Booly recognized the man’s face as belonging to one of the men he had faced the night before. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the man had somehow arranged for the gate to remain closed.
It was a difficult shot, one the officer didn’t think he’d make, but he had to try. The big semiauto came up, jumped in his hand, and a hole appeared at the center of Canty’s forehead. He was still in the process of falling back into the crowd when Maylo grabbed her husband’s arm. “The junkyard! Run!”
Prosser had little choice but to follow as the other two began to run. She heard people yelling, felt the ground continue to shake, and knew there wasn’t much time.
That’s when the dealer tripped over a half-buried hipbone, landed flat on her face, and knew it was over. Her ankle hurt, really hurt, and she wouldn’t be able to run.
But the other two came back, lifted the dealer up, and half carried her toward the junkyard. “The cargo module!” Maylo shouted. “That’s our only chance!”
Booly nodded, used his right hand to get a grip on Prosser’s belt, and used that to help keep her upright.
The crowd cheered as the threesome rounded the point where the north and south walls met, made bets as to who if anyone would survive, and fought for the best view. Higher up, watching the action from the room at the very top of his silolike home, Walker shook his head in dismay. The situation didn’t look good.
Thousands of hoofbeats combined to generate a loud rumble. Booly looked back over his shoulder and saw the oncoming horde. Each hump was about two-thirds the size of an Earth elephant—or a little larger than one of the dooths on his home planet of Algeron. They had huge, lumpy heads, four tusks each, and enormous shoulders. Suddenly they were close, too close, and the officer turned his head forward again.
Maylo spotted the steel cargo module, yelled, “We can make it!” and redoubled her efforts. Together the threesome covered the last thirty feet, stumbled inside, and turned around.
“The doors!” Prosser shouted. “Close the doors!”
Metal squealed as the other two hurried to obey the dealer’s command. There was no inside latch so Maylo grabbed a length of rope, and was in the process of wrapping it around the vertical lock rods, when the avalanche of flesh and bone struck.
The humps hit the salvage first. Some were crushed to death, others suffered long gashes from sharp pieces of metal, and some were impaled on steel rods.
But the herd couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, not for another day yet. Dead bodies became ramps, the onslaught continued, and metal groaned as it was pushed aside.
The tidal wave hit the cargo module shortly thereafter. The metal box shook from the force of the impact, the entire container was pushed ten feet to the west, and the humans were thrown to the floor. That’s when the rope broke, the doors flew open, and Maylo saw a torrent of brown bodies surge past. Dust swirled, the ground shook as if seized by a tremor, and the animals made loud squalling sounds.
One of the beasts turned, and seemed poised to force an entry, when Booly fired two shots over its head. The noise, which was amplified by the metal walls, had the desired effect. The hump turned and was swept away.
For one brief moment Prosser thought they were safe, that the humps would simply pass on by, but she was wrong. Outside, beyond what they could see, a hump tripped and went down. That seemingly inconsequential event was sufficient to turn the animals behind causing them to strike the module’s side.
Maylo felt the floor tilt under her feet, struggled to keep her footing, and saw Prosser’s furniture start to slide. Shelving crashed to the floor, the angle became steeper as more animals were forced in under the container, and the executive lost her footing.
That was when the container flipped all the way over, was hit once again, and pushed along the surface of the ground.
The humans were thrown about, Prosser cried out in pain as her already injured leg struck the edge of the overturned desk, and she was dumped onto what had been a wall. Trunks of carefully packed office materials thumped to either side.
Finally, just as Booly decided that the torture would never end, the last of the humps swept by. It took the better part of ten minutes for the last of the herd to clear the area, for the dust to settle, and for the survivors to emerge from hiding.
A cheer went up as they appeared, a rescue party came out to assist them, and a Nexus-style investigation was launched. The honorary mayor went looking for the gatekeeper, couldn’t find him, and soon gave up. Booly was order to pay for Canty’s burial—and the case was closed.
Better yet, they had a buyer, the right buyer, and the deal was nearly done. All they had to do was show Prosser the goods, come to terms, and go wherever she said. The rest would be easy. That’s what Booly told himself anyway—but knew it wasn’t true.
PLANET ARBALLA, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Once known as the Reliable, the Friendship still looked like a battleship, in spite of her new role. Her hull was five miles long and covered by a complex tracery of heat exchangers, tractor beam projectors, com pods, and weapons blisters.
Just as impressive as the vessel herself was the purpose to which she had been dedicated. Having won the first Hudathan war, but unable to decide where the capital of the newly formed Confederacy should be located, the Senate agreed to an idea put forward by President Sergi Chien-Chu: The Confederacy would use a spaceship as its capital, a different race would host the vessel each year, and no one would be slighted. A noble concept and one that had worked so far.
Arballa’s sun played across the vessel’s port side as the Ramanthian shuttle received permission to land, locked on to a traffic control beacon, and began its final approach.
Senator Alway Orno had been through the process hundreds of times before but this visit would be different. Sadly, since the Ramanthian diplomat loved his job, and had actually enjoyed much of the time spent aboard the Friendship, this would be one of his last visits. Because unfortunate though it was for the thousands of beings who would be killed—the battleship’s days were numbered.
Not because Orno hated those on board, but because he loved his race, and they needed ships. Thousands of ships like the Sheen vessels that co-orbited Arballa’s sun in company with the planet itself. Ships which would be used to transport billions of newly hatched nymphs to the worlds being prepared to receive them.
For weeks, no months, the diplomat had agonized over how to steal the mothballed vessels. No easy task given all of the navy ships assigned to guard not only them, but Friendship herself, which was only a four-hour shuttle ride away.
The problem appeared insurmountable at first, and he had despaired of solving it, until the answer came in a dream. At some point during one of his frequent sand baths the Ramanthian drifted off to sleep. The dream began innocently enough, with Orno drifting godlike through space, looking down on Arballa. That’s when the diplomat saw the Friendship, knew something horrible was about to happen, and saw the battleship explode.
Orno felt dozens of tiny pinpricks as smaller vessels raced in from all directions, passed through the surface of his nebula-like body, and rushed to help.
And that was the moment when the Ramanthian not only awoke, but understood the solution to his dilemma and could lay the necessary plans.
Bit by bit, part by part, the components for a powerful bomb would be smuggled onto the Friendship. There was only so much one could cram into one of the standardized diplomatic pouches, so the process would take some time.
Then, when all of the necessary parts were in place, the device would be assembled and moved to the center of the ship. Later, on a day of Orno’s choosing, a signal would be sent and the bomb would explode. Damage would be done, tremendous damage, but not so much as to obliterate the ship.
No, the whole point was to create a disaster of such magnitude that at least some of the beings on board could be rescued thereby drawing most if not all of the navy ships in toward Arballa.
That’s when Ramanthian v
essels would attack whatever ships remained with the Sheen fleet, specially trained Hudathan commandos would board the ships chosen to be hijacked, specially designed interfaces would be installed, coordinates would be entered, and thousands of ships would vanish into hyperspace. All within a matter of one standard hour.
Momentary darkness swallowed the shuttle as it entered the Friendship’s vast launch bay. Later, when Orno’s luggage was unloaded, three diplomatic pouches would come off with it. The saddlebag-like suitcases would be scanned but the pouches were inviolate. It was the humans who had insisted on that particular tradition—and Orno couldn’t resist the Ramanthian equivalent of a smile.
PLANET HUDATHA, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
It was so dark that if it hadn’t been for a scattering of lights, the castle would have been invisible against the surrounding mountains. The keep was built of stone, the only material that could withstand Hudatha’s unpredictable weather and still remain standing for the better part of a thousand years.
Like most such fortresses, it had been constructed high on a crag, forcing any who wished to take it to fight their way up steep slopes, through narrow defiles, and along a path that followed the edge of a cliff before reaching the true obstacle, which consisted of a fifty-unit-wide air moat spanned by a wooden drawbridge. The Ka clan had lost battles over the last nine-hundred-plus years but never the castle itself.
But the defenses that had once been sufficient to stop entire armies were nothing against an enemy who arrived by air—and carried credentials so lofty that those who guarded the keep had little choice but to let them enter.
The fact that the leader of the threesome, the recently elected Triad Horo Hasa-Ba and his retainers arrived unarmed served to further allay any fears that the Ka security forces might have had and the visitors were allowed to enter the keep.
Triad Ikor Ifana-Ka, old warrior that he was, awoke from a troubled sleep. Something was wrong but what? A Ramanthian war drone had shot him more than fifty years earlier. His leg hurt but there was nothing unusual about that. The medics wanted to take the limb off but he had refused. Now he wished that they had. The pain had grown worse with age. The medications helped but the discomfort continued.
Still, he was used to that, and felt sure that something else had served to waken him. Danger of some sort. But that was absurd. All the Hudathan needed to do was open his eyes and look around the dimly lit bedchamber to see that with the exception of the old battle flags that draped the walls, the enormous slab of wood that served as his desk, and a leather easy chair the room was empty.
That was when the intercom sounded and the castle’s majordomo spoke. Hudathan culture was such that there was no need to announce himself, apologize for the intrusion, or use extraneous words. “You have visitors, sir.”
Ifana-Ka wasn’t expecting visitors and didn’t want any. He sat up in bed. “Who are they?”
“Triad Hasa-Ba and two retainers, sir.”
The old warrior blinked. Such a visit, especially an unannounced visit, was highly unusual. Whatever had brought Hasa-Ba out in the middle of the night must be very important indeed. But important to whom? And in what regard? “Make them comfortable. Tell them I will receive them shortly.”
The triad lifted a handset, dictated a message, and entered the time he wanted it to be sent. A waste of time most likely—but so what? A person of his advanced years was entitled to be a bit eccentric.
With that out of the way, Ifana-Ka rang the majordomo, gave permission for the visitors to enter his bedchamber, and felt for the handgun he kept under his pillow. Not because he had particular reason to fear Hasa-Ba, but because he was Hudathan, and naturally suspicious of everyone. That was why he had survived when so many hadn’t. The weapon was where it should be. He moved it down under the covers.
Hasa-Ba’s cape swirled and his boots made a rhythmic thumping sound as he and two of his warriors made their way down the ancient hallway, nodded to the sentries who stood guard outside the old warrior’s room, and were permitted to enter. The door closed with a heavy thud.
“So,” Ifana-Ka said, “what brings the newest member of the triad out in the middle of the night? Something important I trust?”
“Yes,” Hasa-Ba replied stolidly. “Something very important.”
“Well?” Ifana-Ka demanded irritably, “Out with it.”
Hasa-Ba approached the foot of the old warrior’s bed. Ifana-Ka looked weak, too weak to rule, yet there he lay. An impediment to progress, to the new order, to the glory of the future.
Still, the oldster had served his people with courage, and deserved an opportunity to die peacefully. Hasa-Ba went straight to the point. “I came to accept your resignation.”
“How considerate of you,” Ifana-Ka said sarcastically. “Why would I tender it?”
“The people want change,” the younger Hudathan replied simply, “and I plan to give it to them. Even as we speak efforts are under way to take the ships we need, reconstitute the Hudathan navy, and restore full autonomy to our race.”
“Efforts?” Ifana-Ka asked. “What efforts?” His mind raced. This was far worse than anything he had imagined. Slowly, bit by bit, he slipped one hand under the blanket.
“The vessel known as the Friendship will be destroyed,” Hasa-Ba replied flatly. The navy will rush to help. That’s when our forces will strike. Thousands of ships are there for the taking. Many will be ours.”
“And the rest?”
“The Ramanthians need ships just as we do. They will receive the balance of the alien fleet.”
“And then?”
“And then we will regroup, reorganize, and prepare to defend ourselves.”
“That’s right,” Ifana-Ka said bitterly, his fingers wrapping themselves around the gun butt. “We will be attacked, and attacked, and attacked. We lost two such wars in the past. What makes you believe that we can win this one?”
“Outside of ourselves, the Ramanthians, and the Thrakies the Humans are the only race that has a credible military force. The bugs will be on our side, and the fur balls will remain neutral, which leaves the humans on their own. There’s no way to know what the Hegemony will do, but given the strength of our revitalized navy, we can defeat them if necessary.”
Ifana-Ka sighed. Even if the plan was successful it would divert much-needed attention away from the need to escape their increasingly hostile solar system, kill off millions of Hudathan citizens, and take the race back to the days of barbarism. He could have said that, should have said that, but knew it would be a waste of time. “Does Doma-Sa know about your plans?”
“No,” the other member of the triad replied, “but he will soon.”
“You plan to request his resignation as well?”
“No, I plan to kill him.”
“I see,” Ifana-Ka replied calmly. “Well, based on what I’ve heard, it appears as though you’d better kill me as well.”
The handgun came up, caught on the bedclothes, and was smothered as both of Hasa-Ba’s troopers threw themselves onto the bed.
Ifana-Ka cursed his own weakness, tried to call out, but gagged on a wad of cloth. That’s when the old soldier saw the injector in Hasa-Ba’s hand and knew how he would die: A powerful drug would stop his heart, the other triad would call for help, and it would be over.
Then, having assassinated Doma-Sa, the remaining member of the triad would be free to install two of his vassals into the recently vacated positions, and rule the Hudathan race. A time-tested strategy.
Ifana-Ka felt the injector bite his arm, struggled to free himself, and finally managed to do so. Suddenly, and for reasons the warrior wasn’t quite sure of, his leg felt fine.
10
* * *
Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . . .
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . .
Low, drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . .
Worried by silence, sentries
whisper, curious, nervous,
But nothing happens.
Wilfred Owen
“Exposure”
Standard year circa 1914
* * *
WEST OF THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LA NOR
Since it had rained most of the previous day, and well into the night, Santana was pleased to feel the sun on his back as he and the other eighteen members of the first platoon continued to slog their way toward the west. From his position high on Snyder’s back, the lieutenant could see gently rolling hills, patches of cultivated land, and a distant plume of smoke. A farmhouse? Or something more sinister? There was no way to be certain.
Santana turned to look back over his shoulder. The first squad under Sergeant Cvanivich was following along behind the T-2, well separated in case of an attack, and paralleling both sides of the road in order to avoid the worst of the mud. Yao Che, who had taken a liking to Cvanivich, tagged along behind.
The RAVs came next, both robots burdened with thousands of pounds’ worth of gear, ammo, and food. They walked with a strange mincing gait, as if reluctant to place their pods in mud and resentful of the effort required to free them.
The second squad, under the watchful eye of Sergeant Via, followed the RAVs with Zook walking drag. It was a nasty job, walking backward half the time, but critical to ensure that the column’s six stayed clean.
Platoon Sergeant Hillrun was mounted on the second T-2’s back, saw Santana turn to look, and raised a hand by way of a greeting. The platoon leader responded in kind before turning back toward the front.
Later, in about thirty minutes or so, one of the legionnaires would be invited to ride drag, Hillrun would rotate to Snyder, and Santana would walk. Both squad leaders, and both corporals, would take turns on the lead cyborg’s back as well. Gradually, over time, the rest of the troops would have an opportunity to ride on Zook.
For More Than Glory Page 30
