16.
Wars are fought in many ways—and in many places.
—Clone Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven
Standard year 2840
THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47) The Drac embassy consisted of a ten-story-tall block of windowless concrete that seemed to crouch between the high-rise buildings that rose all around it. But though not especially interesting to look at, the structure’s fl?at roof was the perfect place for VIPs to land and take off. And, given that Triad Hiween Doma-Sa qualifi?ed as such a person, his air car was immediately cleared for landing. There was a solid thump as Runwa Molo-Sa put the Hudathanmade vehicle down on the well-illuminated pad. Heavily armed Drac security offi?cers hurried forward to meet the Hudathan dignitary and his aide as they stepped out onto the surface of the fl?at roof. The Dracs wore headto-toe black pressure suits. And, because their faces were obscured by breathing masks, it was almost impossible to tell them apart. Not that Doma-Sa wanted to become better acquainted with the treacherous breed. Though offi?cially neutral, it was well-known that the Drac Axis was at least psychologically aligned with the Ramanthians, which put them in the same lowly category as the Thrakies insofar as Doma-Sa was concerned.
But the methane breathers had a navy, and therefore the ability to project power, so it would be foolish to ignore them. Especially given the fact that Doma-Sa’s race had been forced to forgo having ships of their own in order to gain membership in the Confederacy and thereby escape their dying planet. Which had everything to do with Doma-Sa’s presence. Because if the triad could do or say anything that would help prevent the Dracs from actively entering the war on the Ramanthian side, then the painfi?lled evening would be worth the sacrifi?ce. Having confi?rmed that the Hudathans were invited guests, the seemingly interchangeable Dracs led the giants into a featureless elevator that fell so fast the 350-pound triad wondered if his feet would come up off the fl?oor. The platform slowed quickly and coasted to a stop. The door opened onto a public area already crowded with partygoers. Most of the guests were Thrakies, which made sense, given that Starfall belonged to them. The rest of the crowd consisted of humans, a couple of Finthians, four exoskeletonequipped Dwellers, and a handful of other aliens. They all stood around and pretended to like each other as they sipped, snorted, and siphoned intoxicating liquids into their bodies.
Like the building’s exterior, the interior had a utilitarian feel, and because Dracs were color-blind, there was nothing to brighten the atmosphere. The human partygoers were sure to notice, but it was of little interest to Doma-Sa, who could perceive color but wasn’t especially interested in it.
Being a head of state, as well as the Hudathan representative to the Confederacy, Doma-Sa was one of the highestranking individuals present and therefore in great demand. But rather than circulate, the way most diplomats did, the Hudathan put his back to a wall and allowed the asskissers, lie tellers, and social sycophants to come to him, which they quickly lined up to do. And, predictably enough, the topic everyone wanted to talk about was Marcott Nankool. Was the chief executive dead? Would Vice President Jakov assume the presidency? And if he did, how would that impact the war?
The answers to such questions were obvious—or so it seemed to Doma-Sa. Yes, Nankool was probably dead. Yes, Jakov would assume the presidency. And yes, that would have an impact on the war. Because as with so many squats, the human politician was a spineless piece of dra, who would rush to cut a deal with the bugs so that dreamy-eyed elites on Earth could sleep better at night. But the triad knew there wasn’t any place for the truth in a roomful of liars, so he told everyone who asked that there was a very good chance that Nankool was still alive and might very well be rescued. Not because Doma-Sa was in love with what he often thought of as the Confederation of Stupid Beings, but because the Hudathan people would be vulnerable without a strong star-spanning government, and his fi?rst duty was to them.
And that’s what the Hudathan was doing when his conversation with the Finthian ambassador came to a close, and the brightly plumed diplomat stepped away. The noise level in the room suddenly decreased as a female Ramanthian appeared in front of him. “This is the Egg Orno,” Molo-Sa said by way of introduction. “Mate to ex-ambassador Alway Orno—who was assassinated a few weeks ago.”
The mention of the name, plus the relationship, took Doma-Sa back to the day when he and the Egg Orno’s other mate had faced off on the surface of Arballa. It had been hot that day, with high, puffy clouds that seemed to sail across a violet sky.
There were rules against dueling aboard the orbiting Friendship—so the fi?ght had been scheduled to take place on the arid planet below. No one lived on the surface of Arballa, least of all the wormlike Arballazanies, who dwelt deep underground.
But everyone wanted to see the fi?ght, so all manner of shuttles had been employed to ferry dozens of diplomats, politicians, and senior offi?cials down to Arballa, where the would-be spectators were forced to don a variety of exotic breathing devices in order to move around on the planet’s inhospitable surface.
By mutual agreement, a bowl-like depression had been chosen as the site of the contest. Horgo Orno entered the natural arena fi?rst. Doma-Sa remembered feeling the fi?rst stirrings of fear as the Ramanthian stood there with his well-oiled chitin gleaming in the sun. And now, as the enormous Hudathan looked down into the Egg Orno’s shiny eyes, he suspected that the female was frightened but still had the courage to face him. The question was why. The Egg Orno had been on Hive the day that her beloved Horgo fought the big ugly Hudathan. So this was the fi?rst time she had seen him. The alien had a large humanoid head, a low-lying dorsal fi?n that ran front to back along the top of his skull, and funnel-shaped ears. His skin was gray, but would turn white if the temperature were to drop, and black were it to rise. “It’s an honor to meet you,”
Doma-Sa said gravely. “However, I would be lying if I told you that I regret the ex-ambassador’s death. Or that of your other mate, although he fought bravely and died a warrior’s death. Of that you can be proud.”
The Hudathan had been truthful, and the Egg Orno was strangely grateful for that. “Thank you, Excellency,”
the Ramanthian replied gravely. “Both for your honesty and the words of respect for Horgo. But I’m not here to discuss the way my mates died but to avenge them.”
Those words were enough to bring Molo-Sa forward to shield Doma-Sa’s body with his own. But the triad put out a hand to restrain him. “Thank you,” the Hudathan said gratefully. “But I don’t believe the Egg Orno will attack me.”
“No,” the Ramanthian agreed. “I won’t. . . . Although I would if I could. I’m here to discuss the relationship between the late ambassador and the Jakov administration. Which, if I’m not mistaken, will be of considerable interest to you.”
That alone was suffi?cient to start a buzz of conversation, and Doma-Sa knew better than to hold what could be a sensitive discussion in a public place. “That sounds interesting,” the triad responded noncommittally. “Would you be available to talk about it in an hour or so? Or would you like to make an appointment for another day?”
“This evening would be fi?ne,” the Egg Orno replied gratefully. “Please let me know when you’re ready to leave.”
“We will,” Doma-Sa assured her. “And one more thing . . .”
The Egg Orno looked up at him. “Yes?”
“I meant what I said about the War Orno, but I had no desire to hurt you, and I’m sorry that I did.”
There was a long moment of silence during which the beginning of a strange bond began to form. And after they left the party, and spent more than two hours talking within the security of the Hudathan embassy, the bond grew even stronger. That was something that might well have been of interest to both Vice President Leo Jakov and the Ramanthian Queen. Had either been aware of it.
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
The funeral pyres crackled as the orange-red fl?ames rose to enfold the dead nymphs, and the
rich, fatty odor of cooked meat fi?lled the air, as six columns of black smoke rose to stain an otherwise-pristine blue sky. Efforts to repair the security fence were still under way, and Ramanthian outposts all around the camp remained on high alert, as Maximillian Tragg crossed the compound to the administration building. There was no way to know exactly why he had been summoned, but the overseer assumed the Mutuus were going to assign more of the reconstruction work to the POWs. That was fi?ne with the renegade because the prisoners were easier to control when they were busy.
As Tragg approached the headquarters building, he noticed that four Ramanthian troopers had been posted outside the front door rather than two as in the past—one of many changes resulting from the nymph attack. The human had to surrender his weapons and remove his boots before being allowed to enter the richly decorated throne room. It was a ritual the renegade had performed dozens of times before. Except this time there was something different in the air, a tension that could be seen in the way that the impeccably dressed commandant held himself, the fact that the War Mutuu’s sword was symbolically unsheathed, and the presence of six heavily armed soldiers. All because of the nymphs? Or was there another reason as well? The mercenary felt cold lead trickle into his stomach. Tragg lowered his eyes and bowed respectfully. “Greetings, Excellencies—”
That was as far as the renegade got when a baton struck him across the kidneys. The pain was excruciating, and he went down hard. “Don’t strike the animal’s head, and don’t break any of his bones,” the War Mutuu instructed as the blows continued to fall. Tragg had curled up into a ball by that time, with his arms around his head, as the troopers continued to beat him. It hurt, but the renegade knew more about pain than they did and had a tolerance for it. So he took comfort from the orders that the War Mutuu had given and waited for the assault to end.
“That’s enough,” the commandant said, after what felt like an hour but was actually no more than fi?fteen seconds.
“Help him up.”
It felt as if every bone in his body had been broken as the Ramanthians lifted Tragg up off the fl?oor. But that wasn’t the case, and even though the renegade’s knees were a bit weak, his legs were strong enough to support his weight.
“Now, having been punished, the animal wants to know why,” Commandant Mutuu said coldly. “The answer is simple. . . . Thanks to our brilliant scientists, a fasterthan-light communications device has come into being, which means offi?cials on Hive can communicate with planets like Jericho in real time. Such calls are rare, however. . . . So, imagine our surprise when Chancellor Ubatha called to inform us that a very special guest is staying here at Camp Enterprise. A person you chose to protect or, even worse, were so negligent as to overlook. Which is why you were punished.”
A moment of silence ensued, which Tragg chose to interpret as permission to speak. Clearly, assuming that he understood the Ramanthian correctly, a VIP of some sort was hiding among the prisoners. But who? The informer might have told him, but he was dead. “Thank you for the clarifi?cation, Excellencies,” the renegade said humbly.
“Please be assured that had I known such a person was present I would have notifi?ed you immediately. . . . Am I permitted to know the identity of this individual?”
“Yes,” the commandant allowed loftily. “You are. More than that, it’s our expectation that you will fi?nd this person and bring him to us.”
Tragg nodded. “If he’s here, then I’ll fi?nd him. Who is he?”
“His name is Marcott Nankool,” Mutuu replied. “And, until recently, he was president of the Confederacy.”
Tragg didn’t have eyebrows. Not anymore. But the scar tissue over his eyes rose. Nankool! A very big fi?sh indeed. Who was pretending to be someone else. A deception of that sort should have been impossible, would have been impossible, had it not been for the unforgivably sloppy way in which the POWs had been processed immediately after the surrender. That meant the POWs had been laughing at him all this time, because with the single exception of the informer, he’d been unable to get any of the others to fl?ip. The realization made the renegade angry—and brought blood to his badly scarred face. “Don’t worry,”
Tragg said grimly. “Now that I know Nankool is here, I’ll fi?nd him.”
“I hope so,” the War Mutuu put in, as he joined the conversation. “But there’s another possibility isn’t there?
The possibility that you killed him? Or allowed him to die? That would be very unfortunate indeed. Especially for you.”
Tragg tried to visualize the faces of the people he had shot in hopes of eliminating that possibility, but their features were lost to him, along with whatever impulse had led to their deaths. A lump fi?lled the back of his throat, and he was barely able to swallow it. But what about all the prisoners that you and your troops killed? He wanted to ask. But such a question would have been suicidal, so the renegade maintained his silence.
“You have until sunset,” Commandant Mutuu said sternly. “Find Nankool or die.”
It was uncomfortable in the tree, very uncomfortable, especially having spent the previous night in it. However, it did provide the scouts with an excellent vantage point from which to observe the layout and daily routines within the POW camp. Starting with the funeral pyres that were lit just after sunup and continuing with the routines that followed. Information was being recorded and continuously edited for playback to the rest of the legionnaires when Team Zebra regrouped that evening.
But there was only so much that one could learn from staring at the compound. And the process was somewhat depressing given what poor condition the prisoners were in. So Santana, Shootstraight, and Bozakov took turns staring through the powerful binos. And, as luck would have it, the Naa was on duty when the commotion started.
“There’s some sort of ruckus going on inside the wire,” the legionnaire observed as he panned the glasses from left to right.
Santana paused with a spoonful of mixed fruit halfway to his mouth. He was seated on one branch with his boots resting on another. The only thing he lacked was some sort of backrest. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“I’m not sure,” Shootstraight replied as he turned to pass the binos to the offi?cer.
Santana ate the fruit that was sitting on the spoon, tipped the contents of the can into his mouth, and savored the last dollop of juice. Once the can had been deposited in a dangling garbage bag, the legionnaire wiped his fi?ngers on his thighs before reaching out to take the binos. Interestingly enough, not a single patrol had ventured into the surrounding jungle since the nymph attack the day before. Probably out of fear that a sortie could trigger another attack. The hesitancy could work in Team Zebra’s favor so long as the nymphs left the off-worlders alone. Being so far up in the air, the offi?cer found it diffi?cult to look through the binos without becoming disoriented and had to grab a branch in order to steady himself as he eyed the compound. Shootstraight was correct. It appeared that all the POWs, including those who were sick, were being herded toward the center of the compound where the human with the dark goggles was waiting.
A man Santana had fi?rst seen back on Algeron, when General Booly and the others showed him the video of POWs being marched through the jungle, including shots of Christine Vanderveen. And more recently he had learned even more about the man named Tragg from media specialist Watkins, including the nature of their private feud.
The cyborg would be overjoyed to learn that his nemesis was still present on the planet—but the company commander had other concerns. Why were the prisoners being mustered he wondered? And more than that, who was the person sitting behind Tragg, in the gazebo-like structure?
The binos were powerful, but the target was a long ways off, and no amount of fi?ddling with the zoom control was suffi?cient to bring the fuzzy image into focus. That was the moment when Tragg pulled a pistol and shot one of the POWs in the face.
Vanderveen had just fi?nished her breakfast, and was about to leave the gazebo, when Tragg returned from the
HQ
building. The overseer was limping, and judging from his expression, extremely angry. “Stay here,” he ordered curtly. “We’re going to have some fun when this is all over. Or, at least, I’m going to have some fun. You’ll be sorry you were ever born.” And with that he was gone. The threat was frightening enough, but when all of the POWs were ordered to assemble at the center of the compound, the diplomat knew something bad was about to happen. What she didn’t anticipate was just how bad it would be. That became clear once the prisoners were assembled and Tragg stood in front of them. The everpresent monitors amplifi?ed his voice and produced a slight echo. There were no preliminaries. Just a straightforward demand that left no doubt as to how much the overseer knew. “One of you is President Marcott Nankool. . . . You will step forward now.”
After months of confi?nement, the POWs were far too sophisticated to respond to a statement like that one. But they stiffened, as if waiting to receive a blow, and it came as Tragg shot Corporal Karol Gormley in the face. The right side of her skull exploded outwards, showering those beyond with blood and brain matter as her rail-thin body collapsed.
“Marcott Nankool is male,” Tragg emphasized, as he tilted the gun upwards and a wisp of smoke trickled out of the barrel. “That means I can shoot every single female present without any fear of making a mistake. So, I’ll say it again. One of you is President Marcott Nankool. You will step forward now.”
There was a pause, followed by a mutual gasp of consternation, as a heavily bearded man took one step forward. “My name is Marcott Nankool,” he said in a loud clear voice. “Please holster your weapon.”
FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON,
THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
In spite of his hard-won reputation for fi?stfi?ghting, and his undeniable strength, Quickblow Hammerhand was afraid of the dark. And the ex-legionnaire wasn’t all that fond of enclosed spaces, either. Which was why the trip from Naa Town into Fort Camerone required every bit of the courage and self-discipline the warrior possessed. The journey had begun in the local funeral home, where Hammerhand and three other volunteers had been required to lower themselves into MilSpec coffi?ns that had been preloaded with weapons and ammunition. “I always fi?gured I’d wind up in one of these,” Fastspeak Storytell said cheerfully. “But I assumed I’d be dead!”
When All Seems Los lotd-7 Page 28
