A radio transmission followed the flares. Santana recognized the voice as belonging to Lieutenant Mary Beckworth. “Red Six to Blue Six . . . over.”
Santana made note of the need to adjust call signs. “This is Blue Six . . . go. Over.”
“Welcome home Blue Six . . . You have a reception party at twelve o’clock. If we see so much as a kid with a pocketknife we have orders to fire. Stay on the road so we know where you are . . . and don’t put any ordnance near the gate.”
“Roger that,” Santana said gratefully. “We’re on our way, over.”
Two additional flares popped high in the air, were caught by the easterly breeze, and blown toward the distant ocean.
Now, fully aware that a party of off-worlders was among them, the civilians, and that included a significant number of the Claw, were drawn to both sides of the road. They stood three and five bodies deep, weapons clutched in their hands, walling the column in.
Vanderveen heard a distinct click as Santana released the safety on his CA-10 carbine. The diplomat took her rifle off safety as well and prepared to defend to herself.
Meanwhile, a youth named Yao Che stood next to the Claw known as Ply Pog and watched the first aliens plod by. Having spent time with the Bussos, and been allowed to watch hundreds of videos prior to Trudy’s untimely death, the youngster had seen all sorts of amazing technology. So, while interesting, the sight of the enormous T-2 didn’t have the mesmerizing effect on Yao Che that it did on many of those around him.
What happened next was more the result of impulse than a well-conceived strategy. He was relatively small, but so were one group of aliens, and that suggested a plan. Stepping forward, then sliding along the front rank of onlookers, his mouth open in what he hoped was an expression of wonderment, Yao Che waited for the next set of flares to go off. It seemed to take forever as he stepped on someone’s toes, staggered as they cuffed the side of his head, and felt his hat fall off! The same hat he had worked so long to protect.
Yao Che’s first impulse was to go after the missing cap then run to catch up. But better sense prevailed as the youth realized that the hat as well as the message hidden inside it had probably been trampled into the mud by then, and once engaged in trying to find it he would never be able to catch the aliens.
The youngster clutched the earthenware pot to his chest, continued to edge along the front of the crowd, and waited for the next set of flares. He and his companions had attempted to enter Polwa the day before and been denied. It seemed that the Empress had grown concerned about the number of Tro Wa who had entered the Imperial city of late and started to turn them away. A factor that made Yao Che’s task that much more difficult.
Then, just when the LaNorian messenger had decided that there wouldn’t be any more flares, they went off. Nearly everyone looked upward, was momentarily blinded by the glare, and forced to stare at spots for a moment or two. No one, not even the Thrakies themselves, noticed that their number had grown by one.
Yao Che marched head down and kept his eyes on the alien in front of him. The gate, the one that would admit him to the foreign city of Mys, loomed ahead. It looked green under the flares and torches could be seen to either side.
Meanwhile, Captain Drik Seeba-Ka, resplendent in his dress uniform and armed with handgun and sword, approached the North Gate. Though still at their respective posts, the LaNorian guards had effectively been neutralized by the sudden appearance of six legionnaires, all of whom claimed they were there to “help.”
The ranking Imperial was still in the process of explaining that he didn’t need any help, and demanding some sort of credentials, when Snyder whirred past him. The LaNorian tried to rally his troops, to block what he saw as unauthorized access, when someone tripped him. The Imperial swore, fell in a pile of raz shit, and felt a combat boot land on his chest. First Sergeant Neversmile grinned. “Ooops! Sorry about that; don’t move. I’ll call a medic.”
The Imperial was explaining that he didn’t need a herbalist, and wanted to get up, when the senior NCO saw Sergeant Hillrun pass through the gate and removed his foot from the LaNorian’s torso. Seconds later the Naa were slapping each other on the back, the Imperial was scraping shit off his uniform, and the second platoon was backing its way into the city. Whatever spell had held the crowd at bay seemed to expire as the last of the legionnaires withdrew, the doors slammed shut, and the enormous crossbar fell into its brackets.
Then, like an animal denied its prey, a roar of protest was heard. A hail of rocks rattled against the doors, a volley of shots were fired, and fire arrows streaked over the top of the walls. One struck a cluster of shacks located west of the gate and set a roof on fire. The occupants yelled at each other and ran to throw buckets of water on the blaze.
Meanwhile, Seeba-Ka joined Santana as the column took a right, then a left, and paused behind the Thrak embassy. The Thraki troops wanted to be released and said so. Seeba-Ka opposed that, for the next hour at least, and ordered them to remain where they were. No one noticed as one of their number faded into the shadows and vanished from sight.
“All right,” the Hudathan said, pulling Santana to one side, “tell me what happened out there, and be careful what you say. One lie, one attempt to bullshit me, and I will have your ass for breakfast.”
Though well aware of the fact that he would have to go through what promised to be a rather painful debriefing process, and fill out dozens of reports, the cavalry officer was surprised by Seeba-Ka’s urgent manner.
Still, he had spent countless hours thinking about all that had taken place, and discovered that he was able to deliver a fairly cogent verbal report. Seeba-Ka listened intently, nodding from time to time, and interjecting questions.
When Santana came to the evening prior to the ambush, and his recommendation that the column avoid the swamp, a new voice chimed in. “You might be interested to know that I taped that conversation—listen to this. Both officers turned to discover that Vanderveen had joined them. She smiled sweetly and triggered the vocorder.
Seeba-Ka listened to the relevant part of the conversation and nodded. “Thank you, FSO Vanderveen, please continue to safeguard that recording . . . we’re going to need it. What happened next?”
Santana’s throat felt dry. He swallowed in attempt to lubricate it. Then, careful to stick to the facts, the cavalry officer recounted how the column had entered the swamp, how he requested permission to fire, and how his request was denied.
Then, knowing that he might well be sealing his fate, Santana told Seeba-Ka how he had intentionally disobeyed Batth’s order, triggered the ambush, and pulled back only to discover that the Ramanthians were firing on the column from the rear.
It was dark, but the lights were on within the Thraki embassy, and the glow lit the left side of the Hudathan’s face. It was so grim as to appear skeletal. He turned to Vanderveen. “Did you see the Ramanthians fire toward the column?”
“I certainly did,” the diplomat said calmly. “One of them tired to kill me.”
“Really?” Seeba-Ka asked, “What happened?”
“She shot him,” Santana put in succinctly. “One bullet—right through the chest.”
“How very economical,” the Hudathan said dryly. “If only our legionnaires were equally parsimonious. You would testify to that?”
“Of course,” Vanderveen assured him. “With pleasure.”
“The Claw were armed with Ramanthian-made Negar III assault rifles,” Santana put in. “We brought one of them back.”
“Good,” Seeba-Ka said. “Keep that weapon secured. All right, what happened next?”
It took ten minutes to provide the company commander with the highlights of the march to Pur Lor, the way Prince Mee Mas had surfaced in the well, and the trip back. The Hudathan listened intently as Santana explained his decision to set up an ambush and the outcome.
Then, satisfied that he had a pretty good understanding of what had taken place, Seeba-Ka eyed the junior officer’s soile
d uniform. “You look like hell—but that could work to our benefit . . . Now listen carefully, strange as it may seem, I’m about to take you to a party. Not just any party, but a party that the Dracs are throwing for Batth, to celebrate his safe return. Never mind the fact that if the bastard were telling the truth, he lost 75 percent of his command. Anyway, I think it might be very interesting to have you show up right about now, especially in light of the fact that the scumbag filed a report claiming that his troops buried you in the swamp.”
Santana’s eyes grew wider. “Sir, you’ve got to be joking.”
“Have you ever heard me tell a joke?”
“No sir.”
“Nor are you likely to. Let’s go.”
“I’m coming, too,” Vanderveen put in cheerfully, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“That’s up to you, ma’am,” Seeba-Ka replied grimly, “but it won’t be much of a party.”
The Drac embassy was on the other side of Legation street from the Strathmore Hotel. In contrast to the structures erected by other off-worlders, most of which were intentionally imposing, the building the Dracs had sequestered themselves within consisted of a featureless concrete box having four doors and no windows.
The public areas of the embassy’s interior were equally stark. Screens depicting clouds of swirling gas hung on some of the walls, while others were entirely bare. Furniture, all of which was made of bare metal, crouched here and there.
There were private areas, of course, rooms pumped full of the gas mix that the Dracs physiology required them to breathe, but none of the other off-worlders had ever been invited to enter those, and would have required space armor to survive.
An attempt had been made to decorate the room in which diplomatic functions were held. However, given the fact that the Dracs were color-blind, and saw everything in shades of gray, the streamers, table decorations, and other items had been chosen without regard to whether the colors were complementary.
The fact that the Drac diplomats wore dull black pressure suits and made gurgling noises as they breathed did nothing to lighten the atmosphere.
Still, everyone present was used to such realities, and did a masterful job of ignoring both the decor and the manner in which their hosts were forced to dress. Once everyone had been given a chance to sip, slurp, or siphon the stimulant or depressant of their choice the festivities could begin.
In spite of the fact that most of those present thought it was inappropriate to celebrate the survival of one group while so many others had perished, it seemed such gatherings were common among the Dracs, who saw them as memorials to both the living and the dead. Pas Rasha had been unwilling to attend, but rather than offend the Drac Axis, sent FSO-2 Harley Clauson to represent him.
It was warm inside the Drac embassy, too warm, and Clauson used a cocktail napkin to dab the beads of perspiration on his forehead as the Drac ambassador mounted the platform at the far end of the room. His name was Fas Doonar, and he was a close personal friend to both Ambassador Regar Batth, and his military corollary, Force Leader Hakk Batth. The microphone served to amplify both his voice and the gurgling noises that his respirator made.
“Good evening. Thank you for joining us. I have been in the diplomatic corps long enough to realize that there are those among you who consider a gathering like this one to be distasteful if not outright inappropriate. For the Drac such celebrations serve a positive function, however, reaffirming the value of life, and bringing those who survive together.
“Like you, we were saddened to learn that the relief column had been ambushed, and in spite of the valiant defense put up by the Thrakies, Clones, and Ramanthians, nearly wiped out.”
Clauson, who like everyone in the diplomatic community was well aware of the claims Batth had made regarding Lieutenant Santana’s persistent incompetence, couldn’t help but notice the fact that no mention had been made of the legionnaires or Christine Vanderveen, for whom he felt responsible. The entire Mee Mas thing had been highly speculative at best—and in retrospect the FSO knew he should have opposed it. Now he would have to write a letter to a father, something which would not only be unpleasant, but also not especially good for his career.
“However,” Doonar continued, “in spite of our grief we can still take a moment to celebrate the accomplishments of the brave officer who fought off the Claw, brought his troops back through hostile territory, and survived to join us tonight. I give you Force Leader Hakk Batth.”
There was light applause as Hakk Batth backed out of his chair and made his way up to the platform. Like the other military officers present that evening, the Ramanthian wore his dress uniform complete with a red pillbox hat, gold epaulettes, two rows of medals, a pleated kilt, and a chromed sidearm. His sword hung Ramanthian-style down his back. The Ramanthian nodded to the Drac diplomat and launched into some prepared text. Meaningless drivel for the most part, extolling the accomplishments of those who died in the ambush, while subtly polishing his own reputation.
Clauson, who found the whole thing to be depressing, had just grabbed two pastries off a passing tray and was about to shove them into his mouth, when a door slammed open and Captain Drik Seeba-Ka invaded the room.
Major Miraby, who had been wondering where Seeba-Ka was, watched in amazement as his subordinate marched up the aisle, mounted the platform, and commandeered the microphone. Batth said something by way of an objection but the Hudathan was louder. “Good evening, gentle beings. . . It may interest you to know that while some of our brave soldiers were killed in action—many of them survived. Please welcome Lieutenant Santana, FSO Vanderveen, Prince Mee Mas, and the troops who accompanied them.”
Santana heard his cue, pushed the door open, and made for the stage. Vanderveen followed. But that wasn’t all. . . . Even as the military officer and the diplomat walked toward the front of the room, a T-2 bent nearly double in order to pass through the door, Sergeant Twelve entered with Seebos in tow, L-1 Narvony led her bedraggled troops into the hall, while Sergeant Hillrun and six legionnaires brought up the rear.
The sight of the soldiers brought forth exclamations of amazement, many shouts of joy, and all manner of confused conversation. “Now,” Seeba-Ka continued, “take a good look at the beings that Force Leader Hakk Batth assured you were dead and know the actual truth. . . . For reasons I can only speculate on, Batth cut some sort of deal with the Claw, led the column into an ambush, and ordered Ramanthian troops to fire on the allied force as well.
“Then, certain that all the potential witnesses were dead, he returned to Mys. Under the circumstances, Lieutenant Santana had little choice but to assume command. Though unable to complete the original mission, the lieutenant was able to assist FSO Vanderveen in locating Prince Mee Mas and successfully brought what remained of the column back through enemy-held territory.”
Even allowing for differences in culture and physiology there was no mistaking the look of stunned amazement on Force Leader Hakk Batth’s face. His eyes bulged, his parrotlike beak opened and closed, and his tool arms jerked spasmodically.
It should have been impossible, but Santana had not only managed to escape death at the hands of the Tro Wa, but made it back to Mys. All of which meant that Batth had not only failed, but shamed his mates in the process, for which there could be no forgiveness.
The Ramanthian used both arms to reach back over his head, grasp the sword’s twin hilts, and pull the weapon out of its scabbard. Santana would die first, followed by the Hudathan and the human diplomat.
But Seeba-Ka had anticipated the move, more than that hoped for such a move, and Death Giver had already started to sing even as the Ramanthian reached back over his head.
Santana had just started to reach for his sidearm as metal flashed under the overhead lights, Hudathan steel connected with Ramanthian chitin, and Batth’s head flew off. Blood fountained into the air, one of the Prithians uttered the human equivalent of a scream, and the Ramanthian’s torso toppled forward into th
e crowd.
Guests scattered, furniture was overturned, and one of the Thraki diplomats fainted.
Seeba-Ka, sword still in hand, left the platform.
Regar Batth, the Ramanthian ambassador, knelt next to what remained of his mate.
Clauson, both pastries still uneaten, turned to Miraby. “Well, Major, I don’t know about you, but I’d say this party was anything but boring. My compliments to Captain Seeba-Ka on his swordsmanship. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to say hello to FSO Vanderveen . . . I’ll see you in the morning.”
The party was over—but it was one that none were likely to forget.
8
* * *
The ideal officer in any army knows his business. He is firm and just . . . An officer is not supposed to sleep until his men are bedded down. He is not supposed to eat until he has arranged for his men to eat. He’s like a prizefighter’s manager. If he keeps his fighter in shape the fighter will make him successful. I respect those combat officers who feel this responsibility so strongly that many of them are killed fulfilling it.
Bill Mauldin
Up Front
Standard year 1945
* * *
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
Major Homer Miraby’s office looked much like those used by other senior officers except that none of the photos, plaques and other memorabilia that decorated the room had anything to do with combat. In spite of repeated requests for a line command Miraby had progressed from lieutenant to major without having seen action, and not having had the opportunity to prove himself in battle, would rise no further.
For More Than Glory Page 23
