“We’re ready,” Vasakov said, and gestured to the plank that led up into the gun truck. The animal had a prominent brow, a flat nose, and the rubbery lips typical of his race. Like most senior officials, Ubatha spoke excellent standard. “Thank you. And remember . . . Be careful.”
Vasakov made a face. “Let’s go.”
Ubatha had spoken to Kai Cosmo, the animal in charge, regarding Vasakov’s disrespectful manner the day before. The conversation had been far from satisfactory. After listening to Ubatha’s complaints, Cosmo looked away, aimed a stream of black ju-ju juice at an iridescent beetle, and scored a direct hit. “Sorry about that, sir. But Vasakov was a Confederacy marine before he punched that lieutenant in the face. And he don’t like bugs. Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
So with no recourse except to fire the mercs and hire another band of equally dubious animals, all Ubatha could do was shuffle up the ramp and sit on the saddle chair that had been installed for his benefit. The lower half of Katika’s body was visible below the turret. The mount made a whining noise as she stomped on a foot pedal, and the guns began to rotate.
Ubatha heard doors slam, felt the truck jerk into motion, and took the opportunity to peer out through the gun port immediately to his right. He caught a glimpse of the open gate, felt a jolt as the big tires rolled through a pothole, and heard Katika give a whoop of pure joy. According to Cosmo, she liked to shoot people. A desire Ubatha found hard to fathom. While he understood the need to kill for reasons of political expediency, he took no joy in it.
Given how restricted his view was, Ubatha couldn’t see much other than sand-smoothed stone walls, the occasional glimpse of a barred doorway, and blips of color as the truck passed some laundry that had been hung out to dry. Then the shooting began. Nothing serious. Just target practice really, as guards stationed on rooftops took the opportunity to test their skills and break the monotony.
Thanks to the fact that most of them were pretty good shots, there was a series of loud clangs as bullets flattened themselves on armor plating. Large-caliber ammo was hard to come by, so Katika was supposed to hold back unless the truck came under a serious attack.
Holby shouted, “Roadblock!” from the front passenger seat as the vehicle screeched to a halt.
Vasakov was behind the wheel. He swore and put the truck into reverse.
The roadblock gave Katika the excuse she’d been looking for. As the fifties began to chug, empty casings cascaded down from above and clattered on the floor.
Roadblocks were common and shifted from day to day, making it impossible to choose a safe route in advance. The idea was to stop the vehicle and take possession of it and everything inside. That included passengers, who were typically held for the ransom. A very unpleasant prospect indeed. “Hold on!” Vasakov shouted, and Ubatha barely had time to obey before the massive back bumper crashed into a barrier. An old wreck, probably, that had been pushed out into the street to bar their escape and might serve the same purpose the next day.
There was a screech of tortured metal as the obstacle was pushed out of the way—followed by a fusillade of bullets as the would-be bandits made a last-ditch attempt to trap their prey.
The gun truck jerked to a halt, surged forward again, and shell casings rolled to the right as they turned a corner. The first battle was over. There were others. But none that was quite so harrowing as Vasakov threaded his way through Heferi’s deadly streets.
Fifteen minutes later, the gun truck left the sand-strewn streets of old town and sped up a ramp that channeled them into the heavily guarded parking area under the city’s only spaceport. The component parts had been brought to Sensa II by a mining company more than half a century before. That operation had been forced to fold in the face of the planet’s difficult environment. But because the self-propelled spaceport was large enough to crush whatever ruins lay in front of it, the facility was still in service.
The entrepreneur who owned the spaceport was said to be a Drac. No one knew much about the reclusive business being other than the fact that he made it a point to keep the spaceport open to anyone who had the ability to pay his exorbitant fees, and he could be quite violent when threatened.
That was evident as Vasakov parked the truck and half a dozen uniformed guards moved in to surround it. They were human. And as Holby deployed the ramp and Ubatha shuffled down onto the steel deck, one of them took the opportunity to brief the newcomers. “Leave all weapons other than sidearms in your vehicle,” she said in a singsong voice. “And post a guard. If you attempt to interfere with our personnel, or another customer, we will smoke you. Any questions?”
The last was delivered in a cheerful manner, as if to follow up after a string of pleasantries rather than threats. “Yeah, yeah,” Vasakov growled. “You eat steel and shit fire. Give me a fucking break. Katika, lock yourself in and stay on the fifties. Holby, you’re with the bug and me. Okay, Mr. Ubatha . . . Let’s go.”
Ubatha surrendered the Negar III to Katika and sighed. Vasakov was hopeless. Then, with an animal on either side of him, Ubatha followed a clearly marked path to a lift. The elevator carried them upwards to a small but pleasantly furnished lounge. Huge plastasteel windows enabled them to look out on the blast-scarred landing pad, old town, and the sunlit back dune beyond. If one watched for a while, it was possible to see the occasional avalanche of sand slide down onto the west end of old town. Would the same buildings reemerge someday? There was no way to know.
The landing surface that occupied the foreground wasn’t very large but didn’t need to be given the limited number of ships that came and went. Two were visible at the moment. One was a beat-up shuttle from which cargo modules were being removed. The other was a courier ship with the sleek lines typical of Thraki vessels.
Ubatha watched as a hatch cycled open, stairs unfolded, and a Thraki named Bec Benjii appeared. He was dressed in a summer-weight mesh jacket, three-quarter-length trousers, and sturdy boots. Benjii paused for a second to look around before turning to speak with the person behind him. Then, as he made his way down the stairs, the human appeared. She was a tiny thing. A hood covered her hair, her eyes were invisible behind a pair of sun goggles, and her body was swathed in white fabric that billowed when the early-morning breeze hit it. Ubatha had never seen the animal before but knew he was looking at a renegade geneticist who styled herself as Carolyn Anne Hosokawa 1.3.
Was she really an illegal one-off of the female credited with creating the Clone Hegemony? Or an opportunistic pretender? Ubatha didn’t care so long as she was competent. And Benjii swore that she was.
Doors slid open, admitting not only Benjii and Hosokawa but a wave of heat. Benjii was a diplomat, albeit a shadowy one, whose function had been to provide back-channel communications between the Ramanthian and Thraki governments prior to the Queen’s injury.
So when Ubatha had been forced to evacuate the royal from Hive, he thought it best to contact Benjii rather than risk betrayal by cabal supporters like the War Ubatha. Since then, the Thrakies had been of considerable assistance. Not out of the goodness of their hearts but in order to curry favor with whatever Queen wound up on the throne. That meant they were probably working with the cabal as well. So Ubatha would have to come up with a counterbalance of some sort. “Please allow me to introduce Dr. Hosokawa 1.3,” Benjii said, as his robotic form peeked out of a pocket. “Dr. Hosokawa, this is Chancellor Ubatha.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Ubatha said, and delivered a formal bow.
Hosokawa threw the white hood back to reveal a head of bowl-cut black hair and the solid horizontal mark on her forehead. Ubatha knew it had been a bar code at one time, a standard practice inside the Hegemony prior to the revolution but currently out of favor. Especially for any scientist brave or foolish enough to work for the Confederacy’s enemies. Her voice had a husky quality. “The pleasure is mine, Chancellor. I’m sorry it’s necessary for us to meet under such trying circumstances.”
It was artfully said, and Uba
tha allowed himself to relax a little bit. At least Hosokawa came across as civilized as compared to Vasakov.
The trip back to the compound was less eventful than the journey out had been. Benjii had been through the process before. So he looked reasonably composed as bullets pinged against the truck’s armor and a rocket-propelled grenade sailed past to explode against a building.
Not Hosokowa, however, who maintained a grim expression throughout the entire journey. But once the vehicle entered the compound, and the incoming fire stopped, she became more relaxed. “If you would be so kind as to follow me,” Ubatha said, “we will visit the Queen. I know she has been looking forward to your arrival.” The decision to reveal the Queen’s true identity had been Benjii’s. The Thraki felt that nothing less than the prospect of working with the royal would be sufficient to bring the geneticist all the way to Sensa II. And since he was willing to guarantee her silence regardless of how the meeting went, Ubatha had agreed.
The Queen’s apartment was on the second floor, where the royal physician and a retinue of Ramanthian females took care of her daily requirements. The residence was roomy but sparsely furnished because it had been impossible to bring anything more than the bare necessities from Hive. A lady-in-waiting met the party at the door, bent a knee, and welcomed the visitors on the royal’s behalf.
The aristocrat led them through a doorway into a large room. The metal sand shutters were open to the hot, dry air. It was thick with the odors of sewage, rotting garbage, and exhaust fumes from a nearby factory. The Queen was in a horizontal position and supported by a framework designed to immobilize her exoskeleton. Her body was paralyzed, but her mind was clear. “There you are,” she said, as the group approached, and Ubatha bowed. “Pardon me if I don’t get up.”
It was a joke, but none of them laughed. “As you can see, the Queen’s sense of humor remains unimpaired,” Ubatha said dryly.
“But everything else is numb,” the monarch put in.
There was polite laughter this time. “Your Majesty, it is my pleasure to introduce Dr. Carolyn Hosokowa 1.3,” Ubatha said. “As you know, the doctor is here to consult with you regarding the possibility that she and her associates might be able to grow a new body for you.”
The ensuing conversation lasted for more than three standard hours. There were all sorts of issues to discuss, not the least of which was what would become of the clone’s brain were the Queen to commission a copy of herself.
During that time, the sky darkened, the wind began to pick up, and it became necessary to close the sand shutters. A storm was brewing. But what kind? A class one, two, or three? The last being very serious indeed. The discussion continued as Ubatha went to find out.
Cosmo was up on the roof. The air was already brown with blown sand, and Ubatha had to lean into the wind as he shuffled over to where the animal was standing. The grit soon found its way into his clothes and the crevices between the plates of chitin that served to support him. Cosmo was wearing a helmet and full armor. He nodded. “The folks at the spaceport say we’re in for a class-two blow, sir. And we have another problem as well.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Based on video from the gun balls, it looks like people are closing in on the building,” Cosmo replied. “I figure they plan to attack during the height of the storm. That’s when visibility will be at its worst.”
Ubatha felt a sinking sensation. There were sixteen mercs in all. Enough to protect the structure under normal circumstances—but far short of what would be required to repel a massed attack. “We’ve got to protect the Queen, her staff, and both of our visitors. Put two of your best people in her quarters and make sure they have plenty of everything. Then we’ll close the blast doors and seal them inside.”
Cosmo nodded. “Yes, sir. Where will you be if I need you?”
Ubatha could see a distorted image of himself reflected in the visor’s mirrorlike surface. “I’ll be right next to you,” he answered. “If you’re correct, we’ll need every gun we can muster.”
Cosmo said, “Hoo-rah,” and Ubatha wondered what the words meant.
The storm grew steadily worse over the next twenty minutes. The wind made a persistent howling sound as it explored the streets of Heferi, searching for any signs of weakness. Sand slanted in sideways, and Ubatha was especially grateful for the goggles he wore since his eyes were the most vulnerable part of his chitin-covered body. And, true to Cosmo’s prediction, hazy forms could be seen dashing from one hiding place to the next as they closed on the compound. Some of the shadowy figures were carrying ladders. And that made sense if they hoped to divide the defender’s fire by coming up over two or three walls at once.
Fortunately, Cosmo had a plan that, if successful, could disrupt the attack. From his command post on the roof, Cosmo was monitoring both the squad-level push and a bank of four monitors, each of which represented what one of his gun balls could “see.” The truck was parked in the open courtyard below.
Seconds ticked by and eventually became minutes as Cosmo waited for what he believed to be exactly the right moment. Then, on his command, Vasakov pushed the main gate open. And left it open.
That was a completely unexpected development insofar as the bandits were concerned. So the better part of two minutes passed before they attacked. The opportunity to go through an open gate was too good to ignore. But the thieves weren’t stupid. They knew that some sort of trap lay within. So rather than charge the gap on foot, they sent a sand crawler in first. Most of the machine was armored. The exception was the machine’s belly. Or that was Cosmo’s theory as he triggered the remote.
The IED (improvised explosive device) went off with a loud roar. The explosion lifted the tracked vehicle half a foot off the ground before allowing it to fall back. A secondary explosion rocked the machine from side to side. It was hard to say how many animals had been inside the crawler. But Ubatha figured three or four as more bandits rushed in to take cover behind the smoking wreckage. A gun ball opened up on them, and they blew the sphere out of the air.
But things were about to get even worse for the bandits as Katika opened fire with the twin fifties. As she traversed the courtyard, the .50-caliber shells left craters in the stone pavers and caused the wreck to tremble as the animals hiding behind it were torn to ribbons.
But even as Vasakov pushed the gate closed and another animal rushed in to place a bar across it, an urgent call came in over the radio. The rattle of automatic fire could be heard in the background. “Hey, boss . . . Holby here. We might have as many as three ladders against the east wall. Monson went to take a look, and they nailed him.”
Cosmo swore. “Sounds like they’re getting ready for a push. But remember . . . They can only come up three at a time. I’ll send the bug over to replace Monson.”
Ubatha didn’t like being referred to as “the bug” but knew it wasn’t the right moment in which to object and turned away. It was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead as he shuffled across the roof. And just in time, too, as a blurry Holby appeared on the right. A Hudathan named Fala-Ba was on the left and slightly more visible thanks to his size. Both mercs fired as dimly seen figures materialized in front of them.
But there was a middle ladder. And as Ubatha raised his rifle, a bandit came up over the waist-high wall, quickly followed by another. So Ubatha pinched the trigger, the rifle butt pummeled his shoulder, and a hail of bullets hit the surface of the roof. He was low! Too low.
But two factors conspired to save him. Some of the projectiles bounced up to hit their targets—and when fired on full automatic, the Negar III had a natural tendency to rise. So both animals jerked spastically and fell. “Nice work,” Holby said admiringly. “Not bad for a chit.”
Strangely, given its source, Holby’s comment elicited a feeling of pride. Then Ubatha’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a human voice. “Strider at eleven o’clock! Let’s put some fire on that thing.”
Ubatha looked up. The
sun was little more than a yellow bruise in the sky. And there, like a shadow within a brown haze, a sixty-foot-tall machine could be seen. The walker looked like a human skeleton as it stepped over a neighboring building, and its rocket launchers belched fire.
Both missiles hit the roof. Ubatha was knocked off his feet, and Fala-Ba was blown to pieces. That left Holby, who ran to get the rocket launcher, which was resting next to the reserve ammo supply. But another bandit came up over the wall and shot the merc in the back. The impact threw Holby facedown as Ubatha brought the Negar to bear. A short burst sent the man on top of the ladder windmilling back to land somewhere below.
Another salvo of rockets struck. Explosions shook the building, and Cosmo was yelling over the radio. “Holby? Can you hear me? Kill that thing!”
Ubatha scuttled forward, put the assault rifle down, and was fumbling with the launcher when Holby returned from the dead. “Armor is important,” he said as if lecturing a recruit. “Never buy the cheap stuff. Give me that thing and watch my six.”
Ubatha didn’t know how the number “six” played into the situation, but the need to protect the human was obvious. So he made a grab for the Negar III as Holby fired a rocket up into the sky. It struck one of the Strider’s knobby knees and exploded with a bright flash.
“Good one!” Cosmo shouted, as the walker came to a stop. “Feed him another.”
The second shoulder-launched missile was fired by someone down in the courtyard. It streaked upwards, hit the control cab dead on, and blew up. Ubatha watched in fascination as the Strider swayed, fell over backwards, and landed on two side-by-side buildings. A cheer went up from the mercs, and Ubatha clacked his approval as the machine broke into pieces. “Get back to your posts,” Cosmo ordered sternly. “They may come after us again.”
A Fighting Chance Page 14
