The Clones came next, their spacing intact, ready to dive off either side of the trail should the need arise.
In spite of Santana’s best efforts to warn the Thrakies without saying anything that could be construed as mutinous, they continued to hunker down in their wagons, with many going so far as to take surreptitious naps.
Vanderveen, still confined to her cart, fumed as the two-wheeled vehicle rattled along behind the Thrakies. Santana might be a bit of a xenophobe where Ramanthians were concerned, and more than a little self-centered, but he knew his military stuff. The diplomat was sure of that. So sure that she had even gone so far as to divide her luggage into two categories, the things she needed to survive and the things she could live without. That’s why she sat with a day pack strapped to her back and her feet on a long, narrow fiberglass case. If the time came, no when the time came, Vanderveen would be ready.
Farther back, behind the side-to-side lurch of the supply wagons, Hakk Batth glanced as the device strapped to his left tool arm. Less than one standard hour. That was how long he would have to wait for the farce to end.
It was right about then that the road took a sharp turn toward the south, the column headed into the swamp, and Santana spotted the freshly cut poles. There was one to either side of the muddy trail. Each bore a skull so white that it appeared that the flesh had been boiled off. Both of them were human.
5
* * *
Religions, especially those which find the means to bridge cultures, can bind disparate races together, or pry them apart.
Mowa Sith Horobothna
Turr academic
Standard year 2227
* * *
ABOARD THE SPACE STATION ORB I, IN ORBIT OVER THE PLANET LONG JUMP, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Thanks to its position at the very edge of the Rim, Long Jump made an excellent place to refuel, cut business deals, and have some fun. All things spacers need to do. Though half the size of space station Halo, which had been destroyed by the robotic Sheen many months before—Orb I was still quite large.
As Legion General Bill Booly followed the corridor that circled the outer edge of the wheel-shaped space station, he found himself rubbing shoulders with all manner of fellow beings, including brightly feathered Prithians, hulking Hudathans, work-worn androids, exoskeleton-clad Dwellers, cybernetic humans, and more.
Rather than his uniform, the legionnaire wore beat-up black leathers and could have been taken for a spacer, a prospector, or a smuggler. No one had recognized him, not as far as he could tell, which made for a good start.
Ships were announced, beings were paged, and audio ads were projected into Booly’s ears. “Hey, big boy,” one of them began, “are you ready to party? Try Tina’s on E Deck.”
There was visual input, too, like the Soro Systems’ “zip” ads that circled the electroactive walls, ambulatory holos like the whiskey canister strolling along to his left, and the animated deck decals that were hard to read with so many bodies in the way.
A Transcendental missionary lurched out of the crowd, her begging terminal extended in both hands, and Booly circled to the left.
A briefly glimpsed decal promised that a bank of lift tubes waited up ahead. The crowed flowed like a river, and the officer allowed a side current to carry him off to the right. His suite was located on C Deck, so the legionnaire followed a pair of Thraki merchants onto a “down” platform, and marveled at the way in which the Confederacy’s onetime enemies had managed to integrate themselves into the very structure they had once attempted to destroy.
The platform coasted to a stop. Booly stepped off and entered a checkpoint where his retinas were compared to those of Lonny Fargo, a well-established smuggler with a fat bank account and a reputation for flash.
The files were identical, the man named Fargo was admitted to the “rez” deck, and directed to his suite. If felt good to escape the circuslike atmosphere of the public areas and slide into the expensive but extremely comfortable ambience maintained on D Deck.
After a relatively short walk the officer arrived in front of Suite 1010, where he peered into a reader and heard a tone followed by a loud click.
Booly opened the hatch-style door, felt cool air push past his face, and stepped into the semidarkened room. The lights failed to come on the way they should have, but there could be any number of reasons for that. The soldier was about to call for additional illumination when a voice called from the adjoining bedroom. “Lonny? Is that you?”
The voice was familiar, very familiar, and Booly grinned. “Yes, dear, how’s my snugums?”
There was the sound of girlish laughter as the legionnaire half walked, half stumbled through the suite, leaving a trail of clothes behind him. Then, spotting the bed in the half-lit murk, Booly crawled up toward a mountain of white pillows. A pair of warm arms reached up to pull him down, two long slender legs wrapped themselves around his hips, and the unforgettable scent of Maylo Chien-Chu’s perfume rose to fill his nostrils.
Much to Booly’s enjoyment, he discovered that his wife was not only naked—but as hungry for him as he was for her. Moments later she pulled him in, took command of his body, and closed her eyes.
Then, with an intensity born of their long separation, the pace of their lovemaking increased until Maylo dug her fingernails into Booly’s back, and the pleasure carried them away.
Finally, their limbs still entwined, Maylo kissed her husband’s shoulder. “ ‘Snugums?’ Where did that come from?”
“Hey,” Booly replied jokingly, “that’s the way smugglers talk to their girlfriends.”
“You really need to get out a little bit more,” Maylo said, “but not till I’m done with you . . . come here.”
What with more lovemaking, a meal ordered from room service, and the need to catch up on each other’s activities, many hours passed before the two of them were ready to tackle the mission that had brought them together on Orb I: Find both the Ibutho and the Guerro so that the navy could either capture the ships or blow them away. A task made more difficult in the wake of the assault on Syndicate Base 012. Always secretive, the mutineers would be even more so now that they knew the Confederacy was gunning for them, and the ships on which their power was based.
“So,” Booly said, pulling on what he thought of as his Lonny clothes, “how’s your uncle?”
Maylo, who normally wore very little makeup, painted her mouth a little bit larger. The idea was to look like the sort of woman that a smuggler like Lonny would hang out with. “Uncle Sergi is fine as far as I know . . . He’s on a Class III planet called LaNor. The company purchased some subsea mineral rights there, and he went to check things out. He loves that sort of thing even though it drives Aunt Nola nuts.”
Booly had been so busy during his on-again off-again romance with Maylo that even though they were married, he had a tendency to forget that she was the president of a star-spanning corporation and a millionaire. Or was she a billionaire? He wasn’t quite sure . . . But that’s why she could not only afford to meet her husband on the Rim, but loan him the very thing he needed most, a beat-up spaceship.
The officer walked across the room, placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders, and started to massage them. “A Class III planet? I should be surprised, but I’m not. Your uncle is the most amazing man I’ve ever met.”
“He’s pretty special,” Maylo agreed, “but you give better back rubs. No wonder I married you—this is better than sex.”
“Better?” Booly demanded. “So much for my male ego . . . I’ll never make love again.”
“I could turn you into a liar,” Maylo replied, “but the process would smear my makeup. How do I look?”
Booly looked at his wife’s face in the mirror. Even the extremely heavy makeup couldn’t conceal her beauty. She had black hair, large almond-shaped eyes, and high cheekbones. It was a wonderful face, his favorite face, and the one that haunted his dreams. “You look like a high-class whore.”
“You say t
he sweetest things! Now, let’s get out of here before I throw you on the bed again.”
Twenty minutes later the couple was down on F Deck looking out through an armored viewport. The ship beyond had been old before either one of them had been born. She looked like what she was, a clapped-out intersystem freighter that had long ago been displaced by larger, faster ships and relegated to the Rim where she was destined to live out her remaining days running supplies to isolated colonies, or ferrying less legitimate cargoes for the likes of Lonny Fargo. “So,” Maylo said proudly, “there she is . . . The newly christened Solar Princess. What do you think?”
“She’s kind of old to be a princess,” Booly said dryly, “but otherwise perfect. Assuming the baling wire holds . . . and the rust keeps her together.”
“Oh, she’ll hang together all right,” Maylo said confidently. “I made sure of that. Looks can be deceiving. She has reconditioned drives, more armament than any ship of her size should, and a reasonably clean cabin for use by the owner and his high-class whore.”
Booly frowned. “You aren’t coming. What about the company?”
Maylo looked into her husband’s eyes. “Oh, yes I am. Even CEOs get to go on vacation. You’re stuck with me. Besides, no Maylo, no ship.”
Booly felt the trap close around him. He had assumed, incorrectly as it turned out, that his wife’s responsibilities would force a return to Earth. Now here she was, insisting that she be allowed to come, in spite of the fact that the mission could be extremely dangerous.
The legionnaire knew he could say “no,” and obtain a ship from the government, but his refusal to let her take the same risks that he did would make her angry. Which, he had to admit, was the same way he would feel were their positions reversed. Booly swallowed the words he wanted to say in favor of those he should say. “Okay, if you agree to wear less makeup.”
Maylo knew her husband extremely well and could guess at the thoughts that ran through his mind. She grinned. “That was hard, wasn’t it?”
Booly laughed. “Damned hard.”
Maylo kissed him on the cheek. “The good news is that I’m worth it. Come on . . . I’ll give you a tour of your ship. The owner’s cabin is especially nice. I think you’ll like it.”
The tour lasted the better part of four hours, most of which was spent in the owner’s cabin. It was small, plain, and badly in need of some fresh paint. But Maylo was correct. Booly did like it . . . and for reasons that had nothing to do with the decor.
THE PLANET JERICHO, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The shuttle chased its own delta-shaped shadow as it flitted over the triple-canopy jungle below. Unlike so many of the planets brutalized during the course of two wars, Jericho had been spared the use of nuclear weapons and was already well on the way to rehabilitating itself. A process which the Ramanthian ambassador thoroughly approved of in light of the fact that Jericho was one of three planets his race had so recently received as reparations for the destruction inflicted by the barbarous ridge heads.
All of which was rather fortuitous given the fact that Orno’s race would have been forced to seize some of the very same worlds had the Hudathans not been so considerate as to cleanse the planets of sentient life, lose two ensuing wars, and forfeit all rights to them.
Even now the Ramanthian diplomat could look down and see the ruins of a bombed-out city that was already partially concealed by the encroaching jungle. Later, say two hundred local years in the future, the surface of Jericho would resemble that of Hive. An orderly place where the descendants of the tercentennial birthing would grow crops on the surface, hunt within carefully maintained game preserves, and live in vast subterranean cities.
And not just on Jericho, but on two similar worlds, each of which would dominate its own planetary system and provide much needed protection for Hive, which, like a jewel at the very center of a perfectly conceived brooch, would be surrounded by lesser though still impressive gems.
Yes, Orno thought as he watched a series of glittering lakes slide under one of the shuttle’s stubby wings, luck played a role in certain aspects of the design, but the overall creation was the product of my imagination, my vision, and my skills at negotiation. Do others understand and appreciate that? No, probably not, but it makes no difference. I know—and that knowledge will sustain me even as I enter the great darkness.
There was an announcement, the shuttle began to descend, and Orno forced himself to focus on the task at pincer. Just as the Hudathans had unintentionally assisted the Ramanthians in the past Orno hoped to trick them once again.
Excellent though his skills at negotiation had proven to be the diplomat had been unable to convince the Confederacy’s Senate to simply grant his race a significant portion of the now-deactivated Sheen fleet.
In fact, judging from the pace of the most recent discussions, the robotic ships were likely to remain in orbit around Arballa’s sun until the next ice age wrapped Hive in a frigid embrace. But not if Orno could help it. His race needed ships, a lot of ships, to colonize planets like the one below. Now, having promised the Queen that he would steal the necessary vessels the diplomat would have to do so. More than that Orno hoped to convince the Hudathans to help him, and assuming things went well, to assume more than their share of the blame.
That was the plan anyway, but success would depend on the newest member of their ruling triad, a conservative named Horo Hasa-Ba. If the intelligence reports were correct the newcomer had dedicated himself to the full restoration of Hudathan autonomy.
A goal opposed by the formidable Doma-Sa, who, along with the cyborg named Chien-Chu, had engineered the current arrangement in which the Hudathans had surrendered their right to a deep-space navy in return for membership in the Confederacy.
Assuming the reports regarding Hasa-Ba were correct, and he did want to restore Hudatha to full independence, then the opportunity to seize a significant part of the Sheen fleet would be attractive indeed.
And, making the arrangement that much sweeter was the fact that a victory for Hasa-Ba would amount to a defeat for Doma-Sa, the very individual who had killed the War Orno in single combat. Death would be better of course, much better, but not even that lay outside the realm of possibility.
Satisfied that his plan made sense, and confident of his powers of persuasion, the Ramanthian allowed himself to relax.
Meanwhile, on the surface below, the vast temple of the Lords sat dozing in the sun. The ruins were enormous. So huge that studies carried out by human archeologists before the Hudathan wars covered less than 1 percent of the surface structure, never mind what might lie below.
A scar, lighter than the surrounding rock, showed where a missile had struck many years before, a bomb crater marked the center of a dark flower. The petals consisted of burned-out vehicles and hand-dug graves. The rest of the temple remained as it had been for thousands of years.
Inside the west end of the long rectangular structure, not far from the squat boxy shape of a Hudathan assault boat, Horo Hasa-Ba stood with folded arms. Huge figures, each physiologically different, stared down at him. The Hudathan stared back. Who were these beings he wondered? And why were members of such apparently disparate races all seated together? Were they leaders of a star-spanning religion? Or, and this seemed to make more sense, had the gigantic figures been members of a political alliance similar to the Confederacy?
Yes, Hasa-Ba said to himself, that would make sense. The real question, however, was not who the figures were—but who had put them out of business? Monuments if any should be constructed to honor those having the intelligence, the strength, and the determination to impose their will on others. Not losers such as those who brooded in the niches around him.
The Hudathan heard a thin, insectlike whine as the Ramanthian shuttle circled the ruins, followed by the scream of the ship’s twin engines, an echoing roar as the ship swooped in through the hall’s east entrance. The incoming vessel fired its retros and started to slow.
&
nbsp; Hasa-Ba had suggested that they meet under cover, where they were less likely to be observed, but regretted the comment as the shuttle came straight at him.
Still, to move would be to show weakness, something the Hudathan was determined not to do. He remained where he was, eyes fixed on the blunt bow, until forward motion stopped, and the vessel settled onto its skids.
Hasa-Ba felt a wave of heat wash over him, waited for the engines to spool down, and made for the port side. Servos whined, a ramp extruded itself from the ship’s hull, and the Ramanthian appeared. Though not especially fond of any alien race, the Hudathan thought that the bugs were especially ugly, and was careful to keep his face empty of all expression.
All of the intelligence reports agreed . . . The Ramanthians, and this Ramanthian in particular, were very dangerous indeed. In fact there was more than sufficient evidence to indicate that the bugs had aided if not actually taken part in the plot to destabilize the Confederacy by meddling with Earth’s government. Later, when that plot failed, the bugs formed a secret alliance with the Thrakies, hoping to benefit from the ensuing chaos. All of which served to emphasize that while Ifana-Ka and Doma-Sa had been correct to cut a deal with the Confederacy, they were wrong to honor it. So long as the Hudathan people lacked their own deep-space navy they would remain vulnerable to beings like the Ramanthians.
So, assuming that the bugs were greedy enough, not to mention stupid enough, to help his race acquire thousands of ships, the Hudathan would cooperate with them.
Then, after the other members of the triad had been brought under control or removed, Hasa-Ba would treat the Ramanthians like the insects they were. He would stomp them, scrape the mess off his boots, and move on. The thought evoked the equivalent of a smile as the Hudathan moved forward to greet his coconspirator.
The ensuing conversation lasted for the better part of four local hours, and a pervasive gloom had settled into the great hall by the time the two politicians boarded their ships, and roared out into the night.
For More Than Glory Page 15
