For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  One raft had been grounded earlier in the day, forcing most of the passengers to disembark before floating free, while another hit a rock, spun around, and slammed broadside into a lone boulder. Thanks to some good luck, not to mention fast action by the males with the poles, the second raft had been freed but not before one person was crushed and another drowned.

  On a more positive note the scouts aboard Eyes-One had proven themselves to be an invaluable source of intelligence as they fed information back to the fleet.

  Now, as the flagship slid by within twenty feet of the right bank, a new report came in. The voice belonged to Warmfeel—and was tight with tension. “Two Seven to Bravo Six . . . Over.”

  Santana touched his radio. “This is Six. Go. Over.”

  “We have incoming arty, sir. Something on the order of a 105 mm howitzer firing from the top of a hill. It looks like they have the main channel preregistered.”

  “Can we put anything on it? Over.”

  “Negative. It’s out of range. Even for the borgs. Over.”

  “And it’s firing on you? Over.”

  “That’s the strange thing, sir. The cannon was firing before we came into sight . . . Like they were taking target practice or something. It looks like they’re cycling faster now . . . You should hear it soon. Over.”

  All sorts of thoughts churned through Santana’s mind. Keep going or beach the rafts? Those were his choices, or nonchoices, since the conveyor belt effect was such that it would take the better part of half an hour to beach the flotilla, assuming he succeeded, which was dubious at best. No, the legionnaire decided, the best thing to do was to keep going and hope for the best.

  Decision made, the lieutenant passed the word to Busso and ordered the missionary to relay it to the others.

  That was when Santana heard a loud boom, and the raft swung through a bend in the river to see the place where the point where the river split into two, the fishing boats that marked the village of Tok Rii, and the fortress on the hill above.

  A puff of smoke drifted toward the north as the 105 mm shell made a sound similar to that of an old-fashioned freight train, and hit the water not fifty feet from Eyes-One’s starboard side. The ensuing explosion produced a fifteen-foot column of white water some of which collapsed on the raft and nearly swamped it.

  Santana raised his binoculars, watched data scroll, and scanned from left to right. Certain things became apparent. Not having any way to know which river their target would ultimately choose the gunners were dropping shells into the center of the main channel. That suggested taking evasive action that would force the enemy to swing the big gun right and left. No problem if the howitzer had a power supply and was computer-controlled but what were the chances of that? No, the officer concluded, odds were that the gunners had to muscle the gun around.

  But could Hwa Nas and his peers pull it off? Owing to their size the rafts were difficult to control. There wasn’t much choice however since the watery conveyor belt had the flotilla in its grip, and there wasn’t a damned thing they could do about it.

  Santana made his way to the flagship’s stern, explained the plan to Busso, and watched while Hwa Nas put the rudder over.

  Meanwhile, from the top of the hill, Fuu Paa watched the river through a telescope. The little raft was unimportant, but the big one, now that was a target. Especially given the strange things lashed to the raft’s sides and the presence of at least fifteen foreign devils.

  Fuu Paa’s troops would have been surprised to learn that the rebel commander had never seen any off-worlders before, and based on the stories he’d heard, expected them to be much larger. But those considerations were thrust aside as the raft started to turn and Fuu Paa realized the importance of the movement. He started to yell, “Hold your fire!” but the lead gunner had been waiting, and pulled the lanyard the moment he saw the rebel leader start to speak. The howitzer roared, belched smoke, and jumped backward as a shell split the air.

  Fuu Paa started to scream. “Swing the cannon right! Lead the target! Load and fire!”

  A casing clanged onto the surface of the courtyard as the breechblock cycled open and a fresh shell was slammed home. Zho Zas, who had been inducted into the gun crew, ran to fetch another round.

  The second shell, the one the gunner had fired prematurely, struck the water right were the raft should have been, would have been, had it not been for the efforts of Hwa Nas. But it missed and the legionnaires swore and directed obscene gestures toward the top of the hill as cold river water rained down on them.

  Santana felt terribly exposed as he forced himself to stand toward the bow hands clasped behind his back. The Tro Wa gunners would have corrected by then . . . but how good were they? A puff of smoke appeared high on the hill, the shell rattled through the air, and landed one hundred feet off the port bow! The bastards had missed.

  How far could the gunners depress the big tube Santana wondered. And how would their commander react when the next raft rounded the bend? Would he take another crack at the flagship? Or swing back toward the flotilla?

  “Fire!” Fuu Paa shouted. “Fire, damn you!”

  The gun layer spun the wheel that controlled the howitzer’s elevation, felt the mechanism hit its stops, and called to his commander. “The barrel is as far down as it will go, Excellency, what should I do?”

  Fuu Paa swore as the raft loaded with foreign devils slid out of the kill zone and passed the long narrow sandbar that served to separate the Jade from the Little Gee Nas. “Sir!” One of Fuu Paa’s lieutenants exclaimed, “Look!”

  The rebel commander looked, saw the next raft appear, and ordered the gunners to shift. The gun layer had learned a thing or two by then, and rather than simply guess, put the sight on the spot where the near miss had taken place. Now that he knew which tributary the rafts would follow the whole thing became a good deal easier.

  Fuu Paa continued to yell, but the gunner managed to ignore him, and waited until what he judged to be the perfect moment before jerking the lanyard.

  Santana heard the report and held his breath as he looked back over the stern. But, rather than the column of water he hoped to see, the legionnaire saw a flash of light as the shell hit the second raft, and blew it apart. Splinters of wood and chunks of flesh floated high into the air, seemed to hang there for a moment, and fell into the river.

  Then the scene was gone as the conveyor belt pulled the flagship past the village of Tok Rii and into the headwaters of the Jade River. Locals lined the riverbank, staring at the strange apparition that had appeared in front of them, and trying to understand what was going on.

  Santana felt a wave of despair roll over him as the howitzer fired again. The rafts had been a horrible mistake . . . How many people had been killed by his incompetence? And how many more were about to die?

  The officer had grown used to Busso talking in the background but paid attention when there was a sudden burp of static and another voice broke in. “Two Seven to Bravo Six . . . Over.”

  Santana forced himself to concentrate. “This is Six. Go. Over.”

  “We’re beached on the sandbar,” Warmfeel reported, “just above the village. They missed raft three . . . Four is coming around the bend. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Santana replied thankfully. “Stay where you are—but watch your six. Over.”

  “Four One and Five One are providing us with security,” the scout responded. “You can’t get much safer than that.”

  Santana had lost track of the cyborgs during the recent action and was glad to hear that they were in the clear. “Roger, Two-Seven. Keep me informed. Over and out.”

  The legionnaire returned to the stern to find that though visibly shaken, Busso was back on the radio, and still working to coordinate communications. His wife and children were on raft three and he was relieved to hear that they were safe.

  Santana turned to Hwa Nas. “We need a place to pause and regroup.”

  The LaNorian nodded. “The river is slo
w here. There’s a place up ahead. The mud will cushion our landing.”

  “Good,” Santana replied, “but be careful how you do it. We need to get the rafts off again.”

  The LaNorian’s expression made it clear that such counsel was superfluous but he was too tactful to say so.

  The howitzer continued to fire, and Warmfeel continued to provide sporadic reports as Hwa Nas guided the flagship over to the right side of the river, pushed in through a thicket of reeds, and skimmed the muddy bottom.

  Then, once the raft came to a halt, the waiting began. The cavalry officer discovered that it was impossible to stand still and paced from one side of the raft to the other as the shelling continued.

  Things went well for a while, as the howitzer continued to fire, and raft after raft passed through the kill zone without being harmed. But then disaster struck as a 155 mm high-explosive round landed squarely on top of raft 18 and blew the vessel to pieces.

  Santana winced as the report came in and knew the total number of casualties had reached a hundred. How many more would die? And how would he manage to bear it?

  Then, like a miracle sent from heaven, something wonderful happened: The firing stopped. Fuu Paa was nearly deaf by then, the result of standing too close to the howitzer without benefit of ear protection, so he had difficulty understanding what one of his lieutenants said. “What?” he shouted. “I couldn’t hear you!”

  “We’re out of ammunition!” the Tro Wa replied. “That was our last shell.”

  It was bad news, terrible news, but Fuu Paa was tired, too tired to throw a tantrum. He nodded instead. Two rafts out of what? How many more were on the way. Four? Something like that.

  It was poor shooting for a well-trained crew, and good shooting for an untrained crew, but would someone like Lak Saa make allowances for details like that?

  The rebel commander sighed. He would, or he wouldn’t. All Fuu Paa could do was send Zho Zas cross-country with a message. The devils were intent on reaching Mys, that much was certain, and a force could be sent to block them.

  Yes, the LaNorian said to himself, if I double the number of rafts destroyed, and cut the total number by a third, a well-timed report should be sufficient to keep my head connected to my neck.

  Fuu Paa sent for Zho Zas, decided to dictate the message rather than take the hour required to pen it himself, and sent the youth on his way.

  Even as Zho Zas left, the last raft entered the Jade River, and the rest of the flotilla pushed off again. The race was on.

  12

  * * *

  Those who would hunt a man need to remember that a jungle also contains those who hunt the hunters.

  Malcolm X

  Autobiography of Malcolm X

  Standard year circa 1960

  * * *

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

  It was raining. Not just raining but pouring, a fact which meant that the much-abused residents of Mys had an ally that soaked their enemies to the skin, made it impossible to move the large guns, and effectively forced a cease-fire.

  Aware that the cessation of hostilities wouldn’t last forever, the civilian construction brigade under the leadership of Sergi Chien-Chu, and with military advice from Captain Seeba-Ka, hurried to make repairs to the walls and to strengthen the barricades that had been erected after the loss of the northeast sector of the city.

  And that’s where Chien-Chu was, standing shoulder to shoulder with the mostly LaNorian construction workers as they labored to strengthen the wall of sandbags that started at the northeast corner of the Strathmore Hotel and extended north past the Clone and Thraki embassies to connect with the barricade that ran across Embassy Row near the North Gate.

  Vanderveen, a black umbrella held over her head, watched as the cyborg joined forces with one of the Legion’s T-2s to lift an entire pallet load of sandbags up onto some heavy-duty scaffolding.

  Chien-Chu saw the young woman with the umbrella, recognized her for who she was, and walked over. His clothes were soaked, water shot out from under his boots, and servos whined as he moved. “Ms. Vanderveen! It’s good to see you. I was thrilled to hear of your safe return.”

  The diplomat smiled. “Thank you. Could I speak with you for a moment? It’s very important.”

  Chien-Chu nodded. “Of course . . . Shall we get out of the rain? The hotel perhaps?”

  Vanderveen shook her head. “No, Ambassador Pas Rasha might see me, and I’m in enough trouble already. How about the Clone embassy? We can stand under the overhang.”

  Intrigued, as well as concerned, the cyborg agreed. Why would his old friend’s daughter feel it necessary to conceal her activities from Pas Rasha?

  It was a short walk to the Clone embassy where they took shelter under the eaves. “So,” Chien-Chu began, “what’s on your mind?”

  Vanderveen took a deep breath and launched into her story. She didn’t know Chien-Chu, not personally, but she knew of him, and was careful to stick to the facts, even those that wouldn’t necessarily make her look good.

  Finally, after she had told the industrialist about her suspicions, the manner in which the illegal data tap had been planted in the Ramanthian embassy, the large quantity of potentially useful information that had been harvested, and Ambassador Pas Rasha’s command to cease and desist, Vanderveen brought her narration to a close. “That’s it I suppose, except for the fact that I believe Ambassador Pas Rasha is wrong, and rather than destroy the data I think it should be sent to the correct intelligence agency for analysis.”

  The cyborg raised an artificial eyebrow. “Even if it costs you your job?”

  Vanderveen swallowed the lump in her throat. Her career was everything to her. Well, almost everything, excepting her on-again off-again relationship with Santana. “Yes, sir.”

  Chien-Chu nodded. “I respect you for that. So, given the fact that you believe this data is so important that you’re willing to sacrifice your career to it, what would you have me do?”

  “Take the data, get it off-world, and use your influence to force the right people to take a look at it.”

  “What makes you think I have the means to get the data off-planet?”

  There was silence for a moment and even though Vanderveen knew the cyborg’s eyes to be made of something other than flesh and blood she felt she could see the persona beyond. “Because, Mr. Chien-Chu, my father said that you are one of the most intelligent people he has ever met, and I find it difficult to believe that a person such as you would land on a planet like LaNor without having the means to leave when his work was done.”

  Chien-Chu chuckled. “Well said! And you are correct. A piece of information which I would prefer that you kept to yourself. The Maylo is too small to carry more than two passengers . . . but you can imagine how many people would like to accompany me.”

  Vanderveen nodded. “Of course. So you’ll do it? You’ll take the data to the right people?”

  “Yes,” Chien-Chu answered, “I will. In spite of the fact that I respect Ambassador Pas Rasha’s strict adherence to the law, and the standards he sets for his staff, I know the Ramanthians extremely well. I’ve never been able to prove it but there’s plenty of circumstantial evidence to suggest that their machinations were behind what has come to be called the Thraki war. The factories you describe are curious—as is the fact that the Tro Wa have chosen to leave them untouched.”

  “Thank god,” Vanderveen replied gratefully. “Here it is . . . I urge you to depart as quickly as possible.”

  The industrialist accepted the small case and dropped it into a belt pouch. “I think we’re doing the right thing Christine . . . but what if the data turns out to be something innocuous?”

  The diplomat shrugged. “Then I’ll be looking for a job.”

  “Come see me if that happens,” the cyborg replied. “I happen to know someone who runs a fairly large company. She’s always on the lookout for people who have both intelligence and courage.”
>
  Vanderveen started to say something but the industrialist was gone.

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

  The water that hit the tiled roofs, trickled down into gutters, and gushed out of downspouts made a special kind of music that never failed to touch Shi Huu’s heart and remind the Empress of her youth in the country where such storms were common.

  Now, as she rose from the bed where her exhausted lovers still lay, she made her way to the window. It was late afternoon and the rain still pounded against the flagstones outside. Each droplet leaped back into the air, before surrendering to gravity, and starting the journey to the Great Wet.

  The course of her journey was a good deal less obvious. The decision to cleanse the planet of foreigners made sense, especially given their refusal to surrender Mee Mas, but now she was starting to wonder. With more than half her army committed to the siege, and the rest tied up defending against the possibility of a Claw-inspired uprising, certain areas had started to slip.

  Take the situation in the village of Tok Rii for example. Just that morning a messenger had arrived with news that the garrison had been slaughtered by the Tro Wa. Not only that, but the rebels had occupied the local fortress, and suspended the river tax. Just the sort of thing that made the Imperial government appear weak, encouraged civil unrest, and acted to place a strain on the royal coffers.

  Worse yet was the fact that the troops who should have been marching on Tok Rii were camped outside of Mys, wallowing in the mud. Not to mention the fact that the continual state of hostilities had cut the Empress off from the Thrakies and the next step in the full rejuvenation of her body.

  Shi Huu turned away from the window and walked over to a full-length mirror. Unlike those who claimed to serve her it never lied. The face was beautiful, miraculously so, but the body reflected every one of her sixty-plus years. The Empress made herself examine the wrinkled, sagging flesh, and felt something akin to revulsion.