But it wasn’t amusing, not to Santana, because the entire scene served to underscore the social gulf that existed between them.
Her father was a well-known diplomat, not to mention multimillionaire, while Santana’s father had been a noncommissioned officer, and left his son with a few thousand credits, a couple of beat-up footlockers filled with service memorabilia, and a lot of sage advice, one item of which seemed to apply to the situation at hand: “Be careful what you ask for son, you might just get it. What then?”
It was a good question but one which went unanswered as a servo whined, and Pas Rasha raised his glass. Harley Clauson, who sat to Santana’s right, and Major Homer Miraby, who occupied the chair next to him, turned attentively. “This seems like the perfect moment for a human-style toast,” the Dweller said, “and we certainly have some guests well worth toasting. To Prince Mee Mas, and his vision for the future . . . To Yao Che, our valiant messenger . . . To Christine Vanderveen, our intrepid diplomat . . . And to Lieutenant Santana, an officer who demonstrates moral as well as physical courage . . . May each of you lead long, prosperous, and extremely boring lives!”
Everyone except Yao Che laughed, raised their glasses, and took a sip of well-chilled kas wine. The youth raised his glass two seconds late, resolved to a keep a close eye on Mee Mas from that point forward, and do whatever he did.
Appetizers were served after the toast, and Pas Rasha did a masterful job of guiding the conversation in such a way that the social niceties were observed, and his guests were entertained at the same time.
It didn’t take much prompting to get Mee Mas to go first. However, in place of the long egotistical diatribe that Pas Rasha half expected to hear, the prince chose a self-deprecating story about the journey from Polwa to the Palace of the Mist. It seemed his retainers had hidden the young noble in a wagon driven by a grizzled teamster, who, not being privy to his passenger’s true identity, spent the entire trip telling scandalous stories about the royal family.
By the time the main course rolled around it was Yao Che’s turn. Though still somewhat intimidated by the company he was keeping the youth was a little looser by then and regaled Pas Rasha and his guests with the full story of how the Claw had emerged to seize the village of Nah Ree, the repeated attacks on the Transcendental mission, the manner in which hundreds of converts had taken shelter there, and the Busso family’s efforts to protect them.
Finally, after the youngster’s description of his cross-country journey, the ambassador made use of a napkin to dab at his mouth. “You are a remarkable youngster and a credit to your family as well as your village.
“I know you are concerned regarding the safety of those you left behind . . . and have an announcement to make. After consultations with FSO Clauson, and Major Miraby, I authorized them to send a platoon of legionnaires to Nah Ree in an attempt to bring everyone out.
“This is a dangerous enterprise made all the more risky by the fact that the situation in and around Polwa continues to deteriorate and is likely to spill over into Mys. I pray that won’t occur, but if it does, we will need every soldier we have.
“There may be a window however, a short period of time during which a well-armed group of legionnaires can slip out, complete their mission, and make their way back before things come to a head.”
Yao Che bowed his head. “Thank you, Excellency, my people will never forget.”
Pas Rasha eyed the young LaNorian. “You are very welcome. Our force will require someone to show them the way . . . I hate to ask, especially in light of the hardships you have already suffered, but would you be willing to serve as a guide?”
Yao Che inclined his head yet again. “I would be honored.”
Vanderveen, who had not only followed the interchange with considerable interest, but knew the question Santana was aching to ask, did it for him. “May I inquire as to which officer will lead the rescue attempt?”
Pas Rasha looked at Miraby, saw the officer nod, and turned back again. “Yes, you may. Based on his considerable combat experience, not to mention the recent stroll through the LaNorian countryside, both the major and I agree that Lieutenant Santana would be ideal for the job. May I extend my congratulations, Lieutenant? Along with my condolences?”
Santana felt a host of conflicting emotions but still managed a smile. “I appreciate your condolences, sir, but must say that I look forward to avoiding the dangers that you and the rest of the diplomatic staff confront every day. I was fortunate to escape last night’s party with my head still on my shoulders.”
Everyone laughed, especially Clauson, whose face was cherry red from the effects of both the heat and the wine.
But Vanderveen saw, or believed she saw, doubt in the officer’s eyes. She could imagine the questions that were on his mind. Was he considered to be an embarrassment? An officer whom Miraby could get along without? Was that why the command been given to him rather than someone else?
A quick check of Clauson’s flushed countenance and Miraby’s carefully neutral expression seemed to confirm her suspicions. There was nothing she could do about it however, except try to meet Santana’s eyes, only to see them slip away. Why? Because he was embarrassed? Or for some other reason?
Suddenly, something about the awkward manner in which he sat there, like a hawk among doves, told Vanderveen something she should have known all along. The very situations in which she felt the most comfortable were those that he hated the most. More than that, seeing Santana here, in her milieu rather than his, served to remind the diplomat of certain social realities. Barriers that Vanderveen tried to ignore but knew were real.
For the briefest of moments the FSO tried to imagine dinner at her parents’ house on Earth, with Santana at her side, and her father seated where Pas Rasha was. Would he see the soldier as a fitting companion for his daughter? The same daughter he had groomed to succeed him, and who he jokingly referred to as Madame President?
No, she feared not, and knowing that raised still another question: What did she want? And if Santana was the answer, would he make it back from Nah Ree? An ice-cold fist seemed to grip her stomach and Vanderveen left her dessert half-eaten.
The meal came to an end not long thereafter, and Vanderveen had just accepted her coat from a LaNorian servant, when Clauson appeared at her elbow. Like her the senior FSO lived in the corporate sector. “May I see you home?”
Vanderveen smiled. Her reply was loud enough for Santana to hear. “Thank you, Harley, but the Legion offered to provide me with an escort.”
The diplomat looked at Santana, then back again. “Really? The Legion never offered me an escort.”
Santana took Vanderveen’s coat and held it for her. “I’ll speak to Major Miraby . . . I think he’s available.” All three of them laughed.
Five minutes later, Vanderveen and Santana passed between the legionnaires who guarded the main entrance, hoisted a single umbrella, and headed south along Legation Street. The rain was little more than a fine mist, the acrid odor of coal smoke hung in the air, and there was the occasional pop, pop, pop of small-arms fire as members of the Claw fired from beyond the walls. Harassing fire for the most part, although a Hudathan trooper had been wounded the day before, and a LaNorian street sweeper had been killed by a spent round. It was no longer safe to stand in one place on top of the city wall, enter Polwa in anything less than squad strength, or venture beyond the gate without a major show of force.
“So,” Vanderveen said, slipping her arm through his, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” Santana replied honestly, “I was working up the courage to ask.”
“That’s strange . . . I don’t remember any lack of courage on the trip to Pur Lor.”
“That’s because you scare me more than the Claw does.”
They had arrived at the point where Legation street passed over the Jade River by that time—and Vanderveen paused to look out over the dark oily water to the native quarter beyond. The mist turned the lights
into a smear of color. “You frighten me as well.”
Santana put an arm around her waist. “In what way?”
“In every way. You scare me because you see things differently than I do, because you make me feel things I haven’t felt before, and because it’s too early.”
“Too early?”
“Yes. Absurd as it may sound, I planned the way my life would go when I was ten years old. School, followed by the diplomatic corps, followed by elected office, followed by a family. That’s the plan.”
“And you figured he’d be there? Waiting for you?”
“Yes,” Vanderveen said emphatically. “It’s stupid, but I did.”
Santana grinned. “So this is inconvenient.”
Vanderveen looked up at him. “Yes, damned inconvenient.”
Santana said, “I’m sorry,” and kissed her on the lips. They were soft yet insistent. He pulled her close and her hands rose to touch the back of his neck.
The moment might have lasted forever but a cart rattled past and brought the kiss to an end. Vanderveen shivered and Santana took her arm. “Come on . . . let’s get you home. Which way is it?”
Vanderveen led Santana across Legation Street to a poorly lit flight of stairs. A LaNorian maid bobbed her head as she emerged out of the darkness and hurried off to clean one of the embassies.
The couple followed the stairs down to the point where they met the northwest corner of what had come to be called Church Square. Portable lights had been set up to illuminate the front of the Transcendental Cathedral. Hundreds of LaNorians were hard at work building a wall made of metal cargo modules. Sparks flew as two of them were welded into place. A specially equipped cyborg lifted one of the containers and carried it across the plaza.
Santana frowned. “What’s going on?”
“They’re building a defensive wall,” Vanderveen explained. “To stop the Claw if they enter the city.”
“Under whose direction?”
“The overall plan was put together by Captain Seebo in response to a suggestion from an old friend of my father’s. His name is Sergi Chien-Chu.”
“The ex-president?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“Was Miraby consulted?”
“Yes, although both he and Pas Rasha felt the project was premature.”
“What would they have us do? Wait until the bastards enter the city?”
Vanderveen shrugged. “Something like that, yes.”
The soldier shook his head in disgust, wondered what he would find on his return from Nah Ree, and feared the worst.
They turned away from the square and walked down a dimly lit street. Some of the residents had darkened their windows, especially on the second and third floors, to lessen the likelihood that someone would shoot at them. Others seemed less concerned, and not only left their lights on, but their shades up. Strains of off-world music could be heard, interspersed with the slamming of doors, and the rattle of trash cans. It all seemed so peaceful compared with what the legionnaire knew lay beyond the city walls.
The diplomat seemed to sense the direction of this thoughts. “So, what do you think of the mission they dumped on you?”
Santana shrugged. “It sounds like the right thing to do . . . and that’s what they pay me for.”
“That’s it? That’s all you feel?”
“No,” Santana admitted, “I have other feelings, but none of them make any difference. What is, is.”
They paused in front of a three-story apartment building. It faced north and was a long way from the wall, so most of the lights were on. Vanderveen raised a perfect eyebrow. “That’s kind of fatalistic isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” Santana conceded, “but I’m not sure that life can be laid out like a day planner. Some things simply happen.”
“Like us?”
“Yes, maybe.”
“And what would ‘us’ be like?”
“Like it is now,” Santana replied. “Like finding a part of yourself.”
“And then?”
Santana thought about his parents, about the way his father loved his mother, and knew the answer. “And then you grab on and never let go.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” Vanderveen said cautiously.
“Because it’s scheduled for later on?”
“Partly,” the diplomat admitted, “but for other reasons as well. The kind of commitment you’re talking about takes a tremendous leap of faith.”
Santana nodded soberly. “That’s true.”
“You could come up,” Vanderveen ventured, “and spend the night.”
Santana shook his head. “No, I’d like that, but it wouldn’t be right.”
Vanderveen searched his face. “Isn’t something better than nothing?”
There was silence for a moment. Santana cupped her face in his hands. They were big and rough. “Sometimes . . . but not always. There are certain times, certain situations, in which nothing less than everything will do.”
That being said, the soldier kissed her lips, took a full step backwards, and delivered his best salute. Then he turned and walked away. Had Santana turned to look, had the light been just so, he might have seen the tears. The rain drifted around her and there was little Vanderveen could do but watch the darkness swallow him up.
The ground floor of the Confederacy’s barracks housed a maintenance facility, a workout room, and the only access to the building’s subsurface arsenal. It was light outside, but it may as well have been dark since Santana had ordered Sergeant Hillrun to spray paint the windows, place the facility off-limits to anyone who wasn’t involved in the project, and post guards wearing civilian attire.
Now, as saws screeched, sparks flew, and a wrench rattled, Santana forced himself to ignore the partially disassembled wagons, the parts that lay hither and yon, and the activities related to them. The armorers had been working on the T-2s all night, and it was time to inspect their work.
Sergeant Carlos Zook had been on what amounted to light duty within the embassy compound while Corporal Norly Snyder had been out traipsing across the Claw-infested countryside. That being the case Santana started with her. The techs, all red-eyed with fatigue, stood at parade rest. They knew that any platoon leader worth his or her salt would want to check their work prior to going out on patrol. Especially a long-distance patrol with no air cover, no resupply, and iffy communications.
Since most legionnaires wore tattoos, cyborgs were permitted to have personal artwork, so long as it met certain standardized criteria. Like many of her comrades, Snyder had the First REC’s insignia emblazoned on her left arm, and the words “In memory of Missy,” inscribed on her right. No one knew who Missy was, only that it wasn’t a good idea to ask, and that the mere mention of the name was sufficient to make the T-2 both angry and sad.
Each Trooper II had inspection plates located at various points on their mechanical anatomy. In order to thumb the highest ones open it was necessary for Santana to stand on a mechanic’s footstool. Power, 96 percent. Coolant, 98 percent. Ammo, 100 percent. Life support, 100 percent. Electronic countermeasures, 88 percent, Communications, 100 percent, and so forth, until all ten of the readouts had been checked and matched to the printout that the officer held in hand.
“So,” Snyder growled, “is the lieutenant going for a walk?”
“Not only is the lieutenant going for a walk,” Santana confirmed, “but he wouldn’t think of going without you.”
The sound the T-2 produced was similar to that made by a broken garbage disposal but the officer knew it to be laughter. “Sir, yes sir.”
Then, with Snyder accounted for, it was time to look at Zook. Santana had just completed the sergeant’s inspection, and thumbprinted the maintenance log, when Captain Drik Seeba-Ka entered the west end of the bay.
Someone shouted, “Ten-shun!” over the sounds of construction, and the legionnaires were still in the process of popping to attention when the Hudathan said, “As you were,
” stepped over a power cable, and wove his way between the wagon carcasses.
A lot had changed between the two officers by then. None of it had been voiced because there was no need to do so. Each had proven himself to the other and the result was a feeling of trust. A rare bond given the gulf between their two cultures. Santana met the company commander out toward the center of the room. Salute met salute. “Captain Seeba-Ka.”
“Lieutenant Santana.”
“Is there something I can do for you, sir?”
“Yes,” the other officer replied with just the hint of a Hudathan-style grin, “you can explain why the windows are blacked out, why Corporal Dietrich seems to be sunning himself with a handgun concealed beneath his towel, and why my state-of-the-art maintenance facility had been transformed into a primitive carpentry shop.”
“Sir, yes sir. The windows are blacked out to ensure that LaNorian spies can’t see inside, Dietrich and some other troopers have been detailed to keep everyone away, and the carpentry is a bit more complicated.”
“I’m sure it is,” Seeba-Ka said indulgently. “Please enlighten me.”
“Well,” Santana answered tentatively, “I learned some lessons during the march to Pur Lor. One of the first things I learned was that word travels fast out there, even without radios, which it now appears that at least some of the Claw have. Success will depend in large part on our ability to reach Nah Ree quickly, round everyone up, and get them out before the enemy can mass their troops to stop us.
“In light of that I want to get my entire platoon well beyond the outskirts of Polwa and Mys without anyone being the wiser.
“In order to do so I ordered Hillrun to buy six four-wheeled freight wagons and the razbuls required to pull them. The animals are being held elsewhere under Yao Che’s supervision.”
For More Than Glory Page 25
