When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  Or, the gathering could represent something a good deal darker. In the aftermath of the wound suffered on Earth, the Queen was still unable to move her body from the neck down. The condition in no way weakened the strength of her intellect, but put very real limits on what she could accomplish, and made her vulnerable in ways she hadn’t been before. That was why Ubatha had agreed to participate in the meeting. He needed to find out what the other attendees were up to—and take action against them should any be necessary.

  As the transport circled Parth’s immaculately kept country estate, and came in for a landing, Ubatha had plenty to think about—starting with the fact that half a dozen other aircraft were already on the ground in spite of the fact he was early! Being a seasoned politician Ubatha knew the presence of so many transports could imply that a premeeting was already under way. If so, it meant that there were matters the other attendees didn’t want to discuss in front of him. Still, given that Ubatha was there by invitation, there was no reason to believe that the group saw him as an enemy. Suddenly, as the skids made contact with the heat-fused soil, Ubatha felt lonely and a little bit scared. But the Chancellor kept such doubts well hidden as he shuffled down a ramp onto the sun-parched ground.

  Parth’s majordomo was waiting to greet Ubatha, and escort the high-ranking official to a broad ramp that slanted down into a series of beautifully appointed underground chambers. Though by no means poor, Ubatha and his mates had nothing like the wealth the Parth clan had accumulated over the last hundred years, and Ubatha was impressed by what he saw.

  Ramanthian entry alcoves were generally a good indicator of what lay beyond, and this one was huge. And spotlessly clean. Like all members of his species, Ubatha was equipped with two antenna-shaped olfactory organs that protruded from his forehead. Thanks to the input they provided, he knew the air was heavy with expensive incense.

  From that point a path led under one of the many shafts, which brought sunlight down from the surface, past the obligatory rock garden, and down a long corridor. Earthen walls were covered with layerings of expensive fabrics and beautiful pieces of fractal art, all evenly spaced between carefully lit sculptures.

  The corridor split three ways after that, and Ubatha followed the majordomo across a glistening water walk, and into the reception chamber beyond. Six males were waiting to greet the Chancellor—and Ubatha knew all of them.

  First there was Governor Parth, who immediately came forward to greet Ubatha, his eyes alight with avarice. The Chancellor remembered Parth as a serviceable administrator who, though primarily interested in establishing conditions favorable to his clan’s business interests, still found time to represent the rest of his constituents as well.

  Also in attendance at the oval-shaped table was Cam Taas, the onetime chief of the Department of Transportation, who was famously hidebound, and completely averse to anything new. That stance, given the Empire’s population explosion, was one of the reasons the Queen had been forced to let him go.

  Su Ixba, the ex-head of the Department of Criminal Prosecution, and a skillful bureaucratic infighter, was seated next to Taas. Though effective, he had been known for a willingness to use his considerable police powers on anyone who was opposed to his conservative politics.

  Tu Stik, Zo Nelo, and Ma Amm were military leaders, and if rumors were true, members of the fanatical Nira cult. The group that had been useful in some regards, but was potentially dangerous, since adherents saw themselves as accountable to a spiritual force more powerful than the Queen—a belief system that, while legal, was somewhat unsettling. All of those factors contributed to the steadily growing sense of apprehension Ubatha felt.

  Once the traditional greetings were over, and a tray of light snacks had been passed around, Parth made what amounted to an opening statement. All of the other participants sought to look disinterested, but Ubatha could feel the tension in the room, and knew something important was in the offing. “Again, welcome to our little gathering,” Parth said modestly. “We hoped you would join us both because we enjoy your company—and because you are still in government. Tell me, official pronouncements aside, how is our valiant Queen?”

  The Chancellor thought there might be something slightly sarcastic about the emphasis Parth put on the word “valiant,” but it was a seemingly innocent question, and one Ubatha would expect any host to ask given the present circumstances. Still, the royal’s health was a sensitive matter, so Ubatha chose his words with care. “I’m sorry to say that her majesty remains paralyzed. And, while our very best physicians continue to study the problem, there is no immediate relief in sight. The Queen remains alert, however, and has been able to carry out the vast majority of her duties, which is a great comfort to us all.”

  “Yes, of course,” Ixba said politely. “But, with all due respect, we could learn that much from the evening newscasts. We are patriots, and as such, worried about the empire’s future well-being. We are at war, and as you probably know, there are some who fear the Queen’s paralysis could slow the governmental process. And do so at a time when quick decisions will be critical to victory.”

  The comment wasn’t treasonous, but it came close, and Ubatha had no further doubts regarding the meeting’s true purpose. Having been displaced, and in their view slighted, Parth and his cronies hoped to use the Queen’s paralysis as a pretext for replacing her with a new monarch. A female of their choosing, who after taking the throne, would immediately restore them to positions of power. All of that would be a good deal easier to accomplish if the Chancellor was not only in on the plot but actively supporting it. Something Ubatha would never do.

  Two courses of action were available. Ubatha could pretend to cooperate, then take the actions necessary to deal with the illicit plot, or he could declare his opposition to it. But would the group allow him to leave if he did so?

  Suddenly Ubatha regretted the fact that rather than travel with bodyguards, as he was entitled to do, he had chosen to attend the meeting unaccompanied, as a sign of humility and goodwill. It would be very easy for the group to kill him and his pilots, stage a plane crash, and make their move. And, as he looked around the table, Ubatha could sense an increased level of tension. “I see your point,” Ubatha said carefully. “Speed is important. . . . What, if anything, would you suggest?”

  Ixba signaled his approval with a single clack of his right pincer. “You’re a pragmatist, Ubatha! And that’s what we need. . . . A Chancellor capable of looking to the greater good. But, rather than answer your question myself, I would prefer to let someone else speak for our cause. An officer who, having distinguished himself in a number of actions, has been selected to coordinate the military aspect of the transition.”

  At that point Ubatha realized that the plot was so far advanced that the coconspirators had already chosen a warrior to either suborn the Queen’s guards or physically overcome them! This meant there wasn’t much time. . . . But, when he looked over at Stik, Nebo, and Amm, the retired officers were silent. So when their heads swiveled toward the doorway, Ubatha turned to see what they were looking at.

  What the official saw there was so shocking, so terrible, that it felt as if his heart would stop beating. The officer who had been chosen to lead the assault on the monarch’s bodyguards, and thereby betray everything that Chancellor believed in, was none other than the War Ubatha! One of his own mates who, judging from the presence of Stik, Nebo, and Amm, was not only a member of the Nira cult but an enthusiastic one as well! “Greetings,” the soldier said levelly, as his eyes made contact with Ubatha’s. “I’m glad it won’t be necessary to kill you.”

  The so-called Summer Palace was located underground, the way any Ramanthian domicile should be, but adjacent to a deep twenty-mile-long river canyon. All of the most important rooms were open to the abyss—allowing whatever breezes there were to flow through unimpeded. Because even though the Ramanthians preferred a warm environment, the equatorial region could be sweltering hot during the summer months, and th
e palace dated all the way back to preindustrial times.

  Of course, all of the monarch’s many residences had air-conditioning, so her desire to stay at the Summer Palace had more to do with her affection for the place, than a need for cool breezes. But they were soothing, and as the Queen lay in her specially designed bed, she could see the floor-length curtains sway, and feel the flow of air around her antennae. And that was comforting. Up until the moment the human bullet hit her, the royal had never feared anything other than failure.

  But now, in the wake of the latest visit from her doctors, she was terrified. Assuming they were correct, the prognosis wasn’t good. Surgery to repair the damage to her posterior nerve bundle might work, according to the so-called experts, but could result in death as well. That was why none of the cowards were willing to operate on her.

  They didn’t say that, of course, but the possibility of being blamed for such a debacle was foremost in their minds. So the answer, or nonanswer, was to leave the Queen as she was. A mind trapped in an unresponsive body. And that, to the monarch’s way of thinking, was completely unacceptable. But what to do? She didn’t know. And not knowing gave rise to a feeling of helplessness—which was a strange sensation indeed.

  The Queen’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft chime— and the swish of fabric as one of her administrative assistants appeared at the regent’s side. “Chancellor Ubatha is here to see you, Majesty,” the functionary said. “Shall I show him in?”

  “Yes,” the monarch replied. “Who knows? Maybe he has some good news.”

  The assistant withdrew, and no more than a minute passed before Ubatha entered the chamber and crossed the room to stand at the Queen’s bedside. Having left Parth’s estate, the official had executed a long sequence of carefully thought-out com calls, while flying to the Summer Palace.

  Then, having made the necessary arrangements, the rest of the flight was spent mourning the loss of his mate. From the Chancellor’s perspective, the being he and the Egg Ubatha loved had been replaced by a hard, ruthless creature who was willing to trade honor for power. Now the functionary was tired, worried, and, above all, frightened. “So, how do I look?” the monarch wanted to know. “Like dinner on a spit?”

  The reference to the metal cage that supported her body was an attempt to put her visitor at ease, but Ubatha had seen the contraption before, and was in no mood for levity. “No, Majesty,” the official replied, as the usual cloud of pheromones wafted around him. “But there are those who would take advantage of your disability if they could.”

  So saying, Ubatha launched into a forthright account of the trip to Parth’s estate, the ensuing dialogue, and the shocking discovery that one of his own mates was part of the plot to depose her. It was a lot to take in, but the Queen was no stranger to political plots, and, having rid herself of the individuals in question, could understand their motives. Or their alleged motives. But what if Ubatha was lying? That was unlikely, of course, given that the official was accusing one of his own mates of treason, and remained subject to her pheromones. But every possibility had to be considered. Especially given her condition. “No offense, Chancellor,” she said. “But why should I believe you?”

  “Because the coup is already under way,” Ubatha replied grimly. “Go ahead, request that a shuttle be sent to pick you up, and see what happens.”

  The royal had access to a voice-operated com system, so she made the call herself. Less than thirty seconds passed before the Queen was piped through to an admiral and a well-known member of the Nira cult. He listened to the request, apologized for the fact that all of the Queen’s shuttles were currently undergoing maintenance, and promised to contact the royal the moment one of them became available.

  The Queen felt a rising sense of rage, but managed to control it, as she broke the connection. The eyes that sought Ubatha’s were black as space. “You were right. . . . I won’t forget—and I’m sorry about your mate. You have a plan?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” Chancellor Ubatha answered. “There are some individuals that we can trust. . . . And insofar as I can tell, the Thrakies are completely unaware of the plot. One of their shuttles will pick us up in roughly thirty minutes. Once we’re on board, the conspirators won’t be able to strike without attacking a very important ally.”

  The Queen tried to move her body. Any part of her body—but there was no response. “And then?”

  “And then we’ll be taken aboard a Thraki ship,” Ubatha replied.

  “But won’t that make it easy for them?” the Queen wanted to know. “Once I leave Hive, they’ll be free to put their own Queen on the throne.”

  “No, they won’t,” Ubatha answered firmly. “Not so long as you are off-planet running the government—and communicating with the population. But it’s going to take time to identify all of the conspirators and weed them out. There’s reason to believe that the rot runs a lot deeper than the individuals I met with.”

  What Ubatha said made sense, so the Queen accepted it. “So, where will we go?” the royal wanted to know.

  “To a place where you can rest, and no one will think to look,” Ubatha said secretively. “Not at first anyway.” And the two of them were gone thirty minutes later.

  PLANET EARTH, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  The slaves had been taken prisoner in places like Petaluma, Fairfield, and Concord before being marched through an urban wasteland to that part of the sprawling metroplex still referred to as San Jose, and what had once been the local convention center. But the huge building had another purpose now, and as Commander Leo Foley watched from a distant rooftop, he knew the long column of raggedly dressed people were about to enter a slave market where men, women, and children were sold to work in underground factories, toil on remote farms, and staff the brothels that had begun to pop up all over the area.

  All of which was part of the criminal subculture that had grown up to replace the government structures the Ramanthians had systematically destroyed. It was a feudal system in which gang bosses lived like lords, competing armies fought for turf, and the rest of the population were slaves. The situation was not only barbaric, but helpful to the Ramanthians, who could simply sit back and watch the animals destroy each other.

  And that was why Foley and the government-sponsored Earth Liberation Brigade was about to disrupt the illicit economy by taking the slave market down. Assuming the resistance fighters could overcome the mercenary army that Otto Tovar had assembled to protect his business interests. That was very much in doubt, because Tovar was a retired general, who theoretically knew more about ground combat than Foley did. It was important to study the complex before attacking it, because unless the guerrillas were extremely careful, their first major battle would be their last.

  Strangely, as she and the rest of the slaves were led into the convention center, Margaret Vanderveen was glad to be there. Even if the floor of the main auditorium was covered with filth, a woman continued to utter a series of yelps as a guard whipped her, and the Mozart Requiem’s Dies Irae was playing full blast over the PA system. Because Margaret was tired. Very tired, and looking forward to a rest, even if that was within the confines of a slave market.

  The whole thing had begun shortly after a badly damaged Ramanthian scout ship passed over the old mine where she and her companions had been staying and crashed off to the west. Once a badly injured aviator wandered into Deer Valley and collapsed, Margaret and her friends tried to save the Ramanthian, but were unable to do so. Shortly after the warrior’s death, Margaret realized that the alien’s chitin was abnormally thin. At her insistence, samples were taken and preserved in vials filled with alcohol, drinkable alcohol that Benson had been reluctant to part with.

  The whole thing could have ended there, should have ended there, given the way things turned out. But that was water under the bridge. Having convinced herself that the dead Ramanthian’s medical condition might be of interest to the Confederacy’s intelligence people, Margaret left Benson in charge
of the mine, and set out to find someone who could convey the tissue samples to the right people.

  There were six tiny containers, all of which had been sewn into a specially modified bra, where they would be safe from all but the most intrusive searches. That meant she could travel light, carrying nothing more than a small pack, pistol, and knife.

  And things went well at first. Because Margaret was pretty savvy by then—and knew how to move cross-country without attracting attention. Unfortunately, the only way to find some sort of resistance group, and what she hoped would be a link with the authorities on Algeron, was to interact with people. And that was her downfall.

  Margaret had covered a lot of ground, and was just outside Dixon, when she stumbled across one of the open-air, country-style markets that were springing up across the land—places where foodstuffs could be purchased, one item could be traded for another, and the latest bits of news could be had. Unreliable information for the most part, but all Margaret needed was a name, and an approximate location. Then, assuming that all went well, she would hand over the samples and return to Deer Valley. So that’s where she was, talking to a voluble salt merchant, when the slavers attacked.

  It wasn’t clear what was happening at first because, even though the pop, pop, pop of gunfire could be heard, most of the market goers assumed someone had purchased a gun and was shooting at a target. But then as a woman screamed, and people fled toward the north, Margaret realized something more was taking place. A Ramanthian raid perhaps, which wouldn’t have been all that surprising, given the circumstances. Stalls went over, livestock escaped, and people ran away from the gunfire.

  So Margaret ran, too, her pack bouncing on her back, only to discover that she and all the rest of the market goers were being driven into a carefully laid trap! Because two converging lines of heavily armed men and women were waiting up ahead and, as the fugitives surged into the open end of the V, they were soon forced to stop. Margaret was no exception. The society matron was armed with a pistol, and tempted to use it, but knew what the outcome would be. Not only would she be killed by return fire, but so would many of the people crammed in around her. That was a decision she had no right to make for them.