Nankool frowned. “ ‘The protection of the Ramanthian fleet’? What does that mean?”
“It means,” Parth replied evenly, “that the citizens of Earth will be confined to their planet for the time being. But that could change later on depending on how they behave and the structure of the final treaty.”
Nankool felt a sense of barely contained rage. Parth’s proposal would reduce Earth to a virtual prison planet. So his first instinct was to slam his fist down on the table and say, “No!” But, unfortunately, he couldn’t allow himself to show any emotion whatsoever. And, like it or not, Nankool had to consider the Ramanthian proposal. Especially since the bugs were winning the war—and getting them off Earth would represent a victory of sorts. One likely to appease a large part of the electorate. He battled to keep his voice level. “And the rest of the Confederacy’s planets? What about them?”
Parth delivered the Ramanthian equivalent of a shrug. “A great deal of staff work would be required to establish some appropriate criteria. But I think it’s safe to say that if we are able to reach an agreement regarding Earth, the same sort of arrangement could be extended to other worlds as well, the exception being those designated as nursery planets. They would remain under Ramanthian control.”
At that point, Charles Vanderveen produced an inarticulate cry of rage, stood, and threw himself across the table. A water carafe tipped over, hand comps flew sideways, and Parth uttered a squawk of fear as Vanderveen’s hands closed around his throat.
Pandemonium broke out as Parth’s staff came to his defense, security people rushed to intervene, and Vanderveen took three stunner bolts in quick succession. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his muscles seized up, but the diplomat’s fingers were still locked around Parth’s scrawny neck. So as the Ramanthian battled to get enough air, it was necessary for a military policeman to pry the offending digits loose one at a time.
Finally, as Vanderveen was carried away, order was restored. In a perverse sort of way, Nankool was grateful for the attack on Parth since it provided him with an excellent opportunity to declare a break. Parth was still in the process of recovery as Nankool spoke. “Please accept my deepest apologies for Undersecretary Vanderveen’s unforgivable actions. But, having lost a mate yourself, perhaps you will be able to empathize with his situation. It was only a few days ago that Secretary Vanderveen received news that his mate had been killed during a battle on Earth. I suggest that we adjourn, and if you’re willing, resume our discussions in ten hours. Lieutenant Hiro will escort you to your quarters.”
In spite of the fact that the last part came across as a command rather than a request, neither Parth nor any member of his party offered an objection. Once they had been led out of the room, Nankool turned to Yatsu. “Round up General Booly, Admiral Chien-Chu, and Madame X. We have a very important decision to make.”
The meeting took place in Nankool’s well-appointed office. Legion General and Military Chief of Staff Bill Booly was seated to the president’s left. He was a legendary figure by then, a man who had fought countless battles on behalf of the Confederacy and had the scars to prove it. He had his mother’s gray eyes and his father’s lean body, but his hair was almost entirely white. Deep lines were etched into his face, his skin was pale, and he looked tired.
The woman seated to Booly’s left was generally referred to as “Madame X,” by government insiders. But her real name was Margaret Xanith. She had a head of well-coiffed gray hair, and despite the perpetual frown that she was known for, her face was surprisingly youthful. As head of the Confederacy’s Intelligence organization, she knew most of the things worth knowing and had long been one of Nankool’s most trusted advisors.
Admiral and industrialist Chien-Chu sat elbow to elbow with Xanith. Rather than the youthful vehicle chosen for trips to Earth, he was wearing a slightly portly body similar to the way his bio body had appeared at age fifty-five. He never wore a uniform unless forced to do so although his dark business suit was so similar to the rest of his attire that it was equally predictable.
Secretary of State Yatsu was present as well. And Nankool could see the strain around her eyes. “How’s Charles?” he inquired.
“He’s better now,” Yatsu answered. “The worst effects of the stunner bolts have worn off. He wanted me to apologize on his behalf. He’s very sorry.”
“Tell him to squeeze a bit harder next time,” Nankool said with a grin. “And tell him I can see why Christine is such a troublemaker.”
“A rather useful troublemaker,” Xanith observed. “She filed a report while you were meeting with Chancellor Parth. Not only was she able to find the Warrior Queen, the two of them met, and we have the makings of a deal. The Queen’s throne in exchange for peace.”
Nankool gave a low whistle. “That is very interesting. Of course, Parth is offering peace as well. But at a high price.”
“According to Christine, the Warrior Queen is willing to accept something close to a complete reset,” Xanith explained. “Meaning a return to prewar conditions, boundaries, and relationships. The exception is the nursery planets. They would continue to be part of the Ramanthian Empire.”
“Most of them were largely unsettled prior to the war,” Yatsu observed. “And now that they’re infested with Ramanthian nymphs, I’m not sure we want them.”
“True,” Booly agreed soberly. “Although one-third of those nymphs will grow up to be Ramanthian warriors. And that means trouble in the future.”
“The general makes a good point,” Chien-Chu said flatly. “But the Warrior Queen’s proposal would give us time to prepare. And, with support from both the Hudathans and the Hegemony, our military should be strong enough to counter the potential threat.”
“That’s true,” Nankool allowed cautiously. “But let’s flip this over. All of you know that I have a soft spot for Christine Vanderveen. But it sounds like she’s out there cutting deals all by herself again. So will her verbal agreement with the Warrior Queen hold up? Or will her ‘supreme buggyness’ suddenly decide to disavow it? We’re talking about an outcast here. Someone who’s on the run from her own people.
“Then there’s the question of feasibility. Let’s say Christine is correct—and the Warrior Queen keeps her word. What’s to say that an attempt to put her back on the throne would be successful?”
“I can answer that,” Xanith replied. “To some extent anyway. Thanks to our resistance people, the effort to infect Ramanthian troops with Ophiocordyceps unilateris has been a tremendous success. Thousands of troops have been killed, thousands are sick, and thousands are tied up caring for those who are ill. In fact, it’s my guess that has a lot to do with Chancellor Parth’s willingness to pull their troops off the planet. The truth is that the Ramanthian command structure has very little choice. And don’t forget . . . so long as the bugs have ships in orbit, they can not only watch everything that takes place on the surface but glass the planet anytime they feel like it. So, in a weird sort of way, we’re better off with soldiers on the ground. Or, put another way, this offer is no offer at all.
“Furthermore,” Xanith continued, “there’s reason to believe that hundreds of thousands of so-called denialists refuse to believe that the Warrior Queen is dead. So if we could give them hope, they might rise up against the pretender. Or, failing that, offer passive support. All of which leads me to believe that even if our efforts fail, we can still sow seeds of dissension throughout Ramanthian society. And that would be fun.”
It was as close to a joke as any of them were likely to hear from the Intel chief, so Nankool smiled. “An excellent summary. Thank you. However, I feel it’s my duty to point out that, attractive though such a strategy might be, the cabal controls all the levers of power. That includes not only the government but the military. So we might be better off with the bird in hand, so to speak. General Booly? You’ve been relatively quiet up to this point. What’s your opinion?”
Booly looked up from the tabletop. His expression was bleak. “We’re lo
sing the war. We got our asses kicked on Earth, Gamma-014, and a dozen other planets as well. The resistance is making remarkable progress on Earth, but it would take a fleet to force the bugs out of the solar system. Thousands of ships are under construction deep inside the Hegemony. But it will be months before they’re ready. And we will continue to be very vulnerable in the meantime. And if the Ramanthians think we’re about to make a comeback, there’s an excellent chance they will glass some of our worlds as part of a last-ditch attempt to avoid defeat.”
“Of course, that’s why we’re going after their nursery planets,” Chien-Chu put in. “Once we control one or two of them, the Ramanthians will think twice before using nuclear weapons against us.”
“Okay,” Nankool said. “So, given all that has been said, what should we do? Continue on? Accept Parth’s proposal? Or back the Warrior Queen?”
There was a moment of silence followed by a voice vote. Secretary Yatsu had the last word. “So there you have it. God help us if we’re wrong.”
In spite of all the efforts that had been made to provide the Ramanthians with comfortable quarters, Parth was very unhappy as he looked out through a floor-to-ceiling window. The sun was obscured by a thick layer of gunmetal gray clouds. He had been attacked, his personal dignity had been violated, and his request to have the offender beheaded had been refused. That was bad enough.
But all the members of his party had been restricted to their quarters. That made it next to impossible to gather intelligence regarding Fort Camerone. And the final outcome of the mission was still in doubt. Well, it’s up to them, Parth thought grimly. If they want to die, all they have to do is say, “No.”
Parth’s thoughts were interrupted as an aide shuffled into the room. “It’s time, Excellency.”
Hail rattled against armored glass, causing Parth to wonder why the humans would bother to colonize such an unpleasant planet. They were welcome to it. “Thank you. Has everything been packed? I will want to depart the moment the meeting is over.”
“Yes, sire. All is ready.”
“Excellent. Please lead the way.”
But it was a squad of legionnaires who actually led the way, and Parth felt very vulnerable as he and the members of his party were led back to the same room where negotiations had broken off ten hours earlier. Thankfully, there was no sign of the animal who had attacked him—and Secretary Yatsu apologized all over again. Parth interpreted that as a positive sign.
A round of greetings followed, and food had been served by the time Nankool arrived. He made a point of greeting each Ramanthian by name before taking his seat. A droid poured some caf into his cup, and he eyed Parth over the rim. “I believe you had the floor when our meeting was interrupted. Is there anything you’d like to add?”
“No,” Parth replied. “In spite of the barbaric attack on my person, we remain open to a bilateral cessation of hostilities followed by what might be called local sovereignty for some of the Confederacy’s more populous planets. The exact list would be subject to negotiations carried out under the supervision of Thraki intermediaries—but would exclude nursery planets. Space travel, if any, would be conducted with prior approval from our government and would be subject to supervision by the Imperial navy. These are nothing more than rough outlines, of course. But if they are generally agreeable, the effort to formalize them can begin.”
“Thank you,” Nankool replied. “We appreciate the empire’s willingness to enter into discussions—even if we can’t agree to the initial terms that you laid out. So, in the spirit of good-faith negotiations, we would like to propose an alternative plan.”
Parth didn’t want to listen to Nankool’s plan but forced himself to do so. Perhaps the animals were hoping to save face in some minor way. If so, he would be willing to consider their offering so long as they agreed to the essence of his proposal. He nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Under the treaty we have in mind,” Nankool responded, “the empire would agree to an unconditional surrender. All of your military personnel and civilians would be protected by Confederate law and treated with respect.”
Parth could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Is this some kind of human joke?”
“No,” Nankool replied firmly. “It’s a serious offer. And the best one you’re going to get.”
Parth was stunned. The response made no sense. Not unless the animals were crazy. Or knew something he didn’t. His eyes flicked from face to ugly face. Then it came to him. He spoke impulsively. “You have the Warrior Queen.”
Nankool looked surprised. “The Warrior Queen? That’s impossible. She’s dead. You had a state funeral. Remember?”
“It won’t help you,” Parth said as he stood, and his staff did likewise. “The real Queen sits on the throne—and you’re losing the war. Nothing will change that. In weeks, months at most, you will be forced to surrender. And when that day comes, I will take your head myself.”
“Perhaps,” Nankool allowed. “But in the meantime I suggest that you get your pointy ass off this planet. Lieutenant, show the bugs out.”
Parth was furious. And remained so as he and his companions were escorted out of the fort and onto the VIP landing pad, where their shuttle was waiting. A few minutes later, they were on board, cleared for takeoff, and strapped into their seats. Shortly after that, repellers roared, and they were pushed down into their seats.
Parth wanted to make the hypercom call immediately but felt he should wait, lest the animals mange to intercept it. So all he could do was sit and fume until the shuttle entered orbit, where it was taken aboard the Thraki ship Rift Runner. The larger vessel got under way twenty minutes later. Once free of Algeron’s gravity well and secure within his private cabin, Parth made the call. It took a couple of tries, and what seemed like an agonizing ten minutes passed before the War Ubatha appeared on the tiny screen. He raised a pincer to speak, but Parth cut him off. “Where are you?”
There was a slight lag followed by a burst of static. “On the planet Long Jump, sire.”
“And the Warrior Queen? Is she there?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Then why haven’t you killed her?”
“We tried, sire. But the animals attacked just as we were about to break into the building where she had taken refuge.”
“So, they have her?”
“Yes, sire. Or so it appears.”
“Then kill all of them. And one more thing . . .”
“Sire?”
“Should you fail, be sure to kill yourself. There will be no place for you in the empire.”
The image of Ubatha shivered. “Yes, sire. It shall be as you say.”
16
Once the sword has been drawn, a cut must be made. For to show steel, and withhold it, is to signal weakness.
—Haru Nira
The Warrior
Standard year 289
PLANET LONG JUMP, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The air inside the low, one-story building was warm and thick with the throat-clogging stench of death as Christine Vanderveen crawled across the floor on hands and knees. The heavy canteens thumped and bumped on both sides of her as empty shell casings skittered away from her knees. She paused, and her right hand came down on a patch of half-dried blood.
The facility, which was cradled within a U-shaped valley, was intended to function as a retreat for Dr. Tomko and a proving ground for his latest cyber forms. Now the formerly idyllic setting had been transformed into a war zone. Fortunately, Vanderveen had been able to prevent the Ramanthian hunter-killer team from entering the TOMKO complex during their first attack. But that hadn’t prevented the bugs from launching a second assault eight hours later. Now there were only half a dozen of Dr. Tomko’s people who could be classified as effectives plus an equal number of walking wounded to defend the complex when the time came. They were seated with their backs to the front wall, talking to each other in low tones, as Vanderveen eyed the section of sun-dappled floor that was marke
d by dozens of divots and splashes of blood. Because of the windows located just below the roofline at either end of the building, a six-foot-wide swath of duracrete was visible to the snipers positioned on the surrounding hillsides. They fired at anything that moved and had two kills to show for their efforts.
There was no science to it. Just luck, as Vanderveen summoned all of her courage and threw herself forward. The canteens flew all about her as she plunged through the hazy sunlight, and a distant crack was heard. The bullet missed by inches, bounced off the floor, and smacked into the ceiling.
Vanderveen landed hard, and all the air was knocked out of her lungs. Her legs were still in danger, but a pair of strong hands was there to pull her into the shade. “The trick is to slide,” Cathy Kor said, once the diplomat was safe. “That was a belly flop.”
Kor had been second-in-command of Dr. Tomko’s security force before the bugs killed her boss. Now the square-faced merc was in charge. She had a buzz cut, green eyes, and a spray of freckles across her nose. A series of dashes were tattooed around her neck along with the words “cut here.”
“I’ll remember that,” Vanderveen said, as she began to untangle the canteens and pass them out. “Anything new?”
“Nothing good,” Kor said phlegmatically. “The bugs popped most of our spy cams. But they missed a couple, and Sparks tells me they’re massing for another attack. Humans this time.”
Vanderveen knew that Sparks was a skinny tech who had been in charge of the facility’s electronic surveillance system back when there was one. He and two other men were holed up down in the basement, where they represented the last line of defense for the Queen and her staff. In case the bugs got inside. “Humans?” she inquired. “That’s weird.”
“Port scum, probably,” Kor said disapprovingly. “There isn’t much law on Long Jump. That’s why Dr. Tomko hired us.”
A Fighting Chance Page 28
