It was only a matter of seconds before another member of the Tro Wa had replaced Bok How in the driver’s seat, another ruffian had entered the passenger compartment, and the cart was under way again.
Hybatha, crammed in between two rebel warriors, thought about the radio in her pouch. The bag lay on the floor, only units from her feet, but might as well have been on one of LaNor’s moons. The cart bumped its way over some sort of obstacle, the diplomat’s heart started to sink, and the slums of Polwa closed in around her.
Lak Saa had been unconscious when Dee Waa found the rebel leader lying on top of the wreckage of his tent. Unsure of how to help him, the educator had the eunuch loaded onto a stretcher and carried into Polwa via one of the rickety footbridges that spanned the Jade River. Now, lying on a richly draped couch within the hodo that served as his headquarters, the Claw was surprised to discover that he felt a good deal better. Whether as a result of the battle, or in spite of it, his fever had broken and he was hungry for the first time in days. In fact, he was just finishing a happy bowl filled with chunks of flavorful fish and nicely steamed kas, when a functionary scurried up to foot of Lak Saa’s bed and bowed. “A thousand pardons, Excellency, but the prisoner has arrived.”
The eunuch waved his spatula-like spoon as if it were a scepter. “Bring it in.”
There was a disturbance at the far end of the mostly empty warehouse, a door slammed, and a pair of warriors appeared. They were a good deal taller than Hybatha, which meant that her feet rarely touched the ground as she was hustled from end of the hodo to the other. She struggled to no avail. “Do you know who I am? Put me down this instant! This is an outrage!”
The rebels came to a stop in front of Lak Saa’s bed, allowed the Thraki to stand on her own two feet, and awaited further orders. Hybatha glared at the Claw leader as he continued to eat. “And who are you?”
The eunuch continued to chew, took a sip of wine, and used it wash the latest bite of food down. Then, having used a piece of clean cloth to dab at his lips, he finally spoke. “Why did the Empress send for you?”
Hybatha looked indignant. “If the Empress sent for me, which may or may not be true, the nature of such a summons would be private.”
Lak Saa nodded to the onetime blacksmith who stood behind the diplomat. The tip of the metal rod was nearly white-hot. Hybatha screamed as the LaNorian applied the instrument to her right ear, felt her knees buckle, and fell into the void. It was peaceful there but the sensation was short-lived.
A Tro Wa functionary threw a half bucket of water into the off-worlder’s face, saw her splutter, and nodded to the guards. They jerked Hybatha up off the ground and held the diplomat by her arms.
“Now,” Lak Saa continued, “I will ask again . . . Why did Shi Huu summon you to the palace?”
The Thraki tried to look back over her shoulder but the guards jerked on her arms. Her voice was less certain now—and the tone more conciliatory. “I don’t know—honest I don’t. It was a summons, an order to appear, but no reason was given.”
Hybatha heard her flesh sizzle as the rod touched her left ear and the smell of singed fur hung in the air. She staggered, but was held erect, as another bucket of water was dumped over her head. Lak Saa selected a piece of fruit from a plate to his right, plopped the morsel into his mouth, and popped the delicate skin. Sweet juice flooded his mouth. “Let’s try again . . . “Why did the Empress summon you to the palace?”
Ambassador Hybatha told the rebel leader about the subsea mineral deposits, the number of soldiers inside Mys, how much ammunition they had, and anything else that he wanted to know. Finally, having been spread-eagled at the center of the hodo, and tortured for many hours, the Thraki diplomat was forced to apologize for all the casualties inflicted on the Claw during the last twenty-seven hours, and disemboweled.
Later, just after the evening meal had been eaten, the Tro Wa used an old-fashioned catapult to lob the diplomat’s head over Polwa’s North Gate and into Mys. Ironically, it was the same noncom who had saluted Hybatha earlier in the day who retrieved her head.
The cathedral, the first and only such structure on LaNor, had been modeled on one back on Earth. Frank Busso wasn’t sure which one, only that it was far larger than it needed to be, and that the money used to build it would have been better spent on the poor. To her everlasting credit Spiritual Director Abigail Abernathy had gone into one of the southern provinces on a rescue mission shortly before the siege began and hadn’t been heard from since. There was the possibility that she had taken refuge somewhere, and would emerge when the hostilities ended, but the Bussos had very little hope.
Still, the missionaries knew what Abigail would want, and were determined to bring it about. There was no way to know what would happen to Mys, but the LaNorian converts would need protection, and the Bussos were determined to provide it. The civilian labor brigade started by Chien-Chu and furthered by others had already built a protective wall around the church, but there was still work left to do, and no one understood the urgent need for such preparations better than Frank and Bethany Busso.
The missionaries, with help from converts like Yao Che, Pwi Qwi, and Hwa Nas, rolled up their sleeves and went to work. The logs taken from the rafts were difficult to move, but Yao Che took pleasure in the fact that they had been taken from the spirit grove near his home, and knew that once in position they would continue to protect the villagers of Nah Ree.
Garbage was a problem, a big problem, and all of it belonged to Vanderveen. Originally, before the siege, all manner of trash had been loaded onto a train of two-wheeled carts and taken out through the North Gate to a landfill located five miles north of Mys. That’s where the noxious stuff would be dumped, “pickers” would sift through it looking for items of value, and the teamsters would take a break before returning to the city.
Now, with thousands of refugees to care for, Mys was producing even more trash but had no way to export it. So, faced with the choice of dumping the garbage into the much-abused Jade River, or starting what she thought of as a holding area, the diplomat had chosen to store the waste in the once fashionable residential area just north of the Transcendental Cathedral. The very place she had lived prior to the siege—but which had since been reduced to a collection of badly charred ruins. And that’s where the diplomat was, watching as her convoy of filthy carts rolled past a burned-out apartment building, when she heard a noise behind her.
The diplomat turned to find Santana standing there, inexplicably neat in a fresh set of camos, his assault rifle slung over his shoulder. He grinned. “Hi. Captain Seeba-Ka tells me that I had my own guardian angel last night. I came to thank you.”
Suddenly tears welled up in Vanderveen’s eyes and the next thing the foreign service officer knew she was wrapped in Santana’s arms, her face buried in his shoulder.
The legionnaire held her for a moment, glorying in the smell of her hair, and the way her body felt next to his. Then he pushed her away. Not far, just enough to wipe the tears away with the ball of his thumb, and kiss her on the lips. They were soft, and seemed to melt under his, as Vanderveen’s hands came up to touch the back of the platoon leader’s neck. Finally, as the kiss ended, she looked into his eyes. “Do you remember what you said? That there are times when nothing less than everything will do?”
Santana nodded soberly. “Yes, I do.”
“Well,” the diplomat said softly, “you were right.”
13
* * *
Nothing is more worthy of the attention of a good general than the endeavor to penetrate the designs of the enemy.
Niccolò Machiavelli
Discourses
Standard year 1531
* * *
ABOARD THE SYNDICATE VESSEL GUERRO, OFF RIM WORLD CR-9512
Captain Sari Hiko sat and stared out the viewport at the wreckage of Legion Outpost NB-23-11/E which co-orbited CR-9512 along with the Syndicate warships Guerro and Ibutho. Now little more than a half-slagged mass of m
etal, the outpost had once been part of the now-defunct Early Warning System (EWS), still under construction on the day that the Thrakies dropped into the system, destroyed the habitat, and went on to attack the Confederation itself. A war they subsequently lost.
But the ex–naval officer’s mind wasn’t really focused on the remains of NB-23-11/E—or the brownish planet that hung beyond her. Hiko had three problems: the need for critical spares, the idiot in command of the Ibutho, and a lack of agreement regarding what the two ships should do next. Of the three the last was the most urgent.
Fesker, the bozo who had been elected to command the Ibutho, disagreed with her. He felt that all the ships needed to do was roam the Rim, throw their weight around, and take whatever they wanted.
She knew that such a course would alienate the rimmers, the very people the Syndicate depended upon for intelligence reports, logistical support, and new recruits. Not only that but the sort of activities Fesker advocated would eventually stimulate reprisals by the Confederacy. Hell, the only thing that surprised her was the fact that the zoo they called a senate hadn’t already authorized a punitive expedition.
But that would come, yes it would, and what then? Take on the Confed navy? Run like hell? Neither option made much sense. They would lose a pitched battle . . . and there was no place to run to. Not within explored space.
That was why Hiko, and those who supported her, favored a course that was diametrically opposed to that advanced by Fesker. She and her crew wanted to refit both ships, load them with supplies, and head out into the endless night. Because somewhere out there, beyond the Rim and the reach of the law, an Earth-like planet waited. One on which all of them could make new homes.
Yes, so-called civilization would eventually find the world, but not until the present generation were safely in their graves. The notion pleased Hiko and she smiled. Of course founding a colony was an iffy thing at best, especially with a single ship, which was why a deal was important.
Hiko’s thoughts were interrupted as the intercom chimed. The voice was female and belonged to her adjutant. “Carly Prosser’s shuttle just landed in the launch bay, Captain. She has two associates with her. Shall I send them up?”
“No, I’ll come down. Go ahead and pressurize the bay. I want to see what they have. Oh, and send for the chief engineer . . . He’ll want to be in on this, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.” There was a click as the intercom went dead.
Hiko felt a sense of anticipation as she headed for the lift tube. Fesker didn’t know about the spares, and were Hiko to buy all of them, the other commanding officer would find himself in a tight spot. Fesker would have to accede to her wishes, find parts somewhere else, or risk a catastrophic failure. Yes, the Ibutho’s crew had voted Fesker in, but they could also vote the bastard out, which was exactly what Hiko had in mind.
Air had been pumped into the launch bay, which meant that Prosser, Booly, and Maylo could move about without the protection afforded by space armor. The samples had already been unloaded from the shuttle by the time Hiko appeared on the scene and Booly was nervous. More than that, he was tired of the act that he, Maylo, and the entire crew of the Solar Princess had been forced to put on during the trip from Nexus.
But the ruse had been successful and Prosser had led them to the Syndicate’s lair. And not just them, but a heavily cloaked naval vessel, loaded with commandos.
Prosser went to meet the diminutive-looking pirate while Booly and Maylo waited to be introduced. The two women spoke for a moment before turning to approach the shuttle. Metal pinged as the drive tubes continued to cool. Prosser smiled. “Captain Hiko, I would like to introduce Lonny Fargo, and his associate, Ms. Star.”
Hiko shook Fargo’s hand, made note of the firm grip, and eyed his so-called “associate.” Mistress was more like it, although the woman looked more intelligent than most arm candy, and somewhat familiar as well. Had they met before? No, Hiko didn’t think so, but the impression lingered.
The ex–naval officer released Maylo’s hand and gestured toward the open crates. “So, Carly tells me you have some spare parts for sale, let’s take a look.”
Maylo noticed that the other woman’s black pageboy haircut would still pass a formal inspection, her insignia-free uniform had been freshly starched, and her shoes glowed with polish.
Though reluctant to bring all of the parts aboard lest the Syndicate simply steal them, Booly had allowed Prosser to talk him into bringing some samples. The Guerro’s chief engineer, a taciturn man named Gunther Womack, showed up just as they were about to inspect one of four actuator coils that Booly and Maylo had for sale. He had bushy eyebrows, a slash-shaped mouth, and a viselike grip. Though normally somewhat dour a single glance at the parts arrayed in front of him was enough to make his face light up. He lifted the coil out of its padding the way a mother might lift a baby. His eyes glittered with avarice. “Is she new?”
Booly noted that the part, like the ship it might eventually become part of it, had already been gifted with the female pronoun. He shook his head. “No, it’s reconditioned, but just as good as new.”
The engineer examined the actuator coil from every possible angle, gave what might have been a grunt of satisfaction, and lowered the device back into its shipping crate. “We’ll need to run some tests . . . but she looks good.”
The rest of the inspection took about fifteen minutes and culminated in a brief conversation between Hiko and Womack. Then, as the engineering officer marched away, Hiko looked to Prosser. “Gunther says the shift locks were in service before he was, and his techs need to run tests on the nav interface, but we can talk.”
Prosser knew a bargaining position when she heard one, exchanged looks with Booly, and went to work. While the two women discussed the deal, the soldier tried to look interested, and examined the bay. It was big enough to accommodate the Princess. But, rather than unload parts, the freighter would disgorge as many commandos as Booly could cram into her hull, and they would take control of the bay.
Once the boarding party was in control, and had the doors locked into the open position, two dozen assault boats, all loaded with troops, would enter the Guerro and land. Meanwhile, the Confederacy warship Kendo would turn the Thraki-designed cloaking device off, and call on the Ibutho to surrender. The Syndicate ship would get one chance, and one chance only, before the Kendo opened fire. Under no circumstances would the renegade vessel be allowed to compute and execute a hyperspace jump.
It would have been nice to have two cruisers at his disposal, or ten, but there was no time to send for reinforcements. Nor any need assuming that everything went according to plan. Of course that was a big if since there were plenty of things that could go wrong.
“What do you think?” Prosser inquired. “Does that price seem fair to you?”
The legionnaire discovered that he hadn’t been paying attention—and had little choice but to go along. “Sure, if we get half up front, and if we split your commission.”
Prosser looked at Hiko. The renegade frowned. “Okay, but the samples stay here, and so does Ms. Star.”
Booly was already forming the word “no,” when his wife touched his arm. “Don’t worry, hon, it’ll be fun to be on a larger ship for a change. Maybe I can get my hair done.” The message in her eyes was clear, General Bill Booly might be the kind of man who wouldn’t leave his lover on a Syndicate ship, but Lonny Fargo definitely wasn’t. Not only that, but she could handle the situation, or believed that she could.
The officer shrugged. “Okay, I’ll be back in about eight hours, so don’t get too comfy. How ’bout you Carly? Would you like to come with me? Or stay on the Guerro?”
“I think I’ll stay,” the go-between replied, “if it’s all the same to you.”
Booly was pleased but tried to hide it. He liked Prosser, in spite of the line of business she was in, and hadn’t been looking forward to having her confined to the Kendo’s brig. “Sure, whatever. Now, if someone would so good as t
o bring me a large load of money, I’ll get the heck out of here.”
It took the better part of thirty minutes for the renegades to come up with the first payment and bring it to the launch bay. It consisted of some extremely rare minerals rather than seldom-used currency, but the truth was that the Syndicate could have paid him off with Drang jungle berries and Booly would have been happy to receive them. The hard part was saying good-bye to Maylo without saying any of the things that he wanted to. But Booly climbed the roll-up stairs, waved from the top, and entered the shuttle.
Fifteen minutes later, after the vessel had departed, Hiko spoke with her adjutant. She was an earnest youth who had been recruited after the great mutiny. Her name was Combi. She had serious eyes, bad skin, and wore a uniform that looked exactly like the captain’s. The twosome stood in the traffic control booth looking out over the launch bay. A flight of interceptors were lined up for launch waiting for the final “go.” Controllers murmured in the background. “So, Combi, did you take the pictures like I asked you to?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the youth said earnestly, “and I sent the images to the folks in the data section. They compared them with all the news-related pix on file and came up with three positive hits. Here they are.”
“Yes!” Hiko exclaimed as she accepted the hard copy, “I knew I had seen Star somewhere.” The senior officer scanned the articles. Two of them included pictures, both of which showed a slightly younger version of the woman known as Star, though the captions identified her by a different name. Both agreed that she was Maylo Chien-Chu, president of Chien-Chu Enterprises, and a somebody in the world of business. A relative of the famous Sergi Chien-Chu perhaps? Yes, a niece according to the article, who ran the company’s day-to-day affairs on behalf of her uncle.
For More Than Glory Page 41
