It wasn’t fair really, since it had been his skill at interarmy politics, administrative matters, and procurement that caused superiors to put him behind a long succession of desks, but that’s how it was. Unlike some of his peers, whose ambitions had been frustrated by wounds suffered in battle, the application of ill-considered strategies, or the vagaries of high-level military politics, Miraby’s career suffered because he was good at tasks that, while important to the Legion, were not considered to be sufficiently warrior-like.
And so it was that Captain Drik Seeba-Ka and Lieutenant Antonio Santana found themselves standing at parade rest in the center of a room hung with photos of Miraby standing with all manner of other REMFs (rear echelon motherfuckers), politicians of various stripes, and corporate bigwigs.
The better part of twenty minutes had passed since they had been ushered into the office, and the major had yet to arrive. The officers suspected it was Miraby’s way of preparing the ground, of putting them in their place, and there was nothing they could do but wait. Both had spent most of the night writing reports. Santana for Seeba-Ka, Seeba-Ka for Miraby, and knowing how the pecking order worked, Miraby for Ambassador Pas Rasha.
Now, nearly dead on his feet, Santana discovered that he had momentarily fallen asleep when the door slammed and jarred him awake. Both officers came to attention.
Miraby, his freshly shaved head gleaming in the light, his mustache nicely combed, and his uniform starched to perfection strode to the other side of the room, took his place behind a barricade-like desk, and speared them with his eyes.
“Would you like to know where I’ve been? I’ll tell you where I’ve been . . . I was with Ambassador Pas Rasha—trying to figure out how to deal with the political fallout attendant to last evening’s execution.”
Seeba-Ka started to speak but Miraby held up a hand. “Don’t try to bullshit me, Captain . . . I read the reports. You met with Santana prior to the party, came to certain conclusions, and passed sentence.
“Having done so, you created a deliberately provocative situation, made what can only be described as incendiary statements, and engineered the response you hoped for.
“Predictably enough the Ramanthian ambassador is pissed, seriously pissed, and looking for a way to get even. He plans to forward a protest to Senator Orno, who will raise the matter in the Senate, thereby generating all sorts of complicated hell.
“Now, as for you,” Miraby said, his right index finger pointing at Santana’s chest, “let me be very clear . . . There is no room in the Legion for officers who refuse to obey orders. Fortunately for you, and for Captain Seeba-Ka as well, FSO Vanderveen did an exemplary job of documenting what took place out in the field, and the radio transmissions downloaded from Snyder’s onboard computer serve to support her records.
“In fact, you might want to buy her a drink, because if I were to believe the reports that she wrote, I’d get the impression that you are competent, which I happen to know you aren’t.
“Thanks to FSO Vanderveen’s efforts, not to mention the ambassador’s, there’s at least some chance that the two of you will be able to avoid court-martial.
“Now,” Miraby said, circling his desk to stand right in front of them, “hear me good. Copies of all the relevant documentation have been forwarded to the Ramanthian embassy. That means Ambassador Batth knows what we know. Based on preliminary communications I think the Ramanthians will deny that they cut some sort of deal with the Claw, write what happened during the ambush off to the ‘fog of war,’ and position Batth’s withdrawal as an honest mistake. We, and that includes the two of you, will accept that version of events so the bugs can save face. Force Leader Batth is dead . . . and so is this incident. Understood?”
The officers answered in unison. “Sir! Yes, sir!”
“Good, then get the hell out of my office.”
Both officers saluted, did an about-face, and left the room.
Once in the hall, with the door closed, Seeba-Ka paused to flick an imaginary piece of lint off his arm. “That went well, don’t you think?.”
Santana frowned. “No offense, sir, but you must be joking. The Ramanthians cut some sort of deal with the Claw, and our own diplomats are participating in the cover-up.”
Seeba-Ka’s face twitched in what might have been the Hudathan equivalent of a smile. “First, I never tell jokes. Second, Batth is dead. And third, whatever the bugs were trying to accomplish has been disrupted. Regardless of what Miraby says, that’s what I call a good day’s work.”
Then, his arms swinging as if on parade, the Hudathan marched down the hall.
It had been a busy morning, a very busy morning, what with the aftermath of the party to deal with but Clauson made time to have lunch with Vanderveen, and the two of them were sharing an umbrella on their way to the embassy when a LaNorian dashed out of a passageway to accost them. He was filthy and held some sort of pot clutched in his arms. He spoke clear nearly unaccented standard. “Sir! Ma’am! My name is Yao Che. A human named Frank Busso sent me. I must see the ambassador.”
There had been no radio communications with the Bussos for some time and they were generally believed to be dead. Still, how would a street beggar learn to speak standard? And know who the Bussos were?
The diplomats paused. Raindrops fell from the edge of the umbrella. Clauson raised an eyebrow. “Frank Busso? Describe him.”
“He’s tall,” Yao Che replied, “taller than you are, and not so fat. He has hair on his head, a big nose, and smiles a lot.”
Vanderveen managed to suppress a smile at the less than tactful comparison. “That sounds like Busso all right . . . what’s the message?”
“Yes,” Clauson said reaching for some LaNorian coins. “You tell us . . . and we’ll tell him.”
“No,” Yao Che replied stubbornly, “the message is for the ambassador. I must deliver it to him.”
“Okay,” Vanderveen said soothingly. “We’ll take you to see the ambassador. The guards will have to search you . . . and inspect that pot.”
“They mustn’t open the pot,” the youth replied anxiously. “It contains my gana’s ashes—and they might spill.”
“No problem,” Clauson assured him. “The guards have machines that can look inside the pot without removing the lid. Assuming you don’t have a bomb concealed inside everything will be fine.”
Somewhat reassured, but still concerned lest the letter show up on the off-world machines, Yao Che allowed himself to be herded up to the embassy’s front entrance where a legionnaire patted him down. Subsequent to that the youth was ushered through a metal framework and out into the embassy proper. His sandals left muddy marks on the floor. No one said anything or made an attempt to stop him.
Thus reassured Yao Che followed Clauson into a small room, gave an involuntary yelp as it stated to move, and deduced that he had entered some sort of machine.
Then, following a wait while Clauson went in to brief the ambassador, the female human led the courier into a large richly furnished office. The being who rose to greet him was of a species Yao Che had seen on the Bussos’ vids but never met in person. His body looked as if it consisted of sticks covered with pale almost translucent skin and machinery whirred when the off-worlder moved. He had a nice voice, though—and spoke LaNorian without the aid of an electronic translator.
“Welcome . . . FSOs Clauson and Vanderveen tell me that you brought a message all the way from the village of Nah Ree.”
“That is true,” Yao Che responded solemnly. “Frank Busso’s message is hidden inside this.”
The earthenware pot made a thud as it landed on Pas Rasha’s desk. Yao Che had resealed the vessel with a new layer of wax. The Dweller used a ceremonial dagger to pry it open. He eyed the contents. “What have we here?”
“I told people they were my gana’s ashes,” the youth replied, “but Frank got them out of the mission’s fireplace.”
“Clever,” the diplomat said, probing the ashes with one of his long s
lender fingers, “very clever.”
“There was another letter,” the youngster said helpfully, “hidden in my hat. But I lost that while sneaking into the city.”
“You did well,” Pas Rasha observed as he dragged a waterproofed envelope out of the ashes and shook it off. “Citizen Busso will be proud.”
It took less than two minutes to read the tersely written report—and the subsequent plea for help. When Pas Rasha looked up he found that Yao Che’s eyes were waiting to greet him. “So, you will send help, yes?”
The diplomat knew it would take hours if not days to decide what if anything the embassy could do to help. He produced what he hoped the LaNorian youth would interpret as a friendly smile. “I’d like to say ‘yes,’ but I don’t know if I can. You saw what it’s like beyond the walls . . . We may be fighting for our lives within a day or two. Tell me something—how long did your journey take?”
Yao Che was intelligent, just one of the reasons why Frank Busso had chosen him, and immediately understood the true nature of the question. What the diplomat really wanted to know was whether the missionaries and their converts could hold out long enough for help to reach them. Consequently, Yao Che did the only thing he could do—he lied.
“I made excellent time, Excellency—the entire trip lasted only three days.”
“That’s remarkable,” Pas Rasha said more to himself than Yao Che. “Please allow me to thank you for what you did. It was extremely brave. Perhaps you would be willing to join my mate and myself for last meal? We would love to hear of your adventures.
“In the meantime FSO Clauson will take you to my assistant. She will make arrangements for a bath, some new clothes, and a bed. How does that sound?”
Yao Che bowed respectfully. “Thank you, Excellency. I would be most grateful.”
“You’re most welcome,” the ambassador replied. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Pas Rasha waited for Clauson and his young charge to exit the room before speaking to Vanderveen. “First the party, then Mee Mas, now this . . . Is there any end to it?”
“Trouble comes in threes,” Vanderveen said confidently. “The next news you hear is likely to be good.”
“I hope so,” Pas Rasha answered politely, but knew she would be wrong.
It was afternoon, halfway between lunch and dinner, which meant that the Strathmore’s restaurant was nearly empty. Chien-Chu had claimed one of the four linen-covered tables that faced the street. Raindrops spattered against the fifteen-foot-tall window, and the cyborg turned to watch as a human dashed across the street, a pair of upper-class LaNorians strolled under a leather parasol, and a beggar stood with her hand extended. Not the sort of day to venture out unless forced to do so . . . but all the streets were becoming more crowded as off-worlders and prosperous locals crowded into the city of Mys. The industrialist toyed with the drink he had no intention of consuming, heard voices as someone arrived, and turned to look.
Like most of his kind, Captain Jonathan Alan Seebo-1,324 was right on time. He entered, allowed one of the staff to take his rain cloak, exchanged words with the maitre d’, and looked in Chien-Chu’s direction.
Then, having chosen the shortest possible route across what seemed like acres of burgundy carpet, the officer made his way over. All the Seebos had the same black hair and the same dark eyes but their were differences. Age for one thing, since the Hegemony decanted thousands every year, sending them to military prep schools at the age of four. Seebo-1,324 appeared to be in his late twenties.
Of more importance were the differences inside their heads, because even though the military clones looked identical, each had experienced life differently, which meant that he had his own distinct personality. There were inherited tendencies, however, which helped shape their personas, and made them good at war. The Seebo paused in front of the industrialist’s table. “Citizen Chien-Chu?”
The cyborg nodded and gestured toward the seat on the other side of the table. “Captain Seebo . . . please take a seat.”
The Clone sat down. His high-collared uniform was gray, with black buttons and trim to match. Now, from a distance of a few feet away, Chien-Chu could see the slightly faded bar code that had been printed onto the soldier’s forehead, the wrinkles around his eyes, and the scar that crossed his left cheek. The Thraki war? Yes, quite possibly.
A waiter hurried over, the officer ordered a drink and met the cyborg’s gaze. “So, what would a billionaire, reserve admiral, and ex-president of the Confederacy want with a ground pounder such as myself?”
The industrialist smiled. “You pulled my file.”
Seebo-1,324 shrugged. “It seemed advisable. Ambassador Ishimoto-46 wondered why you would want to meet with the Clone military attaché rather than a diplomat. I wondered the same thing.”
Chien-Chu rotated his glass. “The answer is simple . . . I need some military advice.”
The Clone’s drink arrived. He thanked the waiter, and took a tentative sip. “Military advice? Why would an admiral need military advice?”
“Because I didn’t exactly work my way up through the ranks, because I know very little about the tactical details of ground combat, and because I don’t want to make any mistakes.”
“Still,” the Seebo objected mildly, “you could call on Major Miraby for that sort of thing . . . Why me?”
Chien-Chu gestured toward the rain-splattered window. “You’re familiar with the situation out there . . . what’s going to happen?”
“The digs are going to attack. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Exactly,” the industrialist agreed. “And if they do, we, by which I mean the entire off-world community, will be forced to band together to fight them off.
“I don’t know for sure, but it’s my guess that most if not all of our diplomats are stalling, hoping the whole thing will blow over. When it doesn’t, and they finally send for reinforcements, it’s going to take weeks if not a month for them to arrive.
“Counting diplomats, their staffs, military contingents, missionaries, and businesspeople like me, I figure there are something like two thousand off-world beings on LaNor, most of whom are in Mys. Have you been to the Transcendental Cathedral lately? It’s packed with LaNorian converts, and more arrive every day. Or take a stroll through the native quarter . . . the place is bursting at the seams.
“We’re going to need food, water, and medical supplies, not to mention any munitions we can lay our hands on plus the materials required to construct barricades.”
The Clone nodded. “I agree, but the question remains, why me? What did Miraby have to say?”
The cybernetic body had disadvantages, plenty of them, but advantages as well. One was the ability to exercise greater control over facial expressions. Chien-Chu kept his face blank. “I shared my concerns with Major Miraby and offered to help mobilize the corporate sector by of making all possible preparations.”
“And?”
“And Miraby turned me down. He feels that any effort to accumulate supplies, or strengthen our defenses, could be interpreted as being warlike and therefore provocative.”
Seebo laughed. “That sounds like the major all right . . . Did you try Captain Seeba-Ka? I’m not overly fond of Hudathans but this one has a level head on him.”
The industrialist nodded. “He wanted to help but couldn’t take action without permission from Miraby.”
“Okay,” the Clone replied, “I need to check with Ambassador Ishimoto, but let’s say he approves. What then?”
Chien-Chu reached under the table, found the roll of paper, and placed it on the table. “This is a map of Mys . . . I would like you to study it. Assuming we aren’t able to hold the entire city—what can we hold? Where we would we fall back to? And where, should it come to that, will the community make its final stand?
“Once you lay out a plan, and with support from Ambassador Ishimoto, I will be able to work with other members of the private sector to position supplies where they are least likel
y to be captured, and build barricades where they will do the most good.”
Captain Seebo looked at Chien-Chu with a new level of respect. “Not bad for an admiral . . . Would you mind if I consult with Seeba-Ka? I think he’ll go along if I approach the matter sideways. Truth is that a great deal of the load will fall to the Legion if the shit hits the fan.”
The cyborg nodded. “I would be most grateful.”
The Clone raised his half-empty glass. “To victory . . . or something damned close.”
Chien-Chu raised his drink as well, knew the alcohol would never hit what remained of his circulatory system, but drained the glass anyway. Maybe the toast would bring some luck . . . and they were certainly going to need it.
The embassy’s dining room had been redecorated by the former ambassador’s husband, who, in spite of a weakness for hunting scenes had a fairly good eye. The walls were covered with LaNorian tapestries. Each rectangle provided a slice of pastoral life, which when viewed with those around it, combined to provide the viewer with a sense of how many Naa lived. There was a family harvesting kas, a boatman pulling his craft up through some rapids, a village perched on a hill and three more.
Two imported chandeliers hung over the long, linen-covered bana wood table. It was set for eight. Ambassador Pas Rasha sat at one end of the table, his back to the tall window that looked out onto Legation Street. His mate, a graceful-looking creature named Mytho Lys sat at the other end, in front of a mirror in an ornate frame.
Arrayed along the right side of the table were the richly dressed Prince Mee Mas, who sat next to the ambassador, Yao Che, who looked uncomfortable in a brand-new set of clothes, and Christine Vanderveen, who looked absolutely radiant. To Santana at any rate, who had been seated directly across from the diplomat, and found it difficult not to stare.
Vanderveen wore her hair piled high on the back of her head—pinned there by a clasp that cost more than a lieutenant made in a year. Her blue eyes were the same color as the earrings that dangled from her earlobes and the large gemstone that hung at the center of her V-shaped neckline. The dress was made of blue velvet and clung to her slim figure as if it had been sprayed on. Their eyes met and she winked at him as if to say “Isn’t this amusing?”
For More Than Glory Page 24
