled air into the instrument, each note ringing loud and clear. The truth was that while Clauson made a better horn player than a diplomat—he was too regimented in the way he played to succeed as a professional.
Vanderveen waited for the piece to reach its crashing crescendo, led the applause, and saw the pleasure on Clauson’s face. Then, having exchanged a few words, the diplomat turned to survey the room for the second time. A cluster of uniforms immediately caught her eye. Some were bright, like the Prithian officer’s combination of blue plumage and gold accoutrements, and some were relatively plain, like the four-button olive green jackets that the legionnaires wore, each set off with touches of red. Of even greater interest was one uniform in particular—that worn by Lieutenant Tony Santana. Vanderveen allowed herself to drift in his direction.
In spite of the fact that they had fought on opposite sides on Beta-018, and the other officer was a bit pompous, Santana liked Flight Warrior Garla Try Sygor, and had just finished listening to one of her hilarious flying stories, when someone touched his arm.
The legionnaire turned to discover that Major Miraby was standing next to him—along with none other than Force Leader Hakk Batth. Now, having been briefed by Seeba-Ka, Miraby’s manner was conciliatory. “Well, I understand that you two know each other, so I won’t bother with introductions. The relief force is fortunate to be led by two such experienced officers. I’m sure you’ll make all of us proud.”
Santana looked into the Ramanthian’s huge compound eyes and saw nothing but hatred. When Hakk Batth spoke the words were deliberately provocative. “Assuming that Lieutenant Santana does what he’s told—I’m sure everything will go well.”
Blood rushed to Santana’s face, his heart beat faster, and he took a deep breath. Then, just as the officer was about to speak, Vanderveen pushed her way in between Miraby and Batth. “Sorry, but this is a ball, and Lieutenant Santana owes me a dance. Lieutenant?”
Santana swallowed the words, let the breath out, and managed an answer. The words were stiff and rigid. “Yes, that’s right.”
Vanderveen literally pulled Santana away from the other officers and guided him toward the dance floor. Other couples, humans mostly, were already on it. The band was playing something slow—for which Santana was extremely grateful. His body remembered the dance lessons received at the academy even if his conscious mind did not. Vanderveen seemed to float into his arms and melt against his body. Her perfume surrounded him like an intoxicating cloud and Santana was struck by how beautiful the diplomat was. “Thank you.”
Vanderveen looked up into the soldier’s face. “For what?”
“For pulling me out of there before I made a complete ass of myself.”
“That’s what the diplomatic corps is for,” Vanderveen said lightly, “besides, I love to dance, and you’re pretty good for a soldier.”
“I owe you nonetheless,” Santana insisted, “and an officer pays his debts.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Vanderveen replied mischievously, “because the opportunity may come as early as tomorrow.”
“The relief force is leaving tomorrow.”
“I know; I’m going with it.”
Santana frowned, missed a step, and recovered. “Going? Why?”
“You remember Mee Mas . . .”
“Yes.”
“He sent a message. He wants another meeting and asked Ambassador Pas Rasha to send me.”
It was an important break for Vanderveen, a chance to break out of Mys and do the kind of work she had always wanted to do, but Santana missed that and focused on
the military aspect of things instead. “I don’t think you should go . . . It would be dangerous during the best of times and even more so now. Besides, Hakk Batth is unreliable, and capable of damned near anything.”
Vanderveen stopped, took a full step backward, and stared up into Santana’s face. Her cheeks were flushed with anger. “Dangerous? Do you honestly believe that I joined the diplomatic corps because I thought it would be safe? And who the hell do you think you are anyway? My father? As for Hakk Batth, a board of inquiry decided to demote you rather than him, something you would do well to remember.”
Santana was still in the process of trying to formulate an answer when the diplomat turned on her heel and walked away. There was a speech after that, not to mention applause, but the evening was over. Santana returned to the barracks, checked to ensure that his legionnaires were prepped, and hit the rack. There were dreams—and all of them were bad.
THE TOWN OF BAL TEE, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
Located as it was at the point where two muddy rivers joined together, the town of Bal Tee had started out as little more than a fishing camp hundreds of years before, evolved into a village, and eventually made the transition to a full-fledged town.
The houses, all of which had been dug into the long sloping hillside, were made of wood and stood shoulder to shoulder so that one wall could serve two dwellings.
The main thoroughfare was paved with locally fired blue-black bricks, each placed on edge to make the surface thicker, with river sand to fill all the joints. The street started down by the docks, switchbacked up through the town, and ended at the cemetery up on top of the hill.
Now, as hundreds of farmers arrived in Bal Tee for market day, the street delivered them into the level area located halfway up the hill where dozens of stalls had been set up. Brightly colored clothing hung from lines that crisscrossed the street, animals peered out of cleverly woven cages, mouth-watering odors emanated from small braziers, apothecaries crouched within their knee stalls, youngsters chased each other through the crowd, and the Claw set up shop.
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