When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  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 offi?cer 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 offi?cers were silent. So when their heads swiveled toward the doorway, Ubatha turned to see what they were looking at. What the offi?cial saw there was so shocking, so terrible, that it felt as if his heart would stop beating. The offi?cer 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 fl?ow through unimpeded. Because even though the Ramanthians preferred a warm environment, the equatorial region could be sweltering hot during the summer months, and the palace dated all the way back to preindustrial times. Of course, all of the monarch’s many residences had airconditioning, 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 fl?oor-length curtains sway, and feel the fl?ow 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 terrifi?ed. 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 offi?cial had executed a long sequence of carefully thought-out com calls, while fl?ying to the Summer Palace. Then, having made the necessary arrangements, the rest of the fl?ight 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 offi?cial 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 offi?cial 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 fi?rmly. “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 fi?rst 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, Fairfi?eld, 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 col
umn 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 fi?ghters 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 fi?rst 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 fl?oor of the main auditorium was covered with fi?lth, 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 confi?nes 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 fi?lled 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 fi?nd 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 modifi?ed 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 fi?rst. Because Margaret was pretty savvy by then—and knew how to move cross-country without attracting attention. Unfortunately, the only way to fi?nd 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 fi?rst because, even though the pop, pop, pop of gunfi?re 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 fl?ed 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 gunfi?re.

  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 fi?re, but so would many of the people crammed in around her. That was a decision she had no right to make for them. Seconds later, slavers armed with clubs were in among their victims, beating anyone who tried to resist and taking their possessions. Margaret’s pack was ripped off her back, her pistol was confi?scated, and a man with bad breath ran greedy hands up and down her body. Even going so far as to grab her crotch and squeeze her breasts. But the little vials escaped his notice, and with younger victims to abuse, the man made no attempt to follow up.

  What ensued was like a scene from hell as women were thrown to the ground to be raped, children were hauled away, and the more contentious males were shot. But dead bodies weren’t worth anything, except to the crows, so it wasn’t long before a man dressed in camos appeared and shouted orders. That was when Margaret caught her second look at General Otto Tovar. Because the two of them had met once before.

  Rather than tolerate the fringe of hair that would otherwise circle half his skull, Tovar had chosen to shave his head instead. That, plus the fact that he had no neck to speak of, made him look like a fi?replug. Because even though the slave master had a big frame, he was overly fond of food, and eternally hovered at the edge of obesity. And that was why the carefully starched militia uniform looked so tight on him. It had been Veteran’s Day, fi?ve or six years earlier, when they had met. Charles had been home on leave, but the diplomat could never escape work entirely, and having been invited to a government-sponsored Veteran’s Day party, felt he had to go. Margaret had agreed to accompany him. Tovar had been at the affair as well, resplendent in a fancy uniform, and pontifi?cating on the second Hudathan war. It was a confl?ict which, according to Charles, the militia general hadn’t fought in other than to help with recruiting. Quite a bit of time had passed since then, but Margaret remembered being introduced to Tovar, and wondered if the bloated general would remember her as he sat in judgment of his newly acquired merchandise. The slaver’s expedition-quality folding chair had been set up on a small rise where a domestic robot stood ready to meet its master’s needs as classical music played over a portable sound system. The general had a deeply creased forehead, and deepset eyes, that were nearly hidden by prominent brows. A heavily veined nose, a pair of thick, sensual lips, and at least three chins completed the picture.

  All of the captives had been pushed, prodded, and shoved into the line by that time, and it jerked forward in a series of fi?ts and starts, as human beings were sorted into various cat- egories. Men who were strong enough to perform heavy physical labor went into one group. Women judged pretty enough for the brothels went into another. And there were nonstop wailing sounds as children were taken away. Some to be sold and some to be used for even darker purposes. That was shocking enough, but there were even less fortunate people as well, who were shunted off into a group Tovar didn’t want to feed. Less robust people for the most part, who couldn’t be harnessed to a plow, and would be of no interest to the brothels. They were shot, and male slaves were forced to drag the bodies away.

  Each gunshot sent a ripple of fear down the line. Older people, Margaret included, had reason to be especially fearful since they clearly had less value to potential customers than younger people did. So Margaret had mentally reconciled herself to being executed, and was trying to deal with that, as the woman directly in front of her was sent to join the work group. Having accepted her fate, the society matron took two steps forward, and looked into Tovar’s piggy eyes.

  But there was no glimmer of recognition there, and that made sense. Because the woman the militia general had met years before had been wearin
g expensive jewelry and fashionable clothes, unlike the sunburned, travel-worn specimen who presently stood in front of him. So Margaret was nothing more than a piece of meat insofar as Tovar was concerned. However, thanks to some skillful plastic surgery, and the fact that Margaret kept herself fi?t, the society matron looked ten years younger than she actually was. That saved her life.

  “Put her in with the workers,” the slave master ordered harshly. “She won’t fetch much—but something is better than nothing.”

  So Margaret survived. But it was a long walk from Dixon to San Jose, and by the time the column entered the convention center, she was bone tired. And that was why she went in search of a reasonably clean patch of duracrete and lay down. The surface was hard, but she was used to that, and soon fell asleep. There were dreams, good dreams, and a smile found her lips.

  An entire day had passed since Margaret and the others had arrived in San Jose, and many of Tovar’s slaves had been sold. Now it was her turn to enter the center arena, along with fi?ve other women who were about to be bid on. Like the others, Margaret had been ordered to strip, but unlike the rest the society matron managed to keep her eyes up as she followed the others out into the artifi?cial glare. Her body wasn’t what it had once been, but there was nothing to be ashamed of, and she wasn’t. Her clothes, including the all important bra, were clutched in her arms. Meanwhile, just as the auction was about to start, shouts were heard when a tough-looking slaver led a column of ragged-looking men and women into the holding area adjacent to the arena. It was diffi?cult to tell what was happening, but Margaret got the impression that because the newcomer wasn’t a member of the slaver’s guild, he wasn’t eligible to use the market. Loud altercations weren’t unusual, and the socialite didn’t think much of it, until the interloper pulled a gun and shot a guard in the face. Foley saw the man’s head jerk backward, as a blue-edged hole appeared at the center of his forehead, and the “slaves”