For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

Instructor, Hudathan War College

  Standard year 1957

  * * *

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

  It was still dark when the once renowned Imperial Archers were ordered to march into the heavily cratered no-man’s-land that separated the besiegers from the besieged, raise their longbows, and send hundreds of arrows over the city’s walls. His unit was an anachronism, the commanding officer knew that, but still took pride in the way the shafts whispered into the darkness.

  Then, having fulfilled their mission, the archers executed a neat about-face and marched back toward the Imperial lines. They were halfway to safety when the flare went off and bathed the battlefield in harsh green-blue light. Most of them made it but six fell to off-world sniper fire.

  Santana heard the rush of disturbed air as the arrows passed over his position followed by a wild clatter as they fell inside the city. A legionnaire swore as one of the steel points penetrated his thigh, and a noncom yelled, “Medic!”

  Private Alice Hixon responded, slapped some sealer around the point of entry, and called for stretcher-bearers. It would require surgery to removed the barbed point and the doctors would be waiting. Ten minutes later the trooper was in the lobby of the Strathmore Hotel having the shaft removed.

  Santana was at the wall, watching the last of the archers march out of range, when Sergeant Via appeared at his elbow. “Lieutenant, take a look at this.”

  The noncom squatted under the protection of the wall while the officer lowered his binoculars and knelt next to him. The noncom played a small flashlight across the arrow as Santana rotated it between his fingertips. A single glance was sufficient to establish the fact that a piece of parchment had been wound around the shaft and secured with a blob of wax. The platoon leader used a thumbnail to break the seal, allowed the paper to unwind, and freed it from the arrow. Text had been printed onto the parchment. Santana eyed the LaNorian script and activated his radio. “Bravo Six to Bravo-Five . . . Have someone find YC and send him to the top of the west wall. Over.”

  It didn’t seem likely that either the Claw or the Imperials had the means to monitor the Legion’s radio traffic—but they weren’t supposed to have SAMs either. That was why Santana used Yao Che’s initials rather than his name. Assuming the youth was fortunate enough to survive there was no point in putting him on someone’s hit list.

  “This is Bravo Five,” Hillrun replied. “He’s on the way, over.”

  The LaNorian arrived five minutes later. He was out of breath as if he had come from a long distance away. “You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes,” Santana replied, handing the parchmentlike scroll to the youth. “What does this say?”

  Sergeant Via aimed his flashlight at the paper and Yao Che read the words out loud. “To the residents of Mys . . . This is your last chance to take up arms on the side of righteousness. Rise up against the foreign devils, open the gates, and release the cleansing flood. Those who heed the call shall be blessed—those who ignore it shall suffer the fires. Consider carefully before you choose to align yourselves with defeat.”

  Via groaned. “Great . . . that’s all we need.”

  Santana met Yao Che’s eyes. “Take this to Captain Seeba-Ka. Tell him what it says.”

  The youngster nodded, scooted along the walkway, and soon disappeared.

  The legionnaires stood—careful to keep their heads behind the wall’s protective crenellations. “Arrows,” Via said, “what will they throw at us next?”

  Then, as if in answer to the noncom’s question, the wall shook, and a loud boom was heard. “Well,” Santana answered dryly, “how ’bout some rather large cannon balls?”

  Lak Saa was feeling better, much better, and stood with a telescope to his eye. The sun, which had just started to peek over the eastern horizon, provided just enough light to confirm the initial hit. The arrows were intended to have a psychological impact on the aliens, rather than the LaNorians, but who knew? Perhaps some brave soul would open one of the gates. Not that it mattered much since every LaNorian still within the walls would be executed once Mys fell.

  In the meantime, with the aid of sympathizers within the Imperial Officer Corps, Lak Saa hoped to create his own door. The point chosen for the breach lay immediately south of the western water gate. A hole there, with a nice pile of rubble on which to climb, would enable Imperial troops to enter the already damaged southwest quarter of the city, the area the devils often referred to as Dig Town,” and used as a stage for their drunken revelries. Then, once the Imperials had sacrificed themselves in the breach, Claw warriors would stream into Mys where the true slaughter would begin.

  The key to success was the long east–west trench that had been driven in toward the city during the hours of darkness. There were other trenches as well, two of them, which was why the troops called them the triplets, but the others had been dug more to draw attention away from the one in front of him rather than to achieve any particular objective. . The effort to dig the trenches had taken three days and cost sixty-seven lives.

  Now, safely ensconced behind a berm of earth and wood the cannon was positioned to pound the western wall into submission. Lak Saa knew enemy shells would rain down on the trench at any moment—but hoped that an attack on the city’s North Gate would serve to divide their fire. Could the off-worlders repel the new attack? While simultaneously silencing the cannon? He didn’t think so. The Thraki ambassador had been most forthcoming during the many hours of torture she had been subjected to, and while the devils had a considerable quantity of small-arms ammunition, there were certain categories of ordnance where their supplies were limited, especially the larger stuff. Time would tell.

  Lak Saa brought the Ramanthian-supplied radio up to his lips and squeezed the pincer-friendly side grips. “Start the attack now.”

  His morning chores completed, the Tro Wa leader retreated to his tent, performed his morning calisthenics, and ate a hearty breakfast.

  Though aware of the intermittent boom of a cannon off to the southwest, Captain Jonathan Alan Seebo-1,324 had his own problems, and swore as stared out through his binoculars. The Imperials camped opposite the North Gate were in the process of pulling up stakes in order to make a channel through which a phalanx of densely packed troops could pass. The newcomers were still too far away to make out any details regarding their equipment or weapons but there was no doubt regarding their intent: Force the North Gate, join the forces still occupying the northeast sector of Mys, and attempt to break into the rest of the city.

  Still looking north, the Clone spoke out of the side of his mouth, knowing that the NCO called Sergeant Twelve would hear. “Put a call into Blood-Six . . . Tell him we have what looks like at least two thousand hostiles incoming from the north. Request support from the heavy weapons company and permission to engage.”

  Twelve made the call, got a quick response, and turned back to his CO. “Captain Seeba-Ka is on his way. He requests that we feed coordinates to the tube team but hold fire until he arrives.”

  The officer nodded. “Make it happen . . . and notify the Hudathans. We’re going to need more firepower here on the wall.”

  The Hudathans, under the command of their ambassador, were on a four hour sleep cycle. Seebo hated to wake them up but knew his force of fifty-eight soldiers wasn’t going to be able to stop two thousand attackers no matter what kind of technological superiority they had going for them.

  It was only a matter of a few minutes before the Hudathan had made his way up onto the wall via the stairs at the northwest corner of the city.

  Seeba-Ka paused to acknowledge Captain Seebo’s wave, raised his binoculars, and peered out through one of the firing loops that the clones had drilled through the rectangular crenellations. A bullet spanged off rock, and chips flew as a Tro Wa sniper attempted to put a bullet through the four-inch-wide hole.

  The legionnaire forced himself to ignore the incoming fire and let the oncoming
troops fill his lens. They were closer now, but close enough, so he touched the zoom control. Faces leaped forward, but rather than the hard-core combatants that he expected to see, Seeba-Ka found himself looking at rows of terrified females. Some carried infants, or were trying to deal with the youngsters who clung to their pants, all propelled by what? A hatred of the foreign devils? Or something less obvious?

  The Hudathan switched loopholes in an effort to throw the snipers off, reacquired the mob, and tilted the glasses upward. Data scrolled down the right side of the screen as the officer boosted the magnification to max. And there, right where Seeba-Ka expected them to be, were three ranks of males, Claw judging from their clothing, forcing the females forward. The mob was just that, a mob, intended to serve as cannon fodder. The clanless bastards wanted him to slaughter the civilians but why? For propaganda reasons? Or something else?

  The boom of a cannon impinged on Seeba-Ka’s consciousness and then he knew. It was a trick! A way to split the mortar fire so that less would fall on the newly active east–west trench! The Hudathan activated his radio. “Blood Six to Charlie Six. Hold your fire! Ignore the civilians at the front and put your snipers to work on the cadre toward the rear. When the mob breaks let the noncombatants escape. Confirm. Over.”

  Seebo could see the civilians by then and understood the plan. “That’s affirmative, Blood Six. Over and out.”

  New orders went to the tube crews, bombs bracketed the east–west trench, and another cannonball struck the western wall. A cascade of stones fell, the Imperial artillery team cheered, and the battle of attrition continued.

  THE CITY OF POLWA, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  The palace was chilly, which accounted for the fact that the Empress Shi Huu had once again decided to spend her morning on the fire throne, where the heat produced by the three coal-fed fires would help warm her old bones. More than five hundred candles burned, their light playing across the mural that wrapped the room, adding their heat to that produced by the metal stoves.

  The Empress had chosen to deny the dictates of her seasonal wardrobe and caused quite a stir when she insisted on wearing a summer sheath. It was black with elaborate gold embroidery and fit like a glove. A beautiful dress to be sure, but one which wasn’t scheduled to enter the royal rotation for another sixty-seven days, when a crisis was sure to develop. What would the Empress do her retainers wondered? Wear the dress she should have worn earlier? Wear the black dress for a second time during the same year? Or demand something new? It was no small problem and the clock had started to tick.

  Now, having dealt with the matters placed before her by Dwi Faa, the Empress inclined her head. “Please clear the court.”

  Grateful to escape the now-considerable heat, the courtiers bowed, and took turns backing out of the room.

  Finally, when only Dwi Faa remained, Shi Huu said, “Thank you, that will be all. Please instruct my majordomo to admit the first guest.”

  The minister, who would have dearly loved to know the identity of those with whom the Empress was about to speak, bowed low. “Of course, Majesty. Thank you, majesty.”

  The eunuch had been gone for little more than the time it took for Shi Huu to check her makeup in a tiny finger mirror before the first informant entered the throne room. As with of all his kind the spy wore a hood pierced with eyeholes to protect both his identity and his life. The head covering was made from nondescript brown cloth, as were the clothes he wore, and the rags wrapped around his feet. He bowed, to which Shi Huu responded with an impatient hand. “Yes, yes, please get on with it . . . What little morsels did you bring for me today?”

  The informer, who served as third assistant soup chef for one of Polwa’s most prosperous merchants, launched into an extremely entertaining account of the manner in which his employer’s wife had betrayed her husband with a handsome spice monger from the west. Once the tale was complete Shi Huu opened the wooden box she kept at her side and addressed the spy by the code name she had assigned him. “That was entertaining, my little soup ladle—but essentially worthless. I need information—hence the title informant. Did you hear that booming sound? That was a cannon, one of my cannons, firing on the west wall. Interesting, isn’t it? Especially since I was never consulted in the matter. That, my dear, is the sort of thing an informant should report on.

  “So, assuming you wish to please me, which I’m sure you do, focus your efforts on matters of substance. Still, I am generous if nothing else, so here’s something for your trouble.”

  The spy crept forward, accepted a coin, and backed out of the room. A second informer entered seconds later. This individual was notable both because his disguise hung all the way to the floor and because the body within appeared to be badly misshapen.

  “So,” Shi Huu began, “you come once more. It has been some time since your last visit.”

  “My duties, plus the hostilities, make it difficult to break free,” the informant explained, his words muffled by the hood that he wore. “Still, I have news for Your Majesty, and came as quickly as I could.”

  The Empress was interested but did what she could to look bored. “And your efforts are appreciated. Please proceed.”

  Coal black eyes stared at her through the holes in the spy’s hood. “The Thraki ambassador attempted to respond to your summons but was intercepted before she could reach the palace.”

  Shi Huu leaned forward. Here was an informant who not only knew his business, but understood her priorities as well. She had been very disappointed when Fynthian Isu Hybatha had failed to appear. There were rumors that the Thraki diplomat had been murdered—but there were rumors that her long-dead husband had been seen walking the streets of Polwa as well. What she needed were facts. “Tell me more . . . Who intercepted the off-worlder—and what became of her?”

  “It was Lak Saa,” the spy said with certainty, “or those operating on his behalf. The foreign devil was tortured, disemboweled, and beheaded.”

  “Trust Lak Saa to make sure of his work,” the Empress said sarcastically. The lightness of her words belied the way that she actually felt. The loss of Hybatha was a blow, a cruel blow, since it meant any possibility of rejuvenating her increasingly ugly body was now lost. Odds were that the eunuch knew about her new face, had anticipated her desires, and killed the off-worlder out of spite. Assuming the report was true that is. She eyed her visitor. “Is there any proof of what you say?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” the informant replied. “The Claw used a catapult to launch the ambassador’s head into Mys. Here is a picture of what the Thrakies recovered.”

  There was a shuffling sound as the informant moved forward. His hand was encased in a black mitten. The photo was held by one corner.

  Shi Huu accepted the offering, looked at the print, and marveled at the off-world technology. It was Hybatha all right, or part of her, and the Empress felt a twinge of regret. Not regarding the diplomat’s death . . . but the loss incurred by her.

  “Yes, well, your proof is adequate. It seems that my old friend Lak Saa has lost all sense of propriety. I will find a way to make him pay.”

  “Of course, Highness,” the spy said. “Perhaps I could be of assistance.”

  “Really?” Shi Huu inquired. “How?”

  “Much as I might desire to offer the information as a simple gesture of loyalty—there are other issues I must consider,” the informant replied tactfully. “Simply put, once I share what I know, it will no longer be possible for me to return to Mys.”

  Shi Huu’s ear fans twitched in annoyance. “What do you want?”

  “I would like a land grant, Majesty, privileges commensurate with noble rank, and the right to recruit and train my own bodyguards.”

  “How many bodyguards?” the Empress asked suspiciously.

  “Five hundred warriors would be sufficient, Highness.”

  “Done,” Shi Huu replied, “if I deem the information you provide to be worthy. If not, I shall have your head as recompense for
this unseemly haggling. Now divulge what you know.”

  If the threat bothered him there was no sign of it as the spy spoke. “The Ramanthians have factories out in the country, factories which though completely unguarded, have yet to be touched.”

  Shi Huu felt a rising sense of excitement. Though aware that the factories had been constructed—she had assumed that the Tro Wa had long since burned them to the ground. “How interesting . . . tell me more.”

  “In return for protecting their factories, and Lak Saa’s assurances that they will be spared in the aftermath of the city’s fall, the Ramanthians supplied the Claw with off-world weapons and communications devices. Therefore, if you strike at the factories, you strike at Lak Saa.”

  It made sense, good sense, but Shi Huu was cautious. “I need proof.”

  The informant felt a sense of frustration but managed to keep it in check. “The factories remain untouched—and the Tro Wa have off-world weapons. Your military should be able to verify both assertions. The rest is obvious.”

  “Thank you,” Shi Huu said sincerely, “Minister Dwi Faa will handle the administrative aspects of your reward. I suggest that you pay close attention to the discussions, or you could find yourself living on a large chunk of unproductive desert.”

  “Thank you for the advice, Majesty.”

  “However,” Shi Huu said sternly, “there is one more thing . . . All of my nobles are known to me. You must remove the disguise.”

  There was a pause, as if the spy was hesitant to remove his robes, followed by the rustle of black cloth. It swirled, fell, and puddled on the floor. The Ramanthian bowed. “Specialist Poth Dusso at your service.”

  The Empress was far from surprised. “So you believe that the off-worlders will lose?”

  “Yes, Highness, I do.”

  “And Lak Saa?”

  “Once the Tro Wa enter Mys, they will slaughter everyone, including the staff at the Ramanthian embassy. That’s why I chose to leave. However, if you destroy the factories, and if you cut Lak Saa off from further off-world support, he will be weakened. Order your military to turn on him now. Wait, and it will be too late.”