For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  The LaNorians began to chant as the souls of their loved ones were released into the spirit world. The officer heard the crunch of gravel and turned to find Busso at his side. There was something about the tall lanky missionary that the legionnaire liked. A calm no-nonsense professionalism that stood in marked contrast to the righteous verse-spouting ideologue he had imagined. “So, Lieutenant, what now?”

  Though innocent enough the words had the effect of shifting responsibility for everything that happened next to the soldier. Appropriate given the circumstances—but sobering nonetheless. “We need to get out of here,” Santana answered, “and the sooner the better.”

  “I don’t know,” Busso replied doubtfully, moving sideways as the breeze shifted and smoke from the first pyre hit his face. “Twenty-seven members of my congregation have wounds so serious it will be impossible for them to walk.”

  Santana ran the various possibilities through his mind. Based on the information that Busso had provided earlier he knew that 958 LaNorians had survived the repeated attacks. That meant there were more than enough potential stretcher-bearers should he decide to return the way he had come.

  But how in the world would two squads of legionnaires manage to protect such a long, presumably slow, column? The Claw would attack at will, and even with the extra firepower available from the T-2s, many if not all of the refugees would die. No, an overland journey was to be avoided if at all possible, but what other option was there?

  Movement caught Santana’s eye as the current pulled a piece of driftwood down the middle of the river and past his position. Suddenly he had an answer, or the possibility of one, depending on what lay downstream.

  “Come on,” Santana said, “let’s take a look at my map. Maybe Hwa Nas can help as well. The First REC is a cavalry outfit . . . and maybe we can ride.”

  THE IMPERIAL CITY OF POLWA, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  If pedestrians on the street were curious regarding the identity of the tall individual in the white robes, or the short hunched figure who was completely swathed in black, they gave no sign of it, for these were troubled times, and there were many ways to die. So the citizens of Polwa looked right through the strange twosome and the thugs who accompanied them as if they weren’t there.

  As for the four-unit-long cylinder that one of them carried, well, that was none of their business either, and best forgotten.

  Though carried on the Ramanthian rolls as a lowly “specialist,” the soldier named Poth Dusso was a member of Military Intelligence and often outranked the officer to whom he seemed to report. Now, in the wake of Force Leader Hakk Batth’s untimely death, responsibility for the sub rosa relationship with the Tro Wa had fallen to him. That included not only the “security” arrangements that made it possible for the Ramanthian factories to run unimpeded, but for the ongoing military advice and support which served to fuel continuing cooperation, something Ambassador Regar Batth considered to be even more important now that Mys was under siege.

  A domesticated bush bird squawked and dashed from one tiny apartment to another as Lak Saa turned, climbed a second flight of litter-strewn stairs, and emerged on a flat roof. Not just any roof, but a special roof which because of its proximity to the southeast corner of Mys, and the shuttles that routinely took off and landed there, made it the perfect platform from which to launch a heat-seeking missile.

  One look at the newcomers was sufficient to send a dozen residents fleeing to the stairway and down into their various abodes. Lak Saa, apparently unaware of their fear, took a long slow look around.

  Though less than pleased by the LaNorian’s insistence that the Ramanthians prove the efficacy of the weapons they were about to deliver, Dusso couldn’t help but admire the eunuch’s savvy. Claims were one thing . . . deeds were another.

  In spite of the fact that the roof was visible from the top of the wall that acted to separate Mys from Polwa a maze of crisscrossing clotheslines, cages filled with highly excitable flits, and thickly planted “tub gardens” provided plenty of cover.

  It was a simple matter to open the cylindrical case, remove the surface-to-air missile (SAM), and prepare the weapon for use.

  In spite of the close relationship the Ramanthians had maintained with the Drac Axis over the last few years it was one of their shuttles that was slated for destruction. Partly because of the manner in which Ambassador Fas Doonar had allowed Force Leader Hakk Batth to be killed within the Drac embassy, partly because of a lack of support during the last few weeks, but mostly because the gassers were the only off-worlders with a ship in orbit. Not counting a yacht that is, which belonged to one of the humans, and was small enough to enter the atmosphere.

  But would the Dracs flee? Yes, Dusso’s sources said that they would, and soon, too. Unlike some of the other embassies, which maintained pads of their own, the gassers relied on the public facilities adjacent to the Transcendental Cathedral in what most people referred to as the corporate sector. That’s why the Ramanthian felt confident that the Dracs would take off right in front of him.

  The one thing the agent couldn’t be certain of was when the gassers would lift . . . which meant that he and his companions would have to sit and wait. A necessity which the agent decided to take advantage of by pumping the rebel leader for information. Lak Saa smelled of urine but the Ramanthian managed to ignore it.

  “So,” Dusso began, “it looks as though the Imperial government and the Tro Wa are allies, for the moment at least.”

  A breeze caused the surrounding laundry to flap and Lak Saa gazed out over the surrounding rooftops. His eyes were bleak. “The Empress hopes to destroy you, blame the destruction on me, and negotiate new agreements with your successors. Does that sound like an alliance?”

  “No,” the Ramanthian was forced to admit, “it doesn’t. There are some common objectives, however, like maintaining traditional values, ridding the planet of off-world influence, and neutralizing Prince Mee Mas.”

  Lak Saa lowered himself onto a crate and used one of the long curved claws to scratch the center of his back. “Yes, that much can be said, although there will always be a place for true allies, such as yourselves.”

  Dusso didn’t believe it, not for a moment, but pretended that he did. “Thank you, Excellency, the ambassador will be gladdened to hear it.”

  The conversation might have continued had it not been for the communicator that vibrated on the Ramanthian’s utility harness. He touched a button. There were plenty of electronic ears and it would pay to be brief. “Yes?”

  The voice belonged to a Ramanthian trooper stationed on the east wall. “They’re boarding the shuttle.”

  “Affirmative,” the agent replied. “Out.”

  “They’re coming,” Lak Saa said, as if he too were able to see them.

  “Yes,” Dusso answered, reaching for the SAM. “Any moment now.”

  “Can you control where the aircraft will crash?”

  The Ramanthian stood, settled the weapon onto his right shoulder, and peered into the fractal sight. The Tro Wa’s launchers would be equipped with sighting devices appropriate to them—but the agent saw no reason why he should have to deal with alien optics. “Maybe,” he allowed, “to some extent. If the shuttle doesn’t explode in midair—and if the pilot doesn’t interfere. Why? Do you want it to crash in Mys?”

  “No,” Lak Saa replied evenly. “I want it to crash in Polwa.”

  “In Polwa?” the Ramanthian echoed. “That seems strange.”

  “Only to you,” the LaNorian replied coldly. “Do as I say.”

  “Yes, Excellency,” Dusso said obediently, as a shuttle rose from the other side of the wall, and drew fire from every conceivable direction. “It shall be as you say.”

  The pilot of the shuttle, a Drac named Bof Hofor, swore as all manner of musket balls, rifle bullets and arrows rattled against the aircraft’s hull armor. He turned the ship toward Polwa on the theory that he would take less fire from an area occupied by civil
ians, pushed the throttles toward the instrument panel, and felt the shuttle respond.

  The in-system drives didn’t need a lot of run-up time, but they did require some, and he planned to enter a steep climb at just about the point where he would clear the south wall. Ambassador Doonar, who was seated aft of the pilot, was screaming by then. Spittle flew as he shouted useless orders.

  Hofor ignored the diplomat, watched Mys fall away, and felt the gee forces push him back into his seat. That’s when the audible went off, a warning light came on, and the aviator knew the truth: Someone, there was no way to know who, had fired a missile at him. No, he told himself, that’s impossible! It must be a malfunction of some . . .

  Dusso waited until the shuttle had passed overhead and engaged its in-system drives before squeezing the firing bulb. The SAM shoved the Ramanthian backward, as the engine ignited and the missile flew off its launcher. The infrared homing head looked for heat, found it, and locked on.

  Lak Saa watched in morbid fascination as the missile accelerated toward the delta-shaped aircraft, looped in behind it, and flew up one of exhaust channels. The subsequent explosion blew the fuselage into a hundred pieces two of which were large enough to track with the naked eye. One fell into a tenement, collapsing the roof, and plunging down through dozens of squats. The other tumbled end over end, landed in the middle of a densely crowded market, and erupted in flame. Secondary explosions, three in all, killed more than a hundred LaNorians.

  Dusso lowered the launcher as Lak Saa nodded his approval. “ ‘Foreign devils attacked the peace-loving people of LaNor.’ That’s what the flyers say . . . They were printed last night. Those who didn’t have a reason to care about the conflict have one now.”

  It was cynical, very cynical, and sure to work. That’s when Dusso thought of something the should have considered earlier . . . What if Lak Saa’s efforts to mobilize the populations were so successful that they rose up and rolled over all the off-worlders Ramanthians included? But it was too late for such considerations as a column of smoke rose into the sky, fire spread from one flimsy booth to the next, and people continued to die.

  NEAR THE VILLAGE OF NAH REE, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  The rain had stopped, the sun peered down through a halo of mist, and a breeze found its way downriver and stirred the tall stately trees. They shivered, as if aware of their fate, and swayed from side to side.

  The so-called spirit grove was located two miles upstream from the Transcendental mission—and consisted of trees planted more than a hundred years earlier during the reign of Emperor Pot Fas. Consistent with his belief in nature spirits, and the importance of maintaining habitat for them, thousands of such preserves still dotted the land. And, in spite of the fact that Naturalism had never really caught on, it was said that nature spirits could be quite vindictive. So, not wanting to take any chances, most LaNorians left the plantings alone.

  So trees such as those that stood before Sergeant Zook remained untouched in spite of their considerable value as lumber and firewood. In fact, even now, with their lives literally on the line, the villagers were reluctant to disturb the spiritual status quo. But, with assurances from the Busso family, and the certain knowledge that the Claw would attack again the acceded. The trees, enough to construct twenty-two thirty-five-foot-long rafts, would carry them to safety. Or so they hoped.

  Zook used his sensors to confirm that Sergeant Via and his squad were spread out along the southern edge of the grove and that the twenty-five person LaNorian work party was well clear of the fall zone. Satisfied that everything was as it should be the cyborg backed off to what he hoped was the correct distance. He’d never been called upon to cut a tree down, but Lieutenant Santana believed that he could, so Zook did too. He planned to harvest the trees that bordered the river first, thereby shortening the haul down to the water, and eliminating obstacles for the ones that were farther back.

  Unsure of the right technique to use, and conscious of what one of the one-hundred-foot-tall trees could do to his body, Zook was careful to keep his distance. The legionnaire raised his right arm, saw the targeting grid superimpose itself over his normal “vision,” and swung the appendage to the right. The crosshairs passed over the tree trunk, came back, and froze.

  Zook ordered the energy cannon to fire, felt the recoil, and saw a flash of light as the bolt struck the target. Wood shattered, the tree groaned as if in pain, and toppled to the west where it clipped one of its brethren before finally hitting the ground. There was an explosion of broken branches and hundreds of circular leaves broke loose. They curled up into tight little balls, fell like green hail, and bounced.

  The cyborg swore at his own incompetence, resolved to move south, where the impact of the bolt would be more likely to push the next tree toward the river, and signaled for the work party to move in.

  Led by Hwa Nas and armed with Busso’s chain saw, a dozen axes, and some machete-like knives, the LaNorians swarmed over the fallen tree, removed all its limbs, and stacked the larger ones in a pile next to the river. The rafts would need crossbraces, rudders, and shelters, all of which would require wood.

  Then, once the branches had been removed, the resulting log was cut into three thirty-five-foot-long lengths, which were chained and made ready for skidding.

  In the meantime Zook felled a second tree, this one landing much closer to the spot where he wanted it, not ten feet from the river’s edge.

  Then, while the LaNorians attacked the second trunk, the cyborg made use of his tremendous strength to haul the finished logs out into the river, where they were anchored side by side. That’s where a team of raft builders, some of whom were carpenters, and some of whom had worked on the river prior to the coming of the railroads, went to work. They used hand adzes to fashion rudders, prepared standardized crosspieces that would go on later, and used rope to bind the logs together. And so it went: As the sun rose higher in the sky, trees continued to fall and production accelerated.

  Meanwhile, two miles downstream, preparations were under way to receive the rafts once they were completed. Conscious of the fact that it would be difficult if not impossible to anchor the rafts in the swift-flowing current that swept past the mission, successfully board something close to a thousand souls, and deal with the Claw at the same time, Santana had ordered that a breakwater be built.

  The concept was to take a natural backwater, a place where the river started to curve, and the current lost its force, and enlarge the potential harbor by pushing a sort of jetty out into the main channel.

  A difficult task but one made somewhat easier by the fact that the obstruction would be temporary and wouldn’t have to last more than fifty-four hours. Or so Santana hoped.

  As with the logging operation, the breakwater project would have been impossible had it not been for the second cyborg, who, thanks to her enormous strength was able to grasp boulders between her padded forearms, lift the rocks off the ground, and carry them out into the river.

  The officer watched Snyder drop the latest boulder into place as a basket brigade comprised of two hundred LaNorians hurried to pour container after container of smaller rocks around their larger brothers. Later, after a reasonably firm foundation had been established, soil would dumped on top of the jetty and packed into place. Then, assuming everything went as planned, it would be time to bring the rafts into the newly created harbor, load them up, and shove off.

  After that, well, who knew? Both Santana’s map and the information provided by local fisherfolk were in agreement: The Gee Nas River flowed east, where it split into two tributaries, the Little Gee Nas, which turned toward the south, and the Jade, which passed through the city of Mys. The very place the officer wanted to go.

  Santana remembered the night when he had walked Vanderveen home, when they had stood on the bridge, and looked down into the dark oily water. She had allowed him to place his arm around her waist, to taste the sweet softness of her lips, and invited him to come up to her apart
ment. And he, like the fool he was, had refused. Now it looked like both of them might very well die.

  His radio operator, Lance Corporal “Bags” Bagano had managed to make contact with Legion HQ in Mys. The ensuing conversation was necessarily short, since there was increasing evidence that someone was providing the Tro Wa with illegal technology, and the last thing Santana needed was even more Claw on his back, but there was time enough to report that the team had arrived in Nah Ree and was making preparations to return.

  Of more interest, from Santana’s perspective at least, was the fact that Mys was under siege, a Drac shuttle had crashed into a densely populated area of Polwa, and more than a hundred people had been killed. The population, with encouragement from the Tro Wa, was up in arms. Not only that, but a full-scale attack had been launched against the city’s North Gate, and only barely repelled.

  All of which meant that even if Santana’s plan was successful, and he managed to get the converts down the Jade River, he might very well deliver them into an even worse hell. One in which the person who meant the most to him might already lie dead.

  He had told the Bussos that they and their entire flock might be jumping from the frying pan into the fire—and suggested that the missionaries might want to go only partway. Far enough to escape the local Tro Wa but not so far as to encounter the forces grouped around Polwa.

  But the Bussos responded by pointing out that the converts would have no way to find food and shelter, that the Claw would almost certainly locate them, and that it was better to die trying to reach Mys than be sacrificed to the god of fire.

  First, however, before Santana could worry about how to enter the city of Mys he had a more pressing problem to deal with. Still reeling from the losses suffered the night prior to the Legion’s arrival, and unable to marshal a second attack, the Tro Wa had moved in to harass the compound during the night.

  Drummers, working in relays, pounded their instruments throughout the hours of darkness. The females known as red lanterns paraded past, and, just to keep things interesting the Claw set off fireworks every hour or so. That forced the legionnaires and locals alike to open bleary eyes, rise from whatever resting place they had been able to make for themselves, and take up their weapons.