For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  Now, with that individual pacing his office like a caged animal, the LaNorian had little choice but to grant the favor she asked or risk having his secret revealed.

  The off-worlder had called upon to “expedite” six wagonloads of steel track. The alien was perfectly willing to pay the considerable fees involved, along with the “handling charge” routinely tacked on by Wah Heh and his subordinates, and that should have made the customs official happy. It didn’t.

  Steel track implied railroads, the Tro Wa hated railroads, and their spies were everywhere. The Factor thought his staff was free of informers but there was no way to be sure. Would the Claw view his involvement with the shipment as support for the foreigners? Yes, he feared that they would, and didn’t want to die while holding his own entrails in his hands.

  That’s why Wah Heh was happy when Vanderveen said, “Here they come,” and rushed to the north window in order to take a look.

  It was dark outside, but the streetlights still burned, and the wagons were momentarily visible as the rolled through the cones of warm yellow light. They were large vehicles, reinforced in order to handle the steel tracks, and covered with well-secured leather tarps. Each wagon required a team of two razbuls, and Wah Heh could hear the animals complain as the LaNorian drivers urged the reptiles forward with, long supple whips.

  The customs inspectors, all of whom had been forewarned, not to mention bribed, hurried to open the gigantic gate as the first wagon drew near.

  Vanderveen could feel the vibration through the soles of her boots as the door hit its stops and the convoy passed under the arch. The diplomat waited for the first wagons to disappear, turned, and crossed to the other side. The first vehicle, the one that contained Santana and half his troops had entered Polwa by then, and was headed toward the point where it would turn right onto the east–west thoroughfare that led out through the Imperial city’s West Gate.

  Watching the wagon, knowing he was in it, made Vanderveen hurt inside. She wanted Santana to stay, or failing that, to take her with him but knew it couldn’t be. He had his job, and she had hers, and neither left much room for anything else.

  Still, there was something special about Santana, about the honesty in his eyes and the clarity of his vision. What was it he had said? That there were times when nothing less than everything would do? No one had ever said anything like that to her before—and the words had taken root in her heart. Now, as she looked down on the last wagon to pass under the arch, Vanderveen felt her vision blur, and wondered if she would see him again.

  There were potholes in the road, lots of them, and the legionnaires suffered through an unending series of spine-jarring jolts as the wagon’s wheels dipped into one after another. The entire vehicle rocked from side to side, the frame creaked from the stress, and something groaned. Santana prayed the conveyance would hold up under the strain and gave thanks for each foot of forward progress.

  The first wagon, the one in which Santana rode, contained roughly half of the sixteen biobods he’d been permitted to bring along.

  The second wagon carried Corporal Norly Snyder, the third carried the first RAV, the fourth carried Sergeant Carlos Zook, the fifth carried the second RAV, and the sixth carried Sergeant Hillrun plus six legionnaires and their gear.

  The rest of Santana’s platoon, some fifteen legionnaires in all, had been left in Mys to help secure the embassy.

  It was dark under the leather tarp but Santana had authorized one glow stick in the first and last wagons in case the convoy ran into trouble and his troops were forced to bail out via the trapdoors cut into the floors.

  Seconds would count in that eventuality and the platoon leader had decided that the ability to exit the vehicle cleanly outweighed the risk that someone would spot the faint green glow that served to illuminate the wagon’s interior.

  The first squad included Sergeant Bonnie Cvanivich, Corporal “Dice” Dietrich, Lance Corporal Carolyn “Bags” Bagano, Private Nick Kimura, Private Lars Hadley, Private “Doc” Seavy, Private Rockclimb Warmfeel, and Private Bok Horo-Ba, who, given his size, occupied enough space to accommodate two humans.

  Dietrich appeared to be napping but the rest of the squad was clearly awake. Cvanivich met the officer’s eyes and gave him a thumbs-up. She knew what Santana didn’t, that Seeba-Ka’s entire company would have volunteered for the current mission had they been allowed to do so. The loot had a rep for having a cool head, a low tolerance for bullshit, and a fierce loyalty toward his troops. That’s about as good as it got and she felt lucky to be in his platoon.

  Meanwhile, seated on the hard wooden bench-style seat at the front of the wagon, and dressed in a way that made him appear years older, Yao Che applied the long slender whip to the razbul on the right, called the beast names that would have shocked his mother, and urged the reptile to greater speed. That particular animal was male, had mottled green scales, and what could only be described as a bad attitude. It uttered a long reep of protest, released a quantity of gas, and expelled a basketload of steaming manure. The wheels rolled through the disgusting mess, mixed it with the water in the next puddle, and sprayed the goo along both sides of the vehicle.

  It was lighter by then which meant that Yao Che had little difficulty spotting the four-lane thoroughfare that led west toward what was sometimes referred to as the merchant’s gate because of the great caravans that passed through it during the spring, summer, and early fall. In spite of the street’s considerable width all manner of parked carts, piles of rubbish, and construction materials had been deposited on the two outside lanes rendering them impassable.

  Every sixth or seventh building had been burned, either as the result of an errant spark, a carelessly placed candle, or, and such places were easy to spot, arson on the part of the Claw. They were marked with the letters “TW,” for “Tro Wa,” and served as a warning for any who might stand against them.

  In fact, so powerless, or so sympathetic were the municipal authorities, that Yao Che’s wagon passed beneath a banner that spanned the width of the street and gave warning to all: “He who collaborates will die, as will his family, and all of those they hold dear.”

  It was a bone-chilling reminder of not only the risks he was taking—but the reason for taking them. Yao Che had been impressed by Mee Mas and come to believe that something better was possible.

  Now, as the long slender fingers of smoke reached up toward the sky, lights appeared in windows, and some of the shopkeepers opened their doors, the city began to wake. Conscious of how important it was to exit Polwa as early as possible Yao Che flicked his whip yet again and glanced back over his shoulder.

  The other drivers, all of whom believed they were hauling lengths of steel track, “knew” that the Claw was unlikely to approve of such a load and was hot on his trail. Like Yao Che they wanted to escape the city and the Tro Wa as early in the day as possible and seek shelter in the foothills.

  Satisfied that his peers were on the job the LaNorian turned his attention forward and noticed the way the neighborhood had started to change. Two-and three-story buildings, many of which had shops at street level, were giving way to the nearly featureless hodos in which incoming and outgoing goods were stored. This was the western warehouse district, a sure sign that the gate lay not too far ahead and reason to make his heart beat a little bit faster.

  Thanks to the efforts of FSO Vanderveen the first gate had opened like a flower to the sun but this one promised to be more difficult. Though equipped with carefully forged documents, and the heaviest loop of coins the youth had ever been forced to lift, customs officials were notoriously fickle. Strict one moment, and lax the next, it was nearly impossible to predict what he might encounter.

  One thing was for certain, however, and that was that he would have to deal with whatever problems presented themselves, since there was no one else to call upon. A fact which made him feel both proud and frightened as the same time.

  The gate appeared in the distance, Yao Che prod
uced what he hoped was a look of bored indifference, and snapped the whip. The wagon lurched forward.

  It was early, very early, and although four customs inspectors were supposed to be on duty, three of them were asleep in the guardhouse, leaving only one of their number to handle the thin trickle of morning traffic. His name was Jas Jee and he was bored. The wagons, six of them no less, looked like a welcome diversion.

  Jas Jee used his stilts to step over an open sewer, stumped across the pavers, and approached the first wagon. Yao Che pulled on the reins, uttered a long shrill whistle, and stepped on the foot brake. The razbuls came to a stop, blew air out through their noses, and looked around.

  “Morning,” Jas Jee said levelly, “what are you carrying?”

  “Metal,” Yao Che replied, spitting onto the road by way of demonstrating his disgust. “And it’s damned heavy . . . Could take all day to reach the first inn.”

  “Metal, eh?” Jas Jee said suspiciously. “For what?”

  Yao Che looked left and right as if to make sure that no one could hear. “Rails, for one of the railroads, or that’s what the devils believe. Me? I’ve got other ideas . . . but that’s neither here nor there. Here’s the paperwork—and coins to cover the fees.”

  Jas Jee’s eyes widened. The Tro Wa hated the railroads, everyone knew that, which meant the load could be harmful to his health. “You’ve got other ideas? Like what?”

  Yao Che looked left and right yet again, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. Behind him, below the surface of the tarp, Santana strained to hear. But the voices were muffled and he couldn’t distinguish the words. “You never heard it from me—but it’s my guess that the rails will never reach their destination. You know the hook-shaped knives the Tro Wa use on their enemies? Well, someone could melt the rails down, and use the resulting metal to make thousands of hooks! Enough that people like you and I could have one. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  Jas Jee blinked. What was the driver saying? That he was a member of the Claw? That the load would be hijacked? That the other drivers were in cahoots with him? Maybe, and maybe not. Whatever the case the mere possibility that he was dealing with the Tro Wa was sufficient to suggest a certain level of circumspection.

  The customs official swallowed hard, glanced at the papers, and handed all of them back. “Yes, well, your paperwork appears to be in order, and you are free to go.”

  Yao Che looked surprised. “Really? Shouldn’t you count the coins?”

  “No,” Jas Jee replied handing the heavily laden rope up to the driver, “there’s no fee for taking steel out of the city prior to the ninth hour of the day. Please move along . . . the morning rush is about to begin.”

  Yao Che inclined his head in a gesture of respect, slapped the razbuls with both reins, and felt the wagon jerk ahead. Imperial guards, about a dozen of them, leaned on their rifles and watched the convoy pass. Their comrades, the ones still camped around the city of Mys, had risen by then. The driver could hear the occasional blare of a trumpet, see the wink of their carefully aligned campfires, and smell the odor of freshly brewed tea.

  Farther out, beyond the last rank of Imperial soldiers, the Tro Wa were camped. Most were still asleep, but a few were up, cooking their morning kas. Was his old friend Ply Pog among them? Probably, and he hoped the rascal would stay there.

  The wagons passed over a defensive ditch, through a cordon of ratty-looking Imperials, and onto the great western road.

  Santana peeked out from under the rear edge of the tarp, watched the cities of Polwa and Mys grow smaller, and heaved a gigantic sigh of relief. The stratagem had worked—they would soon enter the foothills and make their way toward Nah Ree. After that it would be a relatively simple matter to round up fifteen hundred refugees, march them across country, and sneak them into Mys.

  The absurdity of the notion caused Santana to laugh. The legionnaires looked at each other and shrugged. The loot was an officer, officers were crazy, and this officer was crazier than most. So what the hell? Wheels creaked, chains rattled, and the wagon rolled west.

  9

  * * *

  Though much has been said regarding the mutiny, and war which followed, a good deal less commentary has been devoted to the fate of those who participated in the rebellion. Having been forced to flee, thousands of mutineers made their way to the very edge of the Confederacy, where after a period of criminal activity, many made permanent homes and thereby pushed what is commonly referred to as the Rim farther out into the blackness of space.

  Dr. Lightburn Deepthink

  The Third War

  Standard year 2633

  * * *

  ABOARD THE SOLAR PRINCESS, OFF RIM WORLD CR-9013

  In spite of the fact that Rim World CR-9013 was nameless insofar as the official records were concerned, the drifters, smugglers, mercenaries, criminals, prospectors, and eccentrics who frequented the world called it “Nexus,” a word that means “link,” and described the role that it played in their hardscrabble lives.

  Nexus was a place where one could sell things, buy things, get drunk, get laid, and head out again. All without being hassled by the law.

  That made the planet a natural port of call for the mutineers who had seized the Confederacy warships Ibutho and Guerro, and now used them to raid commerce out along the Rim.

  Now, as the Solar Princess dropped into orbit around CR- 9013, Legion General Bill Booly and his wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, stood in the aft portion of the freighter’s small control room and looked down on the planet below. The polar caps were white, as were the areas swathed in clouds, but the rest of the world was tan. Though gifted with lots of rivers and lakes Nexus had no bodies of water large enough to qualify as oceans.

  Though not possessed of rare minerals, CR-9013 was an attractive planet in many important ways. It had a breathable atmosphere, something approximating Earth-normal gravity, and broad temperate zones above and below the equator.

  There was no sentient race to cope with, the indigenous flora and fauna were manageable, and preliminary surveys had identified the presence of substantial mineral deposits. For these reason, Nexus might well have attracted millions of would-be settlers except for one thing: The planet was not only on the Rim, but slightly beyond the Rim, which kept shipping costs prohibitively high.

  That, plus the fact that there were other equally attractive planets closer in toward the Confederacy’s core, meant that CR- 9013 was likely to remain much as it was for another hundred years or so: a haven for outlaws, eccentrics, and a variety of religious cults that had established settlements in the wilderness that the locals referred to as the Great Wander.

  Nexus had none of the formalities connected with making planetfall common to more civilized worlds which meant that anyone who wanted to visit simply dropped into orbit, took up whatever position they deemed prudent, and stayed as long as they liked.

  As a result of this laissez-faire attitude newcomers were forced to protect themselves from hundreds of tons’ worth of debris that previous visitors had dumped and left to circle the planet. The freighter’s defensive screens flared as small pieces of trash hit and were deflected. In order to protect the Princess from larger items, like loose cooling fins, cargo modules, and wrecked shuttles, the vessel’s NAVCOMP stood ready to hit them with repulsor beams, or should that fail, open fire on them before they could make contact with the ship’s hull.

  The vessel’s captain, an ex–naval officer named Henry Mort, shook his head in disgust. “It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is, and something should be done. Some of this stuff is large enough to do real damage.”

  “They’re also large enough to contain a boarding party,” Booly replied thoughtfully. “After all, why buy what we have to sell if they can steal it?”

  Mort, who in keeping with his role as master of a tramp freighter had been prevailed upon to allow his beard to grow, looked worried. The possibility that someone might attempt to board the ship hadn’t occurred to him. He looked
at Maylo and she nodded. “My husband is correct . . . The entire crew should remain on the highest state of alert until we break orbit.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mort said obediently. “We’ll keep a sharp eye out.”

  Maylo glanced at Booly and could tell that he took scant comfort from the master’s words. Though a master of naval technology, procedure, and tradition Mort was outside of his comfort zone, and it showed. Perhaps she should have agreed to a military crew, but it was too late for that now. The ex–naval officer would have to do.

  “Well,” Booly said, “it’s time to land, let the locals know we have spares for sale, and see what happens. If luck is with us the Syndicate will hear about our cargo, buy the spares, and lead us to the Ibutho and the Guerro.”

  Her husband made it sound simple, like a walk in the park, but Maylo knew the mission was likely to be a good deal more complicated than that. If the Syndicate had been paranoid before the attack on Base 012—they would be even more so now. Outside of their freedom the mutineers had nothing left to lose. Suddenly, for the first time since the adventure had begun, Maylo was afraid.

  ON THE SURFACE OF RIM WORLD CR-9013

  It required the better part of eight standard hours to check in with the heavily cloaked naval vessel that lurked well outside of the planet’s gravity well, launch one of the freighter’s two shuttles, and make the long bumpy ride down through the Rim world’s atmosphere.

  Maylo, who was dressed to fit the image of what she thought Lonny Fargo’s mistress would look like, was at the controls as the flat black delta-shaped shuttle approached the settlement of Four Points from the east.

  Booly had the impression of a broad, swiftly flowing river, a defensive wall, a tightly packed hodgepodge of one-, two-, and three-story buildings, another wall, what looked like a shantytown, and a maze of well-cut trails that wound in and out between what he thought of as “circle trees.”