The point was to keep fresh eyeballs up front, provide the noncoms with the experience of riding point, and give everyone an occasional breather.
Though not especially thrilled about a mission deep into what Corporal Dietrich insisted on referring to as “dig country,” the cavalry officer did enjoy being out on his own, and was pleased with the way things had gone so far.
Once free of Polwa the wagon train had made its way into the foothills, turned off onto what appeared to a little-used track, and pulled up behind the crown of a low-lying hill. That was when Yao Che dismounted, called the other drivers together, paid two day’s wages rather than one, and sent the LaNorian teamsters packing.
This was a critical juncture, and one which Santana had been worried about since there was always the possibility of treachery, especially given the fact that the drivers no doubt assumed that Yao Che was alone.
Yes, it would have been relatively easy to kill the LaNorians, but the platoon leader wanted to avoid bloodshed if at all possible.
However, thanks to the cover story, and the fact that the drivers were afraid of what might happen to them if the Claw discovered that they were transporting steel rails, the locals were eager to leave.
Yao Che watched until the teamsters were out of sight, waited for another five minutes just to make sure, and rapped on the side of wagon one. “Lieutenant Santana! You can come out now! The drivers are gone.”
The platoon leader dropped through the floor-mounted escape hatch, scrambled out from under the wagon, and stood to look around. It was raining and he raised a hand to shield his eyes. The rise served to shelter the convoy from the main road but they were vulnerable nonetheless. All it would take was for a group of Tro Wa to come along, grow curious about the deeply cut wagon tracks, and decide to follow them around the side of the hill. He got on the radio.
“This is Bravo Six to Bravo Five . . . Use Bravo Two Six and her squad to establish a defensive perimeter. Once they become available you can place both T-2s as you see fit.
“Bravo Three Six, I want you and your squad to open wagons two and four, followed by three and five. Once that’s accomplished, run the diagnostics on the RAVs to make sure that they’re good to go. Over.”
There was a series of “Rogers,” as the troops set about their various tasks. Santana spotted Yao Che and waved him over. “You did a nice job. That took guts. Thank you.”
The LaNorian made a mental note of the colloquial expression and was quick to add it to the growing store of other sayings already harvested from the legionnaires. His ear fans fluttered with both pleasure and embarrassment as he looked down at his muddy feet. “You are most welcome, Excellency.”
Santana shook his head. “Forget the ‘Excellency’ stuff. ‘Lieutenant’ will do just fine. Now, here’s what I want you to do . . . Go to Sergeant Hillrun, tell him you need two escorts, and get them to help you unharness the razbuls. Herd the bastards about a quarter of a mile south of here, find something they like to eat, and turn them loose. Understand?”
Yao Che had no idea how far a “quarter of a mile” was but figured his escorts would know. He answered the way he heard the legionnaires do. “Sir! Yes, sir!”
Santana grinned and slapped the youngster on the back. “Good. Once that’s done you get your butt back here fast as you can. We need to pack up and put some miles between ourselves and these wagons before the sun goes down.”
The LaNorian nodded and scampered away. One hour later the razbuls had been released, the RAVs had been checked, and the team was ready to move.
Santana would have preferred to burn the heavily modified wagons rather than leave them for the wrong sort of people to find, but knew the resulting smoke could attract trouble. So he left the vehicles where they were, cut across country, and hit the main road three miles to the west.
Now, well into the next day, the platoon leader had other things to worry about. There was traffic on the road, plenty of traffic, like heavily laden carts approaching from the west. They were rickety affairs, outfitted with enormous wooden wheels, and drawn by animals so old their skins had faded white. The LaNorians who accompanied the vehicles, two or three families by the look of them, were so dumbfounded by the sight of the enormous T-2, the aliens who followed behind, and the carnivorous-looking robots that they stared in openmouthed amazement as the column of off-worlders marched past.
The farmers were typical of the passersby the soldiers had encountered thus far and because of that Santana knew they would not only tell the next people they encountered about the aliens, but the youngest of them would tell children yet to be born.
So, assuming the Claw didn’t know about the column already, they soon would. It would be easy for them to send runners, assemble some sort of ambush, and spring it as the legionnaires passed by. Yes, Snyder might well be able to detect the trap before they entered it, but any sort of contact could result in casualties.
Besides, the mission was to rescue missionaries, not engage in unnecessary firefights. Consequently, Santana used the next rotation as an opportunity to hit the ground, drift back to where Yao Che was walking, and engage the youngster in conversation. “How are you doing?”
The youngster smiled. “Just fine, Lieutenant.”
“Good. Listen, I could use some advice . . . If we continue to march along this road there’s a good chance that we will walk into some sort of trap. Is there another route we could take? Something off the beaten track?”
Yao Che considered the question for a moment. There were routes, lots of them, but none so direct as the road they were on. But the off-worlder knew that . . .
Careful to be as factual as possible the youngster made his reply. “Sir, yes sir. There are other thoroughfares, paths mostly, which the locals use to bring their produce into the villages. We could make use of these routes but it would be easy to get lost.”
It was an honest answer to an honest question, and Santana considered his options. The back routes would reduce the likelihood of an ambush, but suck up a certain amount of time even if they didn’t get lost which they easily could. Still, when faced with what appeared to be a fifty-fifty trade-off, his father had counseled him to “go with your gut.”
“All right,” the cavalry officer replied, “I’m promoting you to scout. Can you run? Good, because Warmfeel and Fareye could run the ass off a wheel. I’m going to send the three of you up ahead. Listen to their advice, do what they say, but make up you own mind as to which turnoff we should take. Once you have it tell them and they’ll let me know. Got it?”
Yao Che nodded enthusiastically. “Sir! Yes, sir.”
Santana made use of his radio to pass the word to the scouts, watched the three of them veer off the road, and knew the youngster was in very good hands. Not only were the Naa experts at fieldcraft, they could smell a campfire from a mile away, sense warmth through the soles of their feet, and move around in weather that would appall anyone except a Hudathan.
The better part of an hour had passed before the column topped a rise, the scouts materialized next to the road, and fell in next to Santana to make their report. “I think we found the right spot, sir,” Warmfeel began. “It’s about a mile ahead.”
“That’s right,” Fareye agreed enthusiastically. “The road gets real muddy and passes through a small stream before it starts up the next slope. All we have to do is make a right turn into the stream, follow it for half a mile or so, and exit to the west. It’s rocky there, but not too steep for the RAVs, and we won’t leave any tracks.”
Santana was quick to see the plan’s virtues. Only the closest of observers would be likely to notice the difference between the impressions made in the downhill muck and those in the uphill muck. The stream made a perfect off-ramp. “Good work—that sounds perfect. So, Yao Che, what do you think? Will the plan work?”
Thrilled to be asked, and eager to add his opinion to the report, the youngster nodded. “Yes, I think it will. I have never been in the area north of
the main highway before but I know that Su Ruu lies northwest of here. There should be plenty of cart trails in the vicinity of the village. After a day’s march we could jog southwest and head for Nah Ree.”
“Excellent,” Santana replied, “let’s do it. Warmfeel, Fareye, pass the word to the NCOs and take the point. Once we hit that stream you’re in charge. I want a nice clean departure from the road.”
The scouts said, “Yes, sir,” almost in unison, and jogged away.
Time passed, a party of tired-looking LaNorian merchants trudged past, their animals loaded with packs, but outside of the offerings left at the occasional roadside altar, there was little else to be seen.
The departure, when it eventually came, was almost anticlimactic as Snyder made her way down a muddy slope, saw the scouts, and sidestepped into the stream. After that it was an easy matter to turn, splash toward the north, and await further instructions. The column followed.
An hour later, the rest of the legionnaires left the stream, and followed the Naa up a rocky slope. Once on top, Santana climbed up on Snyder’s back and made use of the extra height to chart a course to the northwest. They marched through a field of something similar to wheat, passed a recently burned-out hut, and hit one of the tracks that Yao Che had predicted would be there.
Then, turning to the left, they followed the trail in a generally northwesterly direction. It felt good to be off the main road, but the countryside seemed unnaturally quiet, as though something evil was afoot, and even the normally loquacious flits knew about it. Still, the way was clear, that’s what Snyder said, and the cavalry officer believed her.
The next couple of miles were comparatively easy. There were soft spots, places where the mud had been churned up in the fairly recent past, but nothing like the unending muck found on the main road.
The question was who had disturbed the mud and why? They were mounted, a trail of razbul shit left little doubt as to that, and Yao Che estimated that as many as eight animals had passed that way. However, little more could be gleaned than that.
Then, as the hill country gave way to a plain, they came to an intersection. A place where their path crossed another. Of more importance however was the recently disturbed soil that marked the center of the crossroads and the tasa tubers that stuck up out of the dirt.
Santana signaled a halt, ordered Hillrun to post flankers, and authorized a break. Zook stood guard while Snyder took the opportunity to stand down.
Like soldiers everywhere those who weren’t on security duty were quick to get off the trail, rest against the light packs they wore, or line up to see “Doc” Seavy. There were plenty of blisters and it wasn’t long before the medic was in business.
Those who didn’t require medical attention checked their weapons, lit fuel tabs in order to brew a cup of tea, or simply sat and talked. One, a private named Dilley, scribbled on the surface of his PDA. Nobody knew what he was writing but there were plenty of theories.
Santana called for Yao Che, led the youth to the intersection, and pointed at the mound. “What the hell is that?”
The LaNorian stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes grew larger, his ear fans went back, and his hands started to tremble. He jammed them into the sleeves of his jacket. “I’ve never seen one Excellency, only heard about them, but that’s what the Tro Wa thugs call a flower garden. Religious converts, or others suspected of trafficking with off-worlders, are forced to dig a large hole. Once the pit is large enough, they are instructed to stand on their heads. Those who are unable to do so are roped to poles driven into the ground. Once they are in place tubers are inserted into their nostrils and the soil is replaced.”
Santana’s eyebrows shot straight up. “They’re buried alive?”
Yao Che remembered that he wasn’t supposed to say “Excellency,” and said, “Yes, sir,” instead.
“You mean there are people down there right now? Breathing through those tubes?”
The youth nodded. “Yes, if they’re still alive.”
Santana yelled down the road. “Sergeant Hillrun! I need six troopers with shovels! On the double!”
The only implements available were the collapsible trenching shovels the legionnaires carried but they were up to the job. Dirt flew as the legionnaires hurried to dig the LaNorians out.
Santana tired to imagine what it would feel like to be buried alive and shuddered at the thought. It was hard to believe that anyone could be so cruel, but the officer had studied the history of war, and knew that his race had done worse.
Private Hadley shouted, “We have one! She’s alive!” and there was a flurry of activity as a small soil-encrusted body was lifted up and out of the hole. It turned out to be that of a female, a youngster about Yao Che’s age, and she was alive, though the rest of the “flowers” hadn’t been so lucky. Her name was Pwi Qui, and her father, mother, and younger brother had all been suffocated.
One by one their bodies were removed from the pit, cleaned up, and laid on the path. Pwi Qui wailed, the sound of her grief requiring no translation, as Yao Che sought to comfort her.
The youngster wanted to remain with the bodies, to somehow find the means to cremate them, so the souls of her family could go free. That was impossible of course, since a fire would make smoke, and there was no doubt as to what would happen if the Claw were to return.
Santana was about to order the corpses buried, and have Pwi Qui strapped to one of the RAVs, when Snyder offered a possible alternative. “I could use my energy cannon on the bodies, sir, if that would help.”
The officer took the idea to Yao Che, who explained it to Pwi Qui, who reluctantly nodded.
And so it was that Yao Che was transformed from scout to native priest, a role for which he had never been trained, but did the best he could.
Snyder used short highly focused bursts of energy to cremate the bodies, quickly reducing flesh, muscle, and bone to a light scattering of ash, which the wind blew toward the east.
Then, hanging on Yao Che’s arm, Pwi Qui was forced to leave the place where she had grown up behind and walk toward the setting sun. It was blood red and fell off the edge of the world.
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
It was a little after two in the morning but the Strathmore Hotel was ablaze with lights. The ballroom, which was packed with all manner of off-worlders, looked as though a bomb had been detonated at its very center. All manner of exotic furniture was turned this way and that. Long tables, still laden with the picked-over remains of the meal served hours earlier, waited to be cleared. Napkins, scraps of paper, and bits of cast-off clothing littered, the normally immaculate floor while a Clone slept in a corner.
Meanwhile, the architects of this destruction, the beings whose job it was to represent their various governments on LaNor, sat and bickered over the same questions they had debated for the better part of two days, namely, should they accede to Empress Shi Huu’s demand and hand Prince Mee Mas over to the Imperial government, or should they refuse and deal with the potential consequences?
Ambassador Pas Rasha stood at the front of the room and looked out over his squabbling peers. He was tired and angry. His fellow diplomats had dithered their way down to the first deadline, appealed for more time, and received one twenty-seven-hour extension. Now that too was in danger of expiring and the group was no closer to consensus.
Basically there were two camps: The Ramanthians and the Thrakies wanted to hand Mee Mas over . . . while nearly everyone else felt the Confederacy should protect him. The Drac, in the person of Ambassador Fas Doonar, saw no reason to take any position whatsoever and had already returned to his embassy.
Now, with dawn fast approaching, the Dweller had run out of patience. His exoskeleton whined as he walked over to Captain Seebo and held out his hand. “Your sidearm please.”
Seebo looked at Ambassador Ishimoto-Forty-Six who shrugged. “Let him have it. Maybe he’ll put me out of my misery.”
The Clone drew h
is weapon, handed it to the diplomat butt first, and pointed at the latch. “That’s the safety . . . let me know if you need more ammo.”
But Pas Rasha was in no mood for jokes. He took the weapon, turned, and raised it over his head. There were three loud reports. The slugs passed through the ceiling, missed a guest by a foot and a half, and lodged somewhere above. Every being in the ballroom looked at the front of the room and there was a moment of silence. Pas Rasha, the gun still in his hand, allowed his eyes to roam the room. He had been talking for hours, and his voice was hoarse.
“The discussion is over . . . Every diplomat in this room reports to a government which is part of the Confederacy. I represent the Confederacy, and while interested in your opinions, am under no obligation to honor specific recommendations. Objections, and I’m sure there will be plenty, can be filed through normal channels.
“In the meantime Prince Mee Mas, along with any other LaNorians desirous of our dubious protection, will remain here in Mys.
“Now, in keeping with the provisions of Senate Resolution 179274128.62, I hereby activate the joint defense pact to which all of your governments agreed, and name Major Homer Miraby to command what will now be known as the Joint Defense Force or JDF. Please order your respective military attachés to report to Major Miraby for orders. That will be all.”
There was a long and profound moment of silence. It ended when Sergi Chien-Chu pushed his chair back, came to his feet, and started to applaud. Others did likewise, and the gesture of support continued until even the Ramanthians and the Thrakies were forced to join in.
A waiter carried a tray of dishes into the hotel’s kitchen, dropped his apron onto the floor, and dashed out the back. The off-worlders had refused Shi Huu’s demand—and Minister Dwi Faa would want to know.
THE VILLAGE OF NAH REE, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
When the sun finally rose, and struggled to push its pale sickly light down through a new layer of clouds, the latest horror was revealed.
For More Than Glory Page 31
