For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  “Okay. Remember, once I give the order to cut the stern line, we want full three-minute intervals before the next raft departs.”

  Busso understood the need to keep the rafts spaced out and nodded. “No problem Tony, I’ll call them one at a time. Captains of rafts that don’t have a radio will wait for the folks in front of them to go, count to 180, and cut their lines.”

  “Good. Tell them to stand by.”

  Santana touched his radio. “Bravo Six to Bravo Five. Over.”

  Hillrun was positioned at the raft’s stern. “This is Five . . . go. Over.”

  “You ready? Over.”

  “Affirmative. Over.”

  “Cut us loose. Over and out.”

  There was a cheer as Hwa Nas raised the axe high above his head, brought the razor-sharp blade down on the stern cable, and severed the rope with a single blow. The flagship was sluggish at first, as if unsure of itself, but soon picked up speed. Hwa Nas guided the raft out into the main channel, prayed to a god that Busso didn’t believe in, and felt the river tug at the rudder.

  The plan called for the flagship to precede the other rafts down the river, thereby putting the maximum amount of firepower up front. Should they run into trouble, Santana hoped to overwhelm the enemy before the passenger rafts could be fired on.

  The cyborgs, who had pushed off by then, would fight from the water or beach themselves. Whichever made the most sense.

  Then, should all hope be lost, the legionnaire could order the rest of the flotilla to ground themselves upstream of the threat and escape into the countryside. Not a pleasant prospect but some chance was better than none.

  But those decisions lay up ahead somewhere. For the moment Santana was content to stand on the raft and look toward the east. Mys was under siege, and Vanderveen was somewhere inside.

  THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  That part of the basement that had previously served as a lounge for LaNorian staff had hastily been converted into a multi-purpose room for Ambassador Pas Rasha. There hadn’t been time to put things away so boxes were piled along the walls, a jumble of furniture occupied one corner, and a rug lay unrolled off to one side. A funnel-shaped fixture threw a cone of light down onto the bana wood conference table as the diplomat and his staff stared at a large hand-drawn map. Red hatching had been added to show how much of the city had fallen to the Imperials with help from the Tro Wa.

  The ambassador, along with Captain Drik Seeba-Ka, Harley Clauson, Christine Vanderveen, Marcy Barnes, Yvegeniy Kreshenkov, Dr. Hogarth and Willard Tran were still trying to adjust to the same horrible reality: The most recent attack had been all too successful. “My god,” Clauson exclaimed feelingly, “the bastards took 25 percent of the city!”

  Vanderveen, who had witnessed some of the battle from the embassy’s roof, saw that her superior was correct. Everything east of Embassy Row and north of the Jade River was in enemy hands. That included the Drac, Prithian, and Hudathan embassies, as well as the warehouses located behind them.

  Seeba-Ka, who had come to the meeting straight from the top of the wall, looked tired. “Yes,” he said emotionlessly, “they do. Once the Claw managed to blow the gate the Imperials mounted a massed attack. The Clones, Hudathans and Prithians fought bravely, but there were too many of them. It appears that the enemy suffered something on the order of a thousand casualties. That would give pause to most military commanders but not to these.

  “With no gate to stop them they pushed their way into the defensive box. The first waves were slaughtered, but more troops entered, until the Imperials were able to force a breach in the east barricade and escape into the area beyond.

  “The good news, such as it is, was that we were able to hold them long enough to evacuate the Hudathan and Prithian embassies. Most of their food and munitions were saved as well.

  “Given the fact that the Drac embassy was empty we planted charges inside and brought the building down.”

  “We did that?” Barnes inquired. “Whatever for?”

  “So they couldn’t use the building for cover,” Pas Rasha said wearily. “The last thing we need is snipers firing down at us from across the street. Should I be unlucky enough to survive this mess the Dracs will no doubt petition the president to have me replaced.”

  The staff members chuckled . . . but knew it was true.

  “So,” Seeba-Ka said, resuming his report, “once the enemy seized the northeast quadrant of the city the next problem was to not only to hold them there, but keep them off the tops of the walls which our snipers continue to do.

  “There was an attempt to cross into the corporate sector, using the footbridge to the south, but Prince Mee Mas and his irregulars were able to push the Imperials back.”

  Everyone had heard about the prince’s adventures by then. With no other responsibilities, and a desire to help, the LaNorian had gone into the corporate sector, rallied a thousand Transcendental converts to the cause, and led them to the bridge.

  Whether he had foreseen an attack on that location, or simply headed toward the sound of the fighting, wasn’t known.

  What was known was that the prince, with the faithful Non Noo at his side, led a charge over the bridge and into the face of the Imperial troops. He survived the fusillade of musket balls that felled many of those around him—and laid into the enemy with such energy that hundreds had been inspired to do likewise.

  Steel rang on steel as Imperial swords met long curved blades. The brightly colored uniforms gave, broke into groups, and were smothered as peasants surged in around them. Shovels blocked spears, hoes parried pikes, and the Imperials fell back.

  Finally, having brought all manner of materials forward from the corporate sector, Mee Mas and his troops constructed a barricade at the north end of the bridge that served to confine the would-be invaders to the sector they already held.

  It was a remarkable story and one which was already making the rounds. Strangely, through their attempts to reach Mee Mas and kill him, Shi Huu and Lak Saa had granted the youth the very thing he needed most: credibility.

  “And that,” the Hudathan finished, “is where things now stand.”

  “The captain made no mention of the importance of his leadership, or the valor of the legionnaires directly under his command,” Pas Rasha put in, “so I must. Had it not been for Captain Seeba-Ka’s presence in the critical moments after the blast the Imperials might have entered the west side of the city as well. I don’t need to tell you what would have happened then. With the obvious exception of our Ramanthian friends his peers trust him and so do I.”

  There were nods and murmurs of agreement. Seeba-Ka showed no expression but was secretly pleased.

  “So, that’s it for now. Follow up on all the action items we agreed on—and I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow. Christine? You wanted to see me?”

  Vanderveen nodded but took her time circumnavigating the table. The others were gone by the time she arrived. Pas Rasha frowned. “If this is about the sanitation thing forget it. Someone has to deal with the sewage problem and you’re elected.”

  “No,” the junior FSO replied, “although I will admit that the assignment stinks. This is something else . . . something even more important.”

  The Dweller looked doubtful. “Does Harley know about this?”

  “Yes, sir, he does. I have his permission to bring it up with you.”

  “You have permission but no endorsement. Is that correct?”

  Vanderveen looked down and back up again. “Yes sir, it is.”

  “I see,” Pas Rasha said unhappily. “You know how I feel about staff members going over their supervisors’ heads . . . But if you must you must. Make your case but keep it short. I have a meeting with Ambassador Ishimoto-Forty-Six in ten minutes. He and his staff need somewhere to stay.”

  Vanderveen wasn’t altogether sure that she could squeeze the entire story into the time allotted but resolved to give it a try. One word follow
ed another and it wasn’t long before the essence of her activities started to become clear.

  Pas Rasha felt a rising sense of incredulity as a junior member of his staff confessed to entering a restricted area of the Ramanthian embassy, planting a data tap, and subsequently hijacking large volumes of encrypted information.

  “So, let’s see if I have this right,” the Dweller said, his voice starting low, but consistently rising in pitch. “You violated Confederacy law, suborned one of my staff members, and want me to participate in your crime?”

  “No,” Vanderveen said defensively. “I didn’t suborn Imbulo, she gets paid for spying on people, something you must have been aware of. All I’m asking you to do is help get the data off LaNor. What if the city is overrun? The information would die with us.”

  “As it should!” Pas Rasha said angrily. “There’s a vast difference between intelligence-gathering activities carried out from within the confines of our embassy and planting taps on what amounts to foreign soil. Imbulo doesn’t report to me but you do. I don’t care who your father is. What you did is inexcusable. Once this is over it will be my pleasure to bring charges against you. Until that time you will destroy the data, return to the work you were assigned to do, and keep your mouth shut! That will be all.”

  The words came like physical blows. Vanderveen’s face turned white. She took a full step backward and tried to speak. “But I . . .”

  The normally undemonstrative diplomat brought a servo-assisted fist down onto the surface of the table. It jumped an eighth of an inch into the air. “Silence! You are dismissed.”

  There was very little that Vanderveen could do but say “Yes sir,” and leave.

  The FSO ran up the stairs, pushed her way through crowded corridors, and left via the back door. The sun hung low in the sky as a flight of screaming meemies passed over the diplomat’s head. Vanderveen ignored the rockets and the people who called her name in order to walk toward the river. Was Pas Rasha correct? Had she been wrong? And what, if anything, should she do?

  The river walk was still reasonably safe so that’s where she went. The water swirled in through the West Gate, turned in circles, and fled east. Vanderveen stood there for quite a while, staring down into the water, and waited for inspiration. Finally, just as she was about to leave, an idea came. The diplomat slapped the rail, turned, and walked away. Maybe, just maybe, there was another way to get the data off-planet.

  THE FORTRESS OF TOK RII, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  The runner was the last member of a long-distance Tro Wa relay team comprised of six young males. His breath came in short well regulated gasps as he jumped a stream, landed on the other side, and scrambled up a rocky slope.

  His name was Zho Zas, and even though he would have to run all the way up the hill at Tok Rii the youngster took pleasure from the knowledge that it was he who would place the message tube in District Commander Fuu Paa’s hand. For to do so was a signal honor and something he could brag about for the rest of his life.

  Unlike the market roads that meandered through the valleys, the trail that Zho Zas followed had been created by soldiers hundreds of years earlier, and ran along the high ridges. That meant it was well drained and seldom used. Factors that combined to make for a good hard surface.

  Gradually, as the sun drove the mist off the tops of the hills, the youngster’s objective was revealed. The fortress was hundreds if not thousands of years old. It was circular in shape, and thanks to the sunlight that splashed the limestone walls, sat on the top of the hill like a well-burnished crown.

  Originally constructed by a warlord, the citadel had later been seized by an Emperor long dead, and used to extract taxes from those who floated down the Gee Nas River. A purpose that it continued to serve, or had, until Fuu Paa’s troops had taken the fort a week earlier.

  That was a piece of news the Empress hadn’t received as yet but soon would. Shi Huu would be furious, that much was certain, and send troops to take the citadel back. Then, assuming there were enough of them, and that they were well led, the fortress at Tok Rii would change hands again.

  In the meantime there was no river tax—not at the point where the Gee Nas split into the Little Gee Nas and Jade Rivers. A fact which the Claw was using to illustrate the ways in which their efforts had improved everyday life.

  Banners proclaimed this in the village below, as did the half-rotted corpses that lined the approaches to the ancient keep, their empty eye sockets staring at Zho Zas as he hurried up the seemingly endless limestone steps.

  It wasn’t long before the youngster was spotted and tracked all the way to the main gate where dried blood still splattered the walls and a squad of shabbily dressed Tro Wa lounged in the shade. Two of them knew Zho Zas, and having seen the message tube, were quick to take him inside. Given its age and the negligible amount of money that Empress Shi Huu was willing to spend on maintenance, conditions within the walls were understandably spartan.

  There were lean-tos for the troops to sleep under, the same ones the Imperials had used, plus a well that marked the courtyard’s center, and the one thing that made the fortress worth fighting for: a cannon, which even now lurked long and lean beneath the canopy rigged to protect it, and could shell the river below.

  Zho Zas stared at the off-world weapon as the others led him past it. The original cannon, the one that had ruled the river for so long, had been referred to as the iron monster by those who served it.

  But the monster had been replaced, rolled down the hill to the village below, and a new cannon had been lowered into its place. Not the old way, by hauling it up the steep side of the hill with ropes, but from the sky!

  Everyone had heard about it, and while Zho Zas didn’t pretend to understand all that a cousin had told him, he knew that the new cannon was called a howitzer, and could theoretically drop shells on his village ten sa to the south. A fearsome weapon indeed.

  But Zho Zas was given no time to admire the off-world artillery piece prior to being ushered past a group of heavily armed ruffians and into the district commander’s presence. Unlike thousands who called themselves Tro Wa, but knew nothing of the martial art from which the name had been taken, Fuu Paa was a true master and his morning workouts were legendary. He wore nothing beyond a loincloth. Muscles bunched and rippled as he twirled like a leaf and seemed to float over the ground.

  Zho Zas watched in wonder as the rebel commander jumped, twisted, and slashed. The object of his attack, a sack filled with sand, spilled its contents onto to the ground. The youth had a good imagination. He winced as he thought of what such a cut would do to a real body—and hoped never to witness such a thing.

  Though not especially handsome—Fuu Paa radiated strength. He turned, saw Zho Zas, and wiggled his ear fans. “And what have we here? An Imperial spy? String him up!”

  Zho Zas felt something heavy fall into his stomach, and was just about to plead for his life, when the Tro Wa laughed. “Had you going didn’t I?”

  Zho Zas smiled sheepishly. “Yes, Excellency, you certainly did.”

  “You have a message for me?”

  The youth remembered the tube and handed it over. Fuu Paa broke the wax seal, pulled the wooden stopper, and shook the scroll out into his hand.

  Then, turning so the light came in over his shoulder, the rebel scanned the text. He had never been very good at scholarly pursuits and his lips moved as he read.

  Finally, he gave a grunt of anger, crushed the parchment into a ball, and held it under the youngster’s nose. “You know what it said? No, I suppose you don’t, so I will tell you . . . Upriver, at a village called Nah Ree, a fool named Taa See led two-thousand of our brethren against a ragtag group of villagers and off-world devils. Somehow, in spite of what should have been an overwhelming advantage, the idiot lost. Not only that, but the scum who defeated him are on their way downriver, and they want me to stop them.”

  “Surely that will be easy,” Zho Zas said innocently. “You can kill them
with the new cannon!”

  “Perhaps,” Fuu Paa said, his eyes wandering away, “if we can learn to fire it. The Imperials who knew how to fire the cannon were killed during the battle. None of my troops are familiar with such weapons.”

  The fact that Fuu Paa had allowed his subordinates to slaughter the Imperials without first learning all their secrets struck the messenger as somewhat incompetent but he was far too bright to say so. “Yes, Excellency, that was unfortunate indeed. Will you send a return message?”

  “No,” Fuu Paa replied, “not until the devils are destroyed. Then I will send you back with news so good that your feet will fly!”

  “Pos Tuu . . . Give this lad something to eat! How complicated can the devil cannon be? Summon some ammunition! This abomination will fire or someone will suffer!”

  The first shell was fired later that morning. It arced out over the river and hit a tree off to the south. Fuu Paa swore as the resulting explosion blew a column of dirt, wood, and foliage up into the air.

  The gunners opened the breechblock, slammed a fresh shell into the breech, and adjusted their aim. The cannon roared, the second shell missed the target, but not by much. A cheer went up as the Tro Wa celebrated the gunners’ success and Fuu Paa allowed himself a smile. The devils were coming . . . and death would be waiting to greet them.

  Santana felt the raft shift under his boots as Hwa Nas put the rudder over and swung the bow to starboard. A rock garden lay to port, visible where the water boiled around the half-submerged boulders, just waiting to pull the flagship in.

  Though far from the first such obstacle the flotilla had encountered that day the rocks were a potent reminder of the dangers that seemed to lurk around every bend.

  Worse, from the cavalry officer’s perspective at least, was what he thought of as “the conveyor belt effect.” The river was like an assembly line run amok, a nonstop conveyor belt that forced the helmspeople to make critical decisions based on very little data, and punished every mistake.