For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  “That’s right,” Xanith said, her eyes following the cyborg’s, “the report says ‘5 billion new souls.’ ”

  “But that’s absurd,” Chien-Chu replied skeptically. “It must have been a typo.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sikora countered, and used a remote to change the text on the screen. “Here is an abstract from one of their production reports. Look at the unbelievable number of pumice stones, molt picks, and containers of wing wax they’re cranking out . . . Enough to supply the existing population for the next hundred years!”

  “And that’s not all,” Madam X offered evenly. “What sometimes seemed like irrational political activity starts to make sense when you consider it within the context of a Ramanthian population explosion. Think about all their efforts to acquire new real estate, to partition the Sheen fleet, and destabilize the government. All of it fits.

  “My god,” Chien-Chu said feelingly. “The bastards will outnumber the entire Confederacy.”

  “Far from it,” Sikora said with the certainty of a professional fact checker, “but it’s worrisome nonetheless.”

  “Did you inform the president?”

  “No,” Xanith replied, “not yet. I thought we would go together.”

  “He’s not going to like what we have to say.”

  “No,” the Intelligence chief agreed, “but then neither do I.”

  The Friendship’s launch deck was a very dangerous place to work. Not only because the cavernous bay was open to space 90 percent of the time, but because of the constant flow of incoming and outgoing fighters, shuttles, and supply ships, not to mention the movements of deck tugs, robo hoses, landing drones, security sleds, maintenance bots and hundreds of brightly suited personnel.

  One such individual, a Ramanthian named Hodo Buak, had been assigned to the maintenance crew, a position he enjoyed both because of the wide range of duties involved, and the fact that the job allowed him to spy on the ship’s many comings and goings. Something that he, as an intelligence operative, was paid to do.

  That’s why Buak, who had been assigned to repair the crash cage that protected the Number 16 fueling bay, pulled his torch away from a section of cracked tubing long enough to eyeball the distinctively shaped ship that swooped in for a high-priority landing.

  The operative was fairly sure that he knew to whom the ship belonged, and who was likely to be aboard, but it was important to be sure. Especially in light of the fact that the Triad named Hasa-Ba was an important ally.

  Buak killed the torch, put in a request for a bio break, and shuffled his way across the deck to one of the kiosks that provided access to the ship’s computer systems. Maintenance workers didn’t rate wireless access but it was a simple matter to jack in and use a series of voice commands to access the information he wanted. He was soon able to confirm that the recently arrived ship was the property of the Hudathan government, but, rather than the name he expected to see on the passenger manifest, the Ramanthian saw “Hiween Doma-Sa” instead. A rather alarming state of affairs since Triad Doma-Sa was supposed to be dead! Buak wasted little time notifying an intelligence officer named Ruu Sacc, who understood the danger, and put a call in to Senator Alway Orno.

  The Ramanthian politician was neck deep in a soothing sand bath when the call came in. Should he ignore it? It was tempting, and he might very well have done so, had it not been for the fact that the stutter beep indicated a high-priority call from a member of his own staff. The politician tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice but failed. “Yes? What is it?”

  It took Ruu Sacc only three sentences to bring his superior up and out of the sand bath. The orders came in short staccato bursts. “Prepare my ship for immediate departure. Dispatch a Protocol Three message to all embassy personnel. Send order six-point-one to the fleet. Execute.”

  Communicators buzzed or vibrated at various locations throughout the ship, more than two dozen Ramanthian staff members consulted small backlit screens, and all saw the same words: PROTOCOL THREE.

  Some were frightened, others felt pleased, but all reacted in the same way. They disengaged from whatever they were doing and headed for the flight deck. Personal belongings, along with office files, furniture and other items were left behind. None of the Ramanthians mentioned the order to each other or to acquaintances who happened to greet them in the halls.

  Meanwhile, as his staff filtered toward the launch bay, Orno had important things to do. The first was to get dressed. Having donned his robes, the diplomat went to his desk, grabbed what looked like a cylindrical piece of decorative art, and turned the top and bottom in opposite directions. There was distinctive click followed by a whir as two half-round panels retracted to expose a pair of rubber grips. Orno used a tool pincer to squeeze both grips at the same time, saw an LED start to blink, and knew that all of the embassy’s files were being overwritten. An unnecessary precaution given what he planned to do next but it was best to be careful. Take Hasa-Ba for example . . . Rather than kill Doma-Sa the way he was supposed to, the stupid shovel head had botched the job, and probably been killed himself.

  Had he revealed the nature of the plan? Including the bomb? Yes, it seemed safe to assume so, which was why Doma-Sa had come. Not to inform the government of his peer’s untimely death, but to warn them about the bomb, and the raid on the Sheen fleet.

  But it’s too late, Orno thought to himself, as my enemies are about to learn.

  The bomb’s trigger resembled a handheld computer. All the politician had to do was punch a code in via the Ramanthian squeeze keys, hit enter, and repeat the code for a second time. A steady tone served to confirm that the bomb was operational and that the timer had been activated. Sixty standard minutes, that was how long he and his staff had to clear the ship, and the blast that would follow.

  Satisfied that things were well under control, the Ramanthian took one last look around his cabin, grabbed a holo stat of the War Orno, and slipped out through the door. It locked behind him.

  President Marcott Nankool bit off a piece of apple. He had gained some weight over the last year and the fruit snacks were part of his latest effort to lose a few pounds. He chewed but barely tasted the food. His mind was elsewhere.

  Doma-Sa had encountered Chien-Chu and Xanith in the alcove outside the president’s office, and such was the nature of the relationship between the industrialist and the Hudathan leader they held a whispered conference. That’s when both the industrialist and the Intelligence chief learned of Hasa-Ba’s death, the possibility of a bomb, and the raid on the fleet. Then, alarmed by the sum of the information that they possessed, the threesome barged into Nankool’s office, apologized to a startled official, and ushered him outside.

  Then, even as Xanith used her communicator to contact the Friendship’s commanding officer (CO), the other two took the opportunity to brief Nankool.

  Now, having consumed the slice of apple, the president struggled to assimilate what he had learned. “So, let’s see if I have this right . . . For reasons we don’t understand yet the Ramanthians are about to add 5 billion souls to their overall population. In order to provide for their new citizens, they plan to steal the Sheen fleet, and use the ships to move the excess population to the worlds they received as war reparations.”

  “That’s correct,” Chien-Chu said impatiently, “but with one important addition. Just before he died Triad Hasa-Ba told Triad Doma-Sa that the Ramanthians have constructed a bomb on board this ship. Now, assuming the plan remains in effect, they plan to detonate that device as a way to pull navy vessels away from the Sheen fleet.”

  “No offense,” Nankool replied, “but the whole thing is preposterous. Why would Senator Orno blow himself up? We need to do some research, find out what’s going on, and . . .”

  “Excuse me,” Madam X interrupted, “but I’m on the horn with the captain, and traffic control confirms that the Ramanthian shuttle Hive Spirit departed from the bay five minutes ago. She’s large enough to carry Orno’s entire sta
ff. The master at arms is still searching but it appears that all of the Ramanthians have left the ship.”

  Nankool might have been political, but he was no fool, and made the necessary adjustment. “Tell the Arballazanies that we have a situation here—and ask them to bear with us. Notify security regarding the possibility of a bomb. Tell the CO to announce an unscheduled drill. Note the word ‘drill.’ Let’s keep the lid on to avoid any possibility of panic. I want every member of the government off this ship and I mean now. Pull the navy in and warn them to expect guests.”

  “That’s what Orno wants you to do,” Doma-Sa cautioned. “The moment you pull those the ships the Ramanthians will pounce on the Sheen fleet.”

  “What would you have me do?” Nankool demanded angrily as he rose from his chair. “Allow the entire government to die? Who will oppose the bastards then? Our lifeboats are just that, lifeboats, and there’s no place for them to go except those ships. I have no choice. Xanith, tell the CO to warn whatever force that remains with the fleet to expect an attack. Perhaps they can save at least some of the ships.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to be seen. There’s going to be a whole lot of pissed-off politicians roaming the halls, and someone has to cool them down.”

  “This is the captain,” a calm unemotional voice said via one of the speakers built into the overhead, “all personnel will stop what they are doing, assemble by their assigned lifeboats, and prepare to embark. This is an Alpha, repeat Alpha drill, which means that all boats will launch. Estimated duration of the exercise is three, repeat three hours, assuming we don’t run into any problems.

  “We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause but know that both the ship’s crew and our guests understand the need for realistic emergency exercises. We are running a clock on this so please proceed to your station in a brisk and efficient manner. Thank you.”

  “You heard the man,” Nankool told his guests. “I can’t afford to lose even one of you. Get to those stations now. That’s an order. We’ll sort the rest of it out later.”

  In keeping with regs, and the procedures required for an Alpha drill, a squad of legionnaires arrived to escort the president through the halls.

  The others went their separate ways while the timer continued to run. Teams of specially trained naval personnel were searching for the bomb—and they had twenty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds left in which to find it.

  The Sheen fleet, more than six thousand vessels in all, occupied an orbit very similar to the planet Arballa’s which put the ships only hours away. A temporary arrangement until the Senate could determine what to do with them. Once controlled by an artificial intelligence known as the Hoon, the vessels were presently on standby, their propulsion systems pumping out barely enough power to keep their shields up and protect the hulls from meteorites and other debris. That meant that the glow or “sheen” by which the ships were known had been reduced to a dull silvery glow.

  Still, there was something unusual about the vessels, a sort of brooding quality, that caused Vice Admiral Enko Norr to give orders quietly, as if the ships might hear and awake from their slumbers. Carefully, conscious of the risk of collision, the Ramanthian guided the destroyer class Pincer of Freedom through a shoal of gigantic gray hulls.

  Though not privy to why the Confederacy’s naval vessels would leave the fleet largely unguarded, the naval officer had been assured that they would, and the prediction had come true.

  What hadn’t come true was the promise that ten shiploads of Hudathan commandos would arrive to assist his forces and take their share of the fleet. Not that Norr cared, since he hated the ridge heads, and was glad to be rid of them.

  It had taken the better part of ten Hive days to bring the flotilla in to the very edge of the solar system, activate the cloaking devices purchased from the Thrakies, and close with the mothballed fleet. Now, thanks to the fact that the vessels under his command remained undetected, and the majority of the patrol vessels were headed in toward Arballa, the feet lay at his mercy. Countless hours of training had been spent preparing for this moment and all was ready. He glanced at a display on the console to his right, waited for the final seconds to tick away, and gave the next order. “Tell Ship Commander Joss to engage the enemy.”

  Thousands of units away three Ramanthian ships revealed themselves, fired on an unsuspecting destroyer, and a brand-new sun was born. It expanded briefly, radiated light racing outwards, and collapsed. Two-hundred and fifty-six sentients died.

  Only six ships had been left to defend the fleet. They raced to avenge themselves on the attackers who, rather than fight, immediately turned and ran. Unaware of what was happening elsewhere the navy ships followed.

  Meanwhile, relying on classified documents provided by no less a personage than Senator Orno himself, Vice Admiral Norr directed his raiders inward. Because of the fact that the Sheen ships were, and always had been, robotic, there was no need to put crews on all of them. Instead, thanks to sophisticated electronics obtained from the Thrakies, all his personnel had to do was place command modules aboard certain vessels and turn them on. Then, assuming what he’d been told was true, other ships, sixty-six per “raft,” would lock on to the so-called Alpha ship, and follow it wherever it went.

  And a good thing too since the Ramanthian lacked sufficient personnel to crew thousands of ships. Though hopeful that Orno’s plan would succeed the Queen had placed definite limits on the resources available to him, pointing out that should he fail Hive itself would come under attack, and the Ramanthian navy would need all of its resources to defend the home world.

  The flagship shuddered as it made lock-to-lock contact with one of the Sheen Alpha ships, pressures were equalized, and the Ramanthians took their first prizes.

  The temporary command post had been set up on Echo Deck. It consisted of some man-portable screens, what looked like an enclosed food cart, and a cluster of personnel wearing specially designed suits and equipped with satchels full of sophisticated equipment. Once the bomb was found it would be their task to disarm it, but none of the so-called det-heads had anything to do except watch their CO sweat. Lieutenant Commander Murdo was a big man with ginger hair, green eyes, and eternally flushed cheeks. The officer wore a dark blue ship suit, a billed cap, and a world-class frown.

  From his position behind the hastily set-up screens, Murdo could monitor the precise location of every single person or machine but it didn’t mean squat. The Friendship was an extremely large vessel, so large that looking for a bomb inside her hull was like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Not only that, but the det heads and their electromechanical assistants didn’t have the foggiest idea what they were looking for. Assuming the bomb was real, how big was it? How much did it weigh? And what did it look like? No one knew—and that was driving him crazy.

  He was trying to find out though, and that’s why sentients raced through the halls, opened inspection panels, and ran scanners over every surface they could find while specially designed robots spidered through the vessel’s air ducts and searched for the slightest hint of radiation, chemical residue, or unmapped heat. Anything that might betray the presence of an explosive device.

  Even worse was the fact that the bomb might be on a timer, and if so, could go off at any moment. Assuming the threat was real, what had the timer been set for? An hour? Two hours? And how much of that time was left? The brass seemed to be of the opinion that one of the politicos had set it, but they weren’t saying how they knew that. Why? Politics that’s why—and the reality of that sucked.

  A radio operator appeared at the officer’s elbow. She belonged to the Legion and was one of the 136 sentients who had volunteered to remain aboard and help some three hundred robots search for the bomb. If she was scared their was no sign of it on her face. Tactical communications were being routed through the ship’s Command and Control Center and from there to other ships if necessary. “I have the boss on the horn, sir, and when I say the ‘
boss’ I meant the big boss.”

  Murdo made a face. Looking for the bomb was tough enough without having the president looking over your shoulder. “Terrific . . . Just what I need.”

  The radio operator grinned and slapped the handset into the officer’s beefy palm. “Lieutenant Commander Murdo, sir.”

  Nankool’s voice was calm, cool, and collected. Just the way he wanted to appear. “This is the president, Commander. While I appreciate everything that you and your people are trying to do it’s too damned dangerous. I want you to pull out and that’s an order.”

  Murdo felt wildly conflicting emotions. On the one hand he wanted to get his people off the ship as quickly as he could. On the other hand it was his ship that someone was trying to blow up—and that pissed him off. He wanted to find the device and disarm it. “Yes, sir,” Murdo replied, “but I would . . .”

  Nankool, who had been taken aboard one of the navy’s cruisers by then, never got to hear what the naval officer would like to do. The timer hit zero, the bomb exploded, and the ex-battleship was destroyed in a single eye-searing blast.

  In spite of the fact that it had been Orno’s intention to blow the vessel in two, leaving at least some of the crew alive in both halves, the explosion managed to penetrate two of the ship’s six magazines and triggered the ordnance stored there. The results were catastrophic.

  As chance would have it both Chien-Chu and Doma-Sa were with Nankool at that fateful moment and witnessed the tragedy firsthand. Light found the wardroom’s viewport, was electronically dampered to protect those within, but still packed sufficient intensity to strobe the bulkhead behind him. “My god,” Nankool said in wonderment, “what was that?”

  “That,” Chien-Chu said grimly, “was the first shot in a new interstellar war. Having tried to eradicate our government, and having destroyed our capital, the Ramanthians are in the process of stealing a fleet.”