By the time Hasa-Ba turned to look, fully 90 percent of his assault force lay dead or wounded. The mines were a surprise, a horrible surprise, and one that he should have anticipated. Had he been stupid? Arrogant? Or both?
It hardly mattered, as all resistance seemed to melt away and the Triad rode the highly specialized cyborg toward the top of the mountain. Hasa-Ba was being herded, like an animal bound for market, the difference being that he knew what awaited him.
High above, still watching from the Control Center, Doma-Sa gave further orders. “Kill the lead cyborg.”
A technician eyed the screen in front of him, took the slight time lag into account, and touched a button. The first cyborg was literally lifted up into the air and pieces of him were still falling as the surviving units passed through a rain of debris.
“Good,” Doma-Sa said matter-of-factly. “Take the last one now.”
Hasa-Ba felt rather than saw the explosion that took the life of the cyborg immediately to his rear. The resulting shock wave nudged him in the back and he cursed Doma-Sa with every obscenity that he knew.
Then, just as the only remaining escort neared the castle itself, he too was killed leaving only the four-legged mount and its gore-drenched rider to proceed alone.
Gates slid up and out of the way, weapons tracked the lone invader, and Hasa-Ba was admitted to the keep’s central courtyard. The strange-looking four-legged cyborg was heavily armored but had no offensive capabilities of its own. That meant Hasa-Ba had been left with nothing other than a sidearm with which to defend himself. The Triad dismounted, drew the handgun, and waited to die.
The courtyard, which had been the site of any number of betrayals, murders, and executions during the last thousand years was empty. Everywhere the Triad looked he saw nothing but gray stone, reflective windows, and closed doors. A voice issued from loudspeakers mounted all around the ancient enclosure. “Drop your weapon.”
Hasa-Ba eyed the galleries above him. “I know you’re there Doma-Sa. If you want my weapon come and get it. I challenge you to single combat.”
The energy bolt seemed to come out of nowhere. It sliced Hasa-Ba’s hand off at the wrist, cauterized the wound, and sent the weapon clattering to the ground.
Hasa-Ba wanted to scream, managed to restrain himself, and settled for a grunt instead. He cradled the stump as a door whined open and Doma-Sa entered the courtyard. The War Commander held Head Taker so that the blade rested on his right shoulder. He circled the other Triad as if examining a prize cax. “So you murdered Ifana-Ka, attempted to kill me, and think you are entitled to single combat. That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard . . . Now, tell me about the rest of the plot, all of it.”
“There is nothing more,” the other Triad lied. “I tried to seize control of the government and failed. Do with me whatever you will.”
Light flashed as Head Taker swept through the air, nicked the back of Hasa-Ba’s neck, and drew blood. The Hudathan lurched forward, managed to catch himself, and swayed from side to side.
“Have it your way,” Doma-Sa said. “As the sole surviving member of the Triad, I will outlaw your clan, erase the name ‘Ba’ from all of the historical records, and reduce your castle to rubble.”
Had Doma-Sa threatened to torture Hasa-Ba, or members of his immediate family, the Triad would have laughed. His life was over, and as for his relatives, they could look after themselves. But the erasure of his clan, of thousands of years’ worth of achievements, that was unbearable.
“All right,” Hasa-Ba said through clenched teeth, “there’s no need to punish the dead. I cut a deal with the Ramanthians, with Senator Orno, to steal part of the Sheen fleet. I urge you to honor that agreement, to take the alien ships, and restore Hudathan sovereignty. You’ll be a hero, the people will honor you, and your clan will celebrate your name.”
“But how?” Doma-Sa demanded. “The Sheen vessels remain under heavy guard.”
Hopeful that his plan might live on beyond his death Hasa-Ba hurried to explain. He felt dizzy and it took all of his strength to remain standing. “Senator Orno smuggled the parts required to construct a bomb onto the Friendship. When it goes off every naval vessel in the Arballan system will rush to the rescue. That’s when the Ramanthians, along with forces under my command, will make their move.”
Doma-Sa felt movement behind him, heard Toro-Sa yell “Father!” and turned in the direction of the threat. Though unarmed the cybernetic steed had a mind, an identity, and a set of loyalties. The enormous electromechanical beast reared up on its hind legs, took three steps forward, and brought its front feet downward. They were shod with steel and could easily crush the Triad’s skull.
Doma-Sa stepped in past the metal hooves, shoved the ancient blade up through the cyborg’s lightly armored abdomen, and saw as well as felt a bright blue electrical discharge ripple along Head Taker’s length. The resulting shock knocked the Hudathan off his feet, which was just as well since a half dozen energy beams converged on the cyborg, and it crashed to the ground.
That was the moment when Doma-Sa heard the single gunshot and rolled over to discover that Hasa-Ba had recovered his handgun. But Toro-Sa had seen the move and fired his weapon first. The top of the other Triad’s head was missing along with any additional information that might have been contained there.
A strange sort of silence descended on the courtyard as Doma-Sa struggled to his feet, discovered that his right arm was completely numb, and that he couldn’t grip the sword. It remained on the ground. The Triad looked up, toward the galleries above, and Toro-Sa looked back. The single nod was both a gesture of thanks and respect—a moment the youth would never forget.
It took the better part of three days to mobilize Doma-Sa’s supporters, establish an alliance with Ifana-Ka’s clan, and take Hasa-Ba’s lieutenants into custody.
Then, confident that the interim government he had put in place could hold long enough for him to visit the Friendship, Doma-Sa boarded the fastest ship available. He knew who was involved in the plot, and he knew how they planned to execute the theft, but the question was when. In a day? A week? A month? There was no way to be sure. All he could do was head for Arballa, get there as quickly as possible, and hope for the best. The ship lifted, broke free of the planet’s gravity well, and entered hyperspace. There was nothing the Hudathan could do but wait.
PLANET ARBALLA, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
In spite of a passion for privacy there were times when it paid to be well-known, which was why Sergi Chien-Chu had chosen to leave the muscular “Jim James” body on his yacht and wear what the industrialist thought of as the “political” body, a vehicle very similar to his original biobod.
The face had a rounded slightly Asian cast, the torso had some extra padding, and the clothing was extremely plain. It was a nondescript body, but one that was familiar to billions of sentients, including those who trod the Friendship’s corridors. Many waved and called the ex-president by name. Chien-Chu nodded politely, and paused to speak with those he knew, but kept a close eye on the time. The industrialist had been aboard the massive ship for sixteen hours by then, been granted a meeting with President Nankool, and had his worst fears realized.
In spite of the fact that the urgent requests for reinforcements had arrived from LaNor more than a week before, no action had been taken, and the matter was still under discussion. It seemed that while the relief forced had been assembled, and stood ready to jump, the so-called peace coalition, which was led by the likes of Senator Alway Orno, was essentially holding the relief force hostage while they argued in favor of downsizing the military.
Now, given Chien-Chu’s arrival, and familiarity with the situation on LaNor, those who favored both the relief force and a healthy defense budget hoped that the impasse could be broken. Such was the closed world on board the Friendship, and the buzz that accompanied Chien-Chu’s testimony, that the Senate was packed by the time the industrialist arrived. The ongoing animosity betwe
en the ex-politician and Senator Orno was well documented, and no one wanted to miss the fun.
The Ramanthian, who was well aware of the way his peers were watching him, had used a tool arm to preen the areas to either side of his parrotlike beak. The last few weeks had been extremely difficult. First there had been the need to act as if everything was normal, which explained why he had led the effort to downsize the defense budget and worked to stall the relief force.
Second, there was the need to finalize the necessarily complex arrangements by which Ramanthian forces would coordinate with the Hudathans in order to hijack the Sheen fleet, a task that involved scores of encrypted communications, not to mention some secret face-to-face meetings.
Third, and most wearing for him personally, was the task of assembling the bomb deep within one of the Friendship’s cavernous holds. A task that he could entrust to no one else . . . yet bore tremendous risk. What if he were discovered? Or, worse yet, accidentally triggered the device?
Yes, it had been an extremely wearing time, and now as his old nemesis Chien-Chu entered the Senate chambers, Orno prepared to make one more sacrifice on behalf of his people. The relief force could be delayed no longer, the Ramanthian knew that, which meant that Chien-Chu would be seen as the victor in the ensuing confrontation.
The resulting loss of face would be nothing less than humiliating, and other senators would sneer at him behind his back, but there was one consolation: Soon, within a matter of days, most if not all of them would be dead.
Chien-Chu was both surprised and embarrassed by the rattle of applause that greeted his arrival in the Senate chambers and even more flustered by the standing ovation that followed. The fact that President Nankool had not only requested that Chien-Chu be allowed to testify regarding the situation on LaNor, but that the chief executive had agreed to introduce the cyborg, gave his testimony that much more weight.
The applause faded as Nankool took the opportunity to remind those present of Chien-Chu’s many accomplishments. Then, as the industrialist mounted the riser and took his place at the podium, the senators came to their feet once more.
Chien-Chu motioned for the politicians to take their seats and cleared his throat. “Thank you for the warm reception . . . I won’t let it go to my head however. There have been times over the years when at least half the beings in this chamber would have cheerfully blown me out of the nearest lock.”
The senators laughed, snorted, and hooted, all according to their various physiologies.
“But those days are in the past,” the cyborg said, his eyes sweeping the audience. “Because the matter I wish to put before you today is one that I believe all of us can agree on—the urgent need to send a relief force to CR-9765 otherwise known as LaNor.
“What I’m about to show you is video taken weeks after the initial message torps were sent. Conditions had deteriorated a great deal by the time I left as these pictures will make clear.”
The ensuing presentation included hundreds of images captured through the cyborg’s high-quality optics and stored in his onboard computer. The industrialist provided a running narration as his audience looked through his eyes to the encampments beyond the city’s much-abused walls, walked among the bullet scarred buildings, and labored to build defensive barricades. They saw families camped in doorways, the blood-spattered triage center that occupied the Strathmore Hotel’s lobby, and stacks of bodies sitting in what had once been a flower garden.
One member of the audience, a high-ranking diplomat named Charles Winther Vanderveen, saw something else. He saw a young woman dressed in a filthy jumpsuit, standing on a pile of rubble, directing some sort of work project. Christine was alive! Or had been a few weeks before. His chest swelled with pride and he fought to hold back the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks.
For weeks Vanderveen had been struggling to obtain the support necessary to release the relief force and here was proof that he’d been correct about the urgency of the situation on LaNor. But would the beings around him listen? Or were they so lost in the labyrinth of political gamesmanship that they would allow the entire population of Mys to be slaughtered? The next few minutes would tell.
“And so,” Chien-Chu concluded, as the final picture faded to black, “I think you’ll agree that the situation qualifies as desperate. It’s my understanding that this matter will be subject to a vote in the next hour or so—and I urge all of you to come together in a unanimous show of support for the diplomats, soldiers, and citizens now trapped on LaNor. Thank you.”
Charles Vanderveen was heartened by the round of applause that followed the cyborg’s testimony and continued even as he left the chambers. But applause was one thing—and votes were another. Though due back in his office the diplomat resolved to wait and see what would happen next.
The woman who headed the Confederacy’s Department of Intelligence (CONINT) was a very busy person, but then-President Chien-Chu had promoted her out of obscurity back during the second Hudathan war, and she had never forgotten that. That’s why she had agreed to scrub an extremely important conference to meet with the industrialist in the privacy of her office. Chien-Chu arrived as he always did, right on time, and they embraced. “Maggie, it’s good to see you.”
Margaret Rutherford Xanith, better known to friends and enemies alike as “Madame X,” smiled. It made her look younger. She had a head of carefully coifed salt-and-pepper hair, a largely unlined face, and bright inquisitive eyes. Once the smile faded away her features returned to a look of perpetual disapproval. The lighthearted form of address took Chien-Chu back to his days as chief executive. “Hey, boss, it’s good to see you, too. Nice job this morning.”
Xanith returned to her high-backed chair as Chien-Chu took his place on the other side of her metal desk. It supported a comp screen, a palm pad, and a stylus. The rest of the surface was bare—as were the walls of her office. Artifacts of Xanith’s private life, assuming she had one, were clearly kept somewhere else. “So, you were there?”
The official shook her head. “No, I watched from here, but the view was fine. I predict that the relief force will be in hyperspace by the end of the day.”
“I sure hope so,” Chien-Chu replied fervently, “because a lot more people will die if they aren’t.”
“So,” Xanith said tactfully, part of her mind on all the other things she had to accomplish that day, “you had some sort of input for me? Something from LaNor perhaps?”
“Yes,” Chien-Chu answered, “although there’s a chance that this data might have a bearing on the overall strategic situation, not just LaNor. One of the embassy’s junior diplomats, a young woman named Christine Vanderveen became suspicious regarding Ramanthian activities on LaNor, and managed to place a data tap in their computer room.”
Xanith’s eyebrows shot upward. “Christine Vanderveen? As in Charlie Vanderveen’s daughter?”
“Yup,” the industrialist answered, “one and the same.”
“And she did this by herself?”
“No, she had some help,” the cyborg replied. “From a Spec 3 named Imbulo. One of your folks perhaps?”
“Maybe,” the Intelligence boss allowed evasively, “and maybe not. What Ms. Vanderveen did might be construed illegal—and my people have strict orders to stay within the boundaries of the law.”
Like any successful bureaucrat Xanith was “playing to the walls,” governmental shorthand for the process of never saying anything that could be recorded and used against them, but Chien-Chu saw a distinct twinkle in the official’s eyes and felt sure his old friend knew all about Spec 3 Imbulo and her mission on LaNor.
“Of course,” the industrialist responded smoothly. “Should it turn out that Ms. Vanderveen somehow exceeded the limits of propriety, I’m sure that her superiors will find the means to ensure that no further transgressions take place. In the meantime, given the urgency of the situation on LaNor, I wondered if you would have your staff take a look at this.”
So sa
ying the cyborg slid the small container that Christina Vanderveen had given him across the surface of Xanith’s desk. She accepted the package, nodded, and raised an eyebrow. “Where will you be?”
“Right here,” Chien-Chu replied grimly, “until we know what we have.”
Senator Always Orno was elsewhere when the question of the relief force came up for a vote and was unanimously approved. The reason for his absence lay partly in his pride, and a desire to avoid the humiliation attendant on what he viewed as a loss, but there was a pragmatic component as well.
For even as the political community focused its attention on the vote, the Ramanthian was down in one of the Friendship’s least-visited holds, installing the assembly which would trigger the subnuclear bomb.
Positioned as it was directly below the Senate chambers, and adjacent to one of the vessel’s mighty ribs, Orno hoped to eliminate most if not all of the Confederacy’s key political leaders, while simultaneously breaking the warship in two. If all went well some of the crew would survive, call for help, and draw the navy away form the Sheen fleet. That was when the Ramanthian forces would strike, thousands of ships would be stolen, and he would return home having revenged the War Orno and established his position for all time.
The thought of that made Orno happy, very happy, and the trigger assembly made a positive click as it mated with the bomb. It didn’t matter what did or didn’t happen on the planet called LaNor—the real action was going to take place thousands of light-years away.
14
* * *
Allies, much like a double-edged sword, have the capacity to cut both ways. Only a fool would trust them.
Grand Marshal Nimu Wurla-Ka (ret.)
For More Than Glory Page 43
