How could her lovers force themselves to touch something so disgusting? Then Shi Huu laughed, because the Emperor was already old the night he took the Dawn Concubine into his bedchambers, and no one understood the finer points of sexual theater better than she did.
One of the twins stirred in response to the noise and Shi Huu made up her mind. Once the rain stopped, and the ground was hard, she would order her generals to redouble their efforts. The siege was taking too long—and must be brought to a successful conclusion soon. As for her body, well, the Thrakies could remedy that, and she would provide them with an opportunity to do so.
Satisfied with her decisions, and tired from her exertions, the Empress returned to bed. One of her lovers started to snore, the rain beat on the roof, and she drifted off to sleep.
WEST OF THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
It was just after dawn as the legionnaires poled the flagship through the Jade River’s calm, almost torpid, water. Though forced to pause during the night, lest they run aground on a mud bank, Santana had ordered the flotilla to get under way at first light. This particular part of the countryside was relatively flat, which explained the slow-moving water, and the meandering course of the riverbed.
Santana was seated near the bow, sipping a mug of tea, and watching the flits chase insects across the surface of the water as Busso arrived from the stern. “Mind if I join you?”
Santana didn’t want company, not really, but couldn’t think of a graceful way to say so. “Sure, pull up a crate.”
Busso did so and discovered that the box belonged to his church. “It’s a beautiful morning.”
“Yeah,” the officer replied, “it is.”
The missionary raised his own mug to his lips. Steam fogged the view. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
Santana stared straight ahead. “Sure . . . whatever.”
“No,” Busso insisted, “I’m serious. More than a hundred people died yesterday . . . but more than seven hundred survived. Not in spite of you—but because of you.”
Santana took another sip of tea. “No offense, Frank, but you talk a lot.”
Busso shrugged and got up to go. “Sorry . . . I came here to get away from the life I had. That meant playing the part. Somewhere along the line I began to take the role seriously. Now I’m turning into a bore.”
The missionary was two steps away when Santana spoke again. “Frank . . .”
Busso turned. “Yes?”
“Thanks.”
Busso smiled. “It was my pleasure.”
The morning passed slowly. The flat farmland was punctuated by the occasional bridge, a couple of small villages, fishing boats that rocked gently as the raft passed, and groups of excited youngsters who ran along the riverbank yelling and laughing.
Santana took a moment to wave at them—but his mind was elsewhere. His best guess, given the rather vague map spread out at his feet, was that the flotilla was approximately one day’s travel west of Mys. The city had been surrounded, he knew that much, but how bad were conditions around the city? How many troops would the flotilla be forced to pass through? And how were they deployed?
There was only one way to find out. Knowing that no one could come to his aid, and concerned lest his radio transmissions be intercepted by his enemies, the cavalry officer had resisted the temptation to make the sort of reports that would be considered SOP under normal circumstances. But now, with the journey almost at an end, Santana needed information, and needed it badly. That’s why he summoned Platoon Sergeant Hillrun and Lance Corporal “Bags” Bagano. Once both individuals were seated across from him, Santana outlined his plan. “Okay, here’s what I want you to do . . . Bags, get HQ on the horn and ask for both Captain Seeba-Ka and First Sergeant Neversmile. The captain and I will speak with each other, but Sergeants Hillrun and Neversmile will translate our words into Naa, thereby providing one more layer of security. Questions?”
The legionnaires shook their heads. Yes, there was always the possibility that someone might have a translator loaded for Naa, but the language was relatively obscure, and rarely used on any planet except Algeron. That, plus the fact that the transmissions would be encrypted, made it very unlikely that anyone would be able to listen in.
The com link was established five minutes later, Seeba-Ka arrived ten minutes after that, and the officers provided each other with updates. Seeba-Ka was happy to learn that most of the platoon had not only survived, but had rescued the missionaries and were homeward bound.
Santana was sorry to hear how roughly 25 percent of Mys had been compromised, about the casualties which continued to mount, and the hardships suffered by those trapped in the city.
Then they got down to business. Both officers agreed that any chance of surprise had been lost. The Claw knew the refugees were coming via the river and would be waiting for them. As for the Imperials, there was no way to know how much information they had, so it seemed wise to assume that they knew as well.
With that in mind the officers formulated the best plan they could, realizing that the enemy held most of the cards, and would not hesitate to play those that they had.
Finally, as the conversation wound down, Santana sought to obtain one last scrap of information. “Given the casualties how is the diplomatic team doing? Is everyone okay?”
Many miles to the east Seeba-Ka listened to Neversmile ask the question and produced the Hudathan equivalent of a smile. “Tell the lieutenant that FSO Vanderveen is in charge of sanitation—but other than that she’s fine.”
Seeba-Ka had seen through the ruse with such ease that Santana felt his face grow warm as Hillrun passed the message along. “Okay, well that’s it, I guess, you can sign off.”
The Naa did as he was told, Bagano killed her radio, and both withdrew. Any member of the platoon who hadn’t been aware of the lieutenant’s interest in FSO Vanderveen would soon be enlightened. But Santana didn’t care, not so long as she was alive, and somewhere in Mys. The river turned ahead—but his eyes were on the horizon.
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
The shaman droned on for the better part of an hour, burned sacred incense, and fastened bits of brightly colored cloth to various points within the tent. He meant well, but once the healer left, the eunuch felt no better than he had before.
For what seemed like the thousandth time Lak Saa wondered if he had done the correct thing and went on assure himself that he had. Rather than live in Polwa, and visit his troops the way the Imperial generals did, the leader of the Tro Wa insisted on actually living with his soldiers. It was the right thing to do, he knew that, but life was difficult out on the plains. There were bound to be has (evil spirits) wherever so many people had gathered—and one such being had taken the opportunity to invade his body.
Now, confined to his cot, and alternately shivering and sweating within the confines of his tent, Lak Saa felt worse than he had for many years.
Someone opened the tent flap. The mud stench entered along with him. Only weeks had passed since Lak Saa had demonstrated his prowess within the confines of the hodo but it seemed like a year. Now, having been promoted, the educator named Dee Waa had risen to the rank of assistant district commander. He spoke softly knowing how loud noises could enrage his superior. “A messenger has arrived, Excellency, with news regarding those who escaped from Nah Ree.”
“Show him in,” Lak Saa whispered, “and make him stand in the light.”
The fact that the off-worlders had sent a column to Nah Ree was well-known. First, because the Ramanthians had told Lak Saa the moment they learned of it, and second because of the well-documented defeats that followed.
The messenger was the last of seven such individuals who made up the east–west relay team. However, unlike those who had run before her, this courier was female. A proud if somewhat muddy specimen who left footprints on the otherwise immaculate floor, took her place under the light, and met Lak Saa’s
gaze. Here was the sort of material from which the true generation would come forth. The eunuch smiled and used one of his long curved claws to beckon the youngster forward. “Come, my dear . . . I won’t bite.”
The female shuffled forward, offered the message tube with all the solemnity of a high-ranking official presenting a gift, and waited while Lak Saa broke the seal. He looked older than she had imagined—and very tired. The bedding smelled of urine and she wondered why.
Lak Saa shook the scroll out of the tube, read it, and called for Dee Waa. The teacher responded so quickly that it was obvious that he had been standing outside. “The foreign devils constructed rafts, loaded them with villagers from Nah Ree, and should arrive sometime tomorrow.”
Dee Waa bowed. “Yes, Excellency. What would you have us do?”
“Line both sides of the Jade River with our troops. Tell them to prepare for battle and to show no mercy. Every person on those rafts must die.”
“Yes, Excellency. And the Imperials? What of them?”
“They can stand and watch,” Lak Saa replied, “while we show them how it’s done.”
It was dark at the bottom of the Jade River, very dark, which was good since the last thing diver-rigger Les Foro needed was for someone to see him and the hulking T-2s who plowed along behind. There were four of the cyborgs, all armed to the teeth, and eager to do something more than patrol the streets of Mys.
But first someone had to cut their way through the iron grate that filtered the Jade River as it flowed into the city from the west. Originally designed to thwart the smugglers who liked to float the river at night the grating was normally raised when the customs officials came on duty just after dawn. That routine had been interrupted by the siege however, which meant that the grating was not only locked into the down position, but couldn’t be raised without producing a loud metallic squeal that would almost certainly alert the enemy to the fact that something unusual was going on.
That’s why Seeba-Ka appealed to Chien-Chu, who polled his employees, to see if any of them would be willing to help. Foro, idiot that he was, had volunteered to cut a hole through the grate. Now, unable to use the lights mounted on his backpack, the cyborg “felt” his way through the murk via computer-enhanced sonar. In addition to the heavy layer of silt washed down from the interior, the river had long served as a receptacle for everything from raw sewage to worn-out household items, and construction debris. Stones from an old bridge lay across the riverbed like vertebrae from a prehistoric beast, a bronze cannon stuck its snout up out of the mud, and what looked like a huge kettle lay half-buried in the muck.
The riverbed was a nightmare world in which thick glutinous mud sucked at Foro’s boots, his onboard computer painted diagrams of obstacles onto his electronic vision, and the current pushed against his chest.
Finally, having made their way from the riverside park, where they had entered the river, the cyborgs found themselves in front of the western water gate. The lead T-2 was named Hosakawa, and Foro spoke to him via short-range radio. “Okay, Sergeant, I’m about to go to work. Remember what I told you . . . The gate has been closed so long that a ton of debris has accumulated on the far side. Once I make a hole the river is going to suck that stuff downstream. You and your box heads need to position yourselves left and right of the grate. Stay there until the plug clears. Got it?”
The term “box heads” had a pejorative quality when used by biobods, but being a cyborg himself, Foro was entitled to use it. “No problem,” the noncom replied, “but what about you? Over.”
“I plan to go flat on my back,” the civilian answered, “so don’t put one of your size fifties on my chest.”
“Roger that, over.”
“Okay, put your people in position, and notify Seeba-Ka. I’ll start the first cut sixty seconds from now.”
Hosakawa gave the necessary orders and switched frequencies. “This is Six Six . . . About fifty seconds from now . . . Over.”
There were two clicks as the Hudathan acknowledged the transmission and the seconds started to tick away. Hosakawa started to count. He had just reach forty-eight when all hell broke loose.
Seeba-Ka, who was standing on top of the west wall, only slightly north of the water gate, watched the first mortar rounds fall into the no-man’s-land that lay between the Imperial tents and the city. The shells blossomed like red flowers, strobed the plain with unexpected light, and threw great gouts of mud high into the air. Both the Imperials and the Tro Wa were familiar with how far the off-world weapons could reach and were camped well out of range.
But the true purpose of the barrage was not to inflict casualties, although Seeba-Ka could hope, but to distract the enemy long enough for Foro to cut his way through the grating undetected.
Meanwhile, at the bottom of the Jade River, the civilian triggered his torch. A bar of blue-green energy appeared—and the water surrounding it started to boil as Foro applied the tool to a horizontal rod. It was head high and approximately three inches in diameter. A full minute passed while the rigger completed the cut. One down and fourteen to go.
Lak Saa awoke from a troubled sleep to hear the crump! crump! crump! of exploding mortar rounds, and saw the flash of successive explosions through the material of his tent. The off-worlders had launched an attack. . . Why? To keep their enemies awake? Or for some other reason? Surely they were aware that the explosive rounds were doomed to fall well short of the Imperial encampments.
The eunuch swung his legs over the side of the cot, felt for his slippers, and pushed his feet inside. The material felt cold. Then, gritting his teeth against the pain in his temples, the rebel leader struggled to his feet. A wave of vertigo threatened to dump him on the floor, but Lak Saa waited for the dizziness to pass, and shuffled toward the door. The lantern threw a large misshapen shadow against the wall of the tent. The ground shook as the mortar rounds continued to fall.
Foro felt a sense of trepidation as he completed the final cut. Would he be able to back off quickly enough? Or would the current, plus the weight of the accumulated debris, push the grating down onto his head?
Metal groaned, the grating started to bend, and Foro threw himself backward. The cyborg felt rather than saw the garbage surge over his head and allowed himself to sink into the ooze. The first part of his job was over.
Hosakawa waited for the plug to clear, stepped out into the center of the channel, and felt the grating give under his boots. “This is Alpha Eight . . . We’re passing through the gate. Over.”
“Roger,” Seeba-Ka replied calmly. “Bravo Four One and Five One are waiting a hundred yards due west of your present position. Over.”
“Roger that,” Hosakawa replied. “Out.”
Minus the sonar that Foro had used to pick his way through the stygian blackness, the noncom had little choice but to make occasional used of headlamps. It was dangerous, he knew that, but hoped the bad guys were too busy watching the fireworks to pay much attention to the river.
Dee Waa, who had been watching the bombardment along with other members of Lak Saa’s staff, saw movement from the corner of his eye, and turned just in time to see the eunuch emerge from his tent. The ex-teacher rushed to the Claw’s side. “Excellency! You should be in bed!”
Lak Saa swayed slightly as he surveyed the battlefield. He saw dozens of campfires, the flash of incoming mortar rounds, and the dark bulk of Mys beyond. By contrast Polwa glowed thanks to all the lights within. “Any sign of the rafts?”
Dee Waa was far too intelligent to ask “What rafts?” and shook his head. “No, Excellency, but we have troops stationed on both sides of the river. When the rafts appear they will open fire.”
“On each other?” the eunuch demanded cynically.
“No, Excellency. The troops were briefed. They understand the importance of firing down, into the river, rather than straight ahead.”
The ex-educator had all the answers, or so it seemed, and Lak Saa felt something akin to relief. He said, “Good, notify
me when the rafts appear,” and turned back toward his tent. There was something else, something having to do with the mortar attack, but the rebel leader couldn’t remember what it was. The cot came up to meet him and darkness pulled the eunuch down.
In spite of the fact that Sergeant Hosakawa didn’t have sonar, he did have heat sensors, and knew that the streaks of greenish blue light that flitted through his field of vision were fish. He turned his lights on every now and then, but there wasn’t much to see, so it was better to keep them off. There were times when the cyborg was reduced to feeling his way upriver like a child wearing a blindfold.
Those who followed behind had a somewhat easier task since the heat produced by the noncom’s electromechanical body was clear to see and all they had to do was follow it.
At one point Hosakawa’s fully extended arms encountered something solid, and it was necessary to feel his way around the obstacle before proceeding down the side of what was almost certainly a waterlogged barge. It was shortly after that when Hosakawa saw the telltale glow of heat and activated his radio. “Alpha Eight to Bravo Four One . . . I have visual contact. Confirm. Over.”
There were two blobs now and one of them danced a clumsy jig. Zook and Snyder had preceded the rafts downriver so they could join the other T-2s in the combat zone.
Hosakawa smiled, or would have, had there been something to smile with. “Nice try Four One . . . but you’d better keep the day job. Cap? Do you read me? Over.”
Seeba-Ka used a pair of light-intensifying binoculars to scan the battlefield. The Claw had positioned troops on both sides of the river. They clearly expected the rafts to pass through the combat zone at any moment. “I read you . . . Get in position and stand by.
For More Than Glory Page 39
