Vanderveen arrived to find that the building she lived in was on fire. It seemed that one of the incendiary rockets had landed on the northeast corner of the roof. The blaze was still relatively small, and it appeared that members of the fire brigade would soon succeed in putting it out, but the writing was on the wall. Even if the building survived the next attack, and the one after that, it would eventually go up in smoke.
The diplomat took a quick look around, spotted some likely-looking young males, and waved them over. “Would you like to make some quick money? Follow me.”
The LaNorians followed the human up to her apartment and waited while she packed three suitcases. Food came first, followed by what few meds she had, and every container of lotion, soap and shampoo that she could find. It was a shame she would have to leave most of her possessions to the inevitable looters but that’s how it was.
Then, having accounted for the most critical items, Vanderveen selected two sets of sturdy clothing, paused to grab her boots, and ducked into the bathroom to change.
The LaNorians blinked in surprise as the human emerged from the bathroom. None of them knew anything about human standards of beauty, but the dark blue cocktail dress with the gold buttons would have looked good anywhere, especially when worn by her.
After that it was a simple matter to look around, grab a few mementos, and stuff them into her bags. Then, having said a mental farewell to what had been her home, the FSO followed the three heavily laden LaNorians out into the evening air. The fact that Vanderveen wore a cocktail dress, plus heavy boots, and carried a hunting rifle cradled in her arms made her a strange sight indeed.
It took the better part of twenty minutes to reach the embassy, pass between the amused-looking sentries, and pay her bearers. Then, with help from one of the embassy’s staff, the FSO hauled her luggage up to her office and dumped it on the floor.
Then, having traded the boots for a pair of dark blue slippers and checked to make sure that her makeup had survived the journey intact, the diplomat collected the data tap from her desk, stuck the disk into her cleavage, and checked to see if the device would show. It didn’t. With that out of the way it was a simple matter to throw a LaNorian shawl over her shoulders, hurry downstairs, and exit the building.
Harley Clauson and his band had agreed to play, and their music could be heard from outside the Ramanthian embassy as Vanderveen approached.
No fewer than four insectoid troopers had been stationed outside the main entrance. One of them took a quick look at Vanderveen’s ID and checked her invitation, but none of them took the ritual very seriously. It was the Claw that they had been ordered to be on the lookout for and this guest was human.
Typical of Ramanthian habitats everywhere, the interior of the embassy was warm, too warm, and Vanderveen was quick to shed her shawl.
Beyond, the heat, the thick odor of alien food, the oppressively low ceilings, and the warrenlike rooms combined to make the FSO feel claustrophobic. But Vanderveen forced herself to ignore that as she accepted a drink off a tray, paused to chat with a group of Clones, and eventually made her way over to where Pas Rasha stood talking to Fynian Isu Hybatha, the Thraki ambassador.
All three of them agreed that it was a shame the way that Ambassador Fas Domar and his staff had been killed, commiserated with each other regarding the steady erosion of their daily comforts, and wondered how Santana’s mission was going. Everyone knew the relief force had arrived in the Nah Ree—but how would they make it back?
It was a question never far from Vanderveen’s thoughts and it was depressing to hear others voice the same doubts she had.
Finally, when the FSO felt sure that her presence had been noted, she did what she thought of as a “diplomatic fade.” Normally used for the purpose of escaping from boring functions early, the fade was best accomplished by going in search of a rest room, and never coming back.
However, before attempting to penetrate the subsurface levels of the embassy, where Vanderveen felt sure the Ramanthian computers would be, it was first necessary to create some sort of distraction. The diplomat dealt with that requirement by sidling up to one of the back tables, sticking one corner of a paper tablecloth into the flame under one of the food warmers, and walking away.
She was on the other side of the room by the time the first person hollered, “Fire!” around the corner by the time a smoke alarm went off, and standing near the top of the ramp as a half dozen Ramanthians shuffled up out of the basements below.
Then, careful to maintain the nonchalant pace of a woman searching for a rest room, Vanderveen strolled down the ramp into the hothouse conditions below.
There was no way to know exactly where the computer equipment would be kept, only the certain knowledge that the gear would be subject to the same laws of physics that governed electronics everywhere, which led Specialist Imbulo to believe that the room would be air-conditioned.
So, given the Ramanthian tendency to leave rooms open to each other, except where doors were required because of potential problems with fire, security, or toxic contaminants, Vanderveen’s task was that much easier.
Conscious of the fact that she had very little time before the technicians returned from the floor above the diplomat hurried down a hall, looked into what appeared to be a series of office cubicles, and knew she had selected the wrong corridor.
The diplomat turned, ran back up the passageway, and paused. What felt like a pound of lead rode the bottom of her stomach. She could go left or right but which passageway to take?
Vanderveen heard voices from above, turned to the right, and sprinted for the opposite end of the hall. If someone saw the diplomat they would never believe that she was looking for the Ramanthian equivalent of a powder room but that was the chance she’d have to take. The diplomat’s shoes hadn’t been made for running and she almost fell. The FSO caught herself, saw some ductwork, and followed it to a door. Vanderveen turned the T-shaped handle, gave a door a tiny push, and felt cool air flow around her face.
Thus encouraged the diplomat barged in, took one look around, and knew she was in the right place. A cylindrical mainframe computer stood at the center of the room surrounded by a circle of lesser machines. Imbulo had predicted that communications between the machines would be wireless and that’s the way it appeared to be since the floor was made of duracrete and there was no sign of overhead cable runs.
So, having made it to her goal, all Vanderveen had to do was attach the tap to any surface where it wasn’t likely to be found. Data if any would be siphoned off from the transmissions that passed back and forth between the various computers.
Vanderveen had just removed the disk from her bra, and taken three steps forward, when the door opened behind her. The diplomat felt a second one-pound weight drop into her stomach, turned, and forced a smile. Having studied their culture, and dealt with Ramanthian diplomats face-to-face, she could see that the technician was surprised. “Hello!” the FSO said brightly. “Perhaps you could help me . . . I set out to find the rest room but wound up here.”
“You are in a restricted area,” the technician said sternly. His voice was rendered flat by the broochlike translator that Vanderveen wore but the no-nonsense tone was clear to hear.
“Oops! Sorry, about that,” Vanderveen said. “Would you be so kind as to show me the way out?”
That’s when the technician made a number of mistakes. He didn’t notify his superior, he failed to ask for ID, and he turned his back in order to open the door.
Vanderveen, who had removed the backing by then, slapped the self-adhering device under the nearest countertop and followed the Ramanthian out of the room.
Three minutes later she was upstairs and back in the party. That’s when she made a point out of finding the Ramanthian ambassador, told him about her error, and apologized for any inconvenience that she might have caused his staff.
Then, having waited for thirty long minutes, the FSO said her good-byes, hurried back to the embas
sy, and tried Imbulo’s door. It was locked. Vanderveen knocked, saw a brown eyeball appear, and stuck her face up to the crack. “So? Did it work?”
“You bet it worked!” the technician replied enthusiastically. “Come on in.”
Vanderveen entered, saw a screen filled with what looked like random numbers, and heard Imbulo lock the door. “What is it?” the diplomat asked, nodding toward the screen. “What does it say?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” the specialist answered evenly. “It’s in code.”
“Code?”
“Yup. In spite of the fact that the Ramanthians were dumb enough to let you in—they weren’t dumb enough to transfer data from one machine to the other without encoding it first. If we were on Earth we could crack it but doing so here would take more computing power than I have.”
Something about the technician’s demeanor and phraseology caused a mental relay to close. Vanderveen’s eyes grew bigger. “Wait a minute . . . That tap thing isn’t something a Spec 3 would have lying around. Who do you work for anyway?”
Imbulo did her best to look innocent. “Why the same people you do . . .”
“Don’t feed me that crap,” the diplomat said angrily. “You sucked me in! You work for one of the Intelligence outfits!”
Imbulo held her hands palms out. “I’ll deny it outside of this room, but yes, I had been hoping to get some sort of bug inside their embassy, but never had an excuse to go in there. You did. Not only that—you suggested it!”
Vanderveen shrugged sheepishly. “I can’t deny that. So you’re suspicious of the factories too?”
“No, not till you brought them to my attention,” the Intelligence officer replied honestly, “but I am now.”
“And the information could be right in front of us,” Vanderveen said ruefully, “except that we can’t see it.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Imbulo agreed, “unless we can figure out a way to crack the code.”
Vanderveen was about to comment on how likely that was when the Tro Wa sent three wagons loaded with explosives at the North Gate. The Clones used rocket launchers to destroy two of the vehicles before they could come close enough to cause any damage but the third got through. It exploded, killing both drivers and blowing the gate to smithereens. The women felt the embassy shudder, dashed out of the room, and ran for the roof. The second assault had begun.
NEAR THE VILLAGE OF NAH REE, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
Though hopeful of casting off before nightfall, and moving his charges at least five miles down river, a series of last-minute problems prevented the group’s departure.
The night passed with agonizing slowness as Santana waited to see if his all-or-nothing gamble would pay off. Because if the Tro Wa attacked with the same ferocity they had before there was very little chance that his exhausted troops would be able to fight them off.
Knowing that, but also aware of the challenges that lay downriver, the cavalry officer placed even more chips on the table by making sure that every member of his platoon got at least six hours of sleep. That included the cyborgs who anchored both ends of the defensive perimeter and took turns going off-line.
The LaNorians, most of whom had been ordered to spend the night on the rafts, got as much as eight hours’ worth of rest if they were able to ignore the noise made by squalling infants, the bone-chilling cold, and the way that the rafts bobbed and swayed.
If the Tro Wa attacked, if he had no other choice, it was Santana’s intention to cut the rafts loose in hopes that at least some of the refugees would reach safety. It was all he could do. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the sky seemed to crack open, admitting a long ragged crack of pink-blue light off to the east.
Santana, who was certain that he was awake, discovered that he wasn’t when Sergeant Hillrun touched his arm. “It’s dawn, sir.”
The officer, who sat huddled beneath a camouflaged tarp that someone had thrown over him, opened his eyes and tried to ignore the taste in his mouth. “Any sign of the enemy?”
The Naa shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Excellent. Let’s put some warm food into people’s bellies and get the hell out of here.”
Hillrun had already given the appropriate orders which meant that kettles of tea and soup were on the boil. It wouldn’t be long until quantities of both would be transferred to the rafts by the only ones strong enough to lift the containers and carry them out to where the rafts waited in four or five feet of water: the platoon’s hardworking cyborgs. There was no need to mention that fact however so the noncom didn’t.
Now, as Santana stood, Private Pesta faded away. Unbeknownst to the officer six different legionnaires had voluntarily sacrificed one hour of sleep each to stand guard over him during the night. Pesta was the latest. Hillrun said, “Yes, sir. The food will be ready soon, sir,” and disappeared.
Unaware of the efforts made to protect him from Claw assassins Santana wandered down to one of the cook fires, filled a mug with hot tea, and looked out toward the river. It was gunmetal gray and seemed to slide past.
The rafts, all twenty-three of them, tugged at their anchors as if eager to leave. Most, with the exception of the so-called flagship, were equipped with low A-frame-style shelters intended to give at least some protection from wind and rain. Simple meals could be prepared inside using small makeshift stoves. Fire was always a danger—but the use of fuel tabs in place of wood would serve to reduce the overall risk.
Of more concern, to Santana’s eye at least, were the long sweep-style rudders mounted between pintles at each raft’s stern, and the long poles that could be used to push things off or propel the vessels through shallow water.
Should a steering oar break, or a pole snap in two, it would be easy for one of the rafts to turn broadside into the current, or be swept into one of the rock gardens that were said to lie downstream.
In order to reduce the possibility of such a disaster the helmspeople were all handpicked, drawing on fisherfolk, and those familiar with the flat-bottomed scows commonly used for river transport. Extra poles, one per raft, had been issued as well.
Would the precautions prove adequate? There was only one way to find out. Santana poured the dregs out of his cup and went to the river to rinse it out.
One hour later, the last of the LaNorians had boarded their rafts, the platoon had been transferred to the so-called flagship, where Santana joined them by climbing out of a small fishing boat and onto the raft’s stern. The anchor line was bar taut and Hwa Nas made a last-minute adjustment to the rudder as Sergeant Hillrun pulled the officer aboard. “Welcome aboard Lieutenant . . . Or would ‘Admiral’ be more appropriate?”
Santana laughed. “Are you kidding? No admiral in his or her right mind would ride on this thing.”
The officer followed the starboard aisle toward the bow. The center of the raft was dominated by a raised platform on which supplies were stored and up to ten legionnaires could sleep so long as they were exhausted enough to ignore the fact that it was damp and covered by nothing more than a loose tarp.
If the prospect bothered them the soldiers gave no sign of it as they checked lashings, cleaned weapons, or sipped tea. Santana exchanged greetings with many of them as he walked toward the bow.
The RAVs were roped to either side. While some of the supplies had been removed from the robots in order to improve their buoyancy, both carried a full load of casualties. Two privates had been assigned to assist the platoon’s medics care for the patients within. Doc Seavy waved and Santana waved back.
Santana paused in the bow to look out at the smaller raft which had been designated as Eyes-One. It carried a crew consisting of Rockclimb Warmfeel and Suresee Fareye, both of whom would act as scouts, plus three LaNorians, all of whom had spent most of their lives on the river.
By sending Eyes-One down the river first the Santana would be assured of an early warning in case the advance team ran into navigational hazards or enemy forces. It
was important to give them a healthy head start, which was why the lieutenant opened his mike. “Bravo Six to Bravo Two Seven. Time to cut her loose. Over.”
“This is Two Seven,” Warmfeel replied. “Roger that. Over and out.”
Santana watched as one of the LaNorians cut the anchor line, a second put the rudder over, and the raft swung out into the current. Fareye waved and was rewarded by a barrage of catcalls from his fellow legionnaires. The river took command of Eyes-One after that-and it wasn’t long before the advance party had disappeared from sight.
Now that the scouts were on their way Santana turned his attention to the cyborgs. Though not buoyant, both were capable of walking to Mys underwater if that were necessary, but it wasn’t practical. Once the lines were cut the rafts would move much more quickly than Snyder and Zook could march on land much less the bottom of a river. Besides, the unit needed their firepower up on the surface, not below.
That meant the cyborgs would have to travel down the river like everyone else. The problem was how. They couldn’t stand—the rafts weren’t steady enough for that—and they weren’t designed to sit. That seemed to leave either the prone or supine positions either of which would restrict their ability to fight.
The solution, one that Snyder came up with, was to create what she called horses, meaning carefully arranged bundles of logs the cyborgs could straddle and ride by themselves. A design which left their upper torsos completely unhindered.
A great deal of work had gone into coming up with the perfect configuration of logs and a pedal-operated rudder system that allowed the cyborgs to steer with their feet. But the effort had been worth it and the results were clear to see: Two powerful escorts waited in the shallows with their riders in place. Zook raised an enormous arm and Santana waved in return.
The lieutenant turned, looked for Frank Busso, and saw him talking on a radio. The missionary had agreed to ride on the flagship and relay messages to the rest of the fleet using radios contributed by ten of the legionnaires. That meant every other raft had a com unit, which though far from perfect, was a whole lot better than nothing. Santana waited for Busso to finish the latest transmission and smiled. “So, Frank, are we ready?” “Ready as we’ll ever be,” the missionary said laconically.
For More Than Glory Page 36
