Ubatha turned to Holby. “I’m sorry about Fala-Ba,” he said, and shuffled away. And, strangely enough, he meant it.
THE SPACE STATION ORB I, IN ORBIT OVER PLANET LONG JUMP, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The planet Long Jump was located inside of the Confederacy’s original borders. But just barely. Like Sensa II, where the Queen and her retinue had been hiding previously, Long Jump was a rim world. And one that was strategically located near a key nav point. But rather than force wayfarers to waste time and fuel landing on the surface, local entrepreneurs constructed an orbiting space station called Orb I, where customers could refuel before venturing out into the unknown. Or returning to the core worlds.
Over time, the space station had expanded to become more than a fuel stop. Now it was a mostly law-free zone in which just about anything that didn’t threaten the habitat’s well-being could be bought and sold. And thanks to some very robust defenses, Orb I had been able to defend itself against pirates, Sheen raiders, and—most recently—a Ramanthian destroyer.
In the wake of the attack, Ubatha knew it would be necessary to sneak aboard the space station, which loomed beyond the viewport next to him. Farther back, beyond Orb I, the planet Long Jump could be seen. It was mostly blue, with patches of brown. Not the sort of planet that Ramanthians preferred, but strategically important nevertheless.
The trip from Sensa II had been made aboard a Thraki vessel called the Dark Star. The ship was fitted out to look like a freighter—but carried enough armament to be classified as a corvette. The perfect vessel for transporting a small but very important cargo. A royal cargo, which could be quite demanding at times. “You’re sure that no one will be able to see me?” the Queen inquired. “I wouldn’t like that.” The metal cage that protected her now-frail body had been bolted to the deck in case the vessel’s argrav generators failed.
Ubatha felt a tremendous desire to please the monarch and knew that the air within the cabin was thick with psychoactive chemicals. Something that could have an effect on his objectivity if he wasn’t careful. “No, Majesty,” he said patiently. “You and one of your ladies-in-waiting will be concealed inside a specially equipped cargo module. The rest of us will be put aboard the space station in the same fashion.”
“And you’re sure that this Tomko animal can help me?”
Ubatha had answered the question many times before. But the chemicals plus the sense of compassion he felt for the royal helped keep his annoyance under control. “Yes, Majesty, assuming you’re willing to make the necessary sacrifice.”
And that was the problem. Because prior to her injury, the Warrior Queen had been known to refer to human cyborgs as “freaks.” It was a view shared by nearly all the Ramanthian population and frequently reinforced by the priesthood, who feared that the use of artificial bodies might disrupt family bonding and the race’s reproductive cycle.
But with the entire empire at stake and no other options, the royal had been forced to consider what had previously been unthinkable. “My body is broken, but I don’t know if I can give it up,” the Queen said uncertainly, giving Ubatha a rare glimpse of the person behind the royal facade. She was a very real female, not that different from the Egg Ubatha. He felt the usual pang of regret and made an effort to redirect his thoughts.
“Well, that’s why we’re here. Once you’ve had a chance to consult with Dr. Tomko, you’ll be in a position to make that decision. However, as you know, the cloning process that Hosokowa recommends would take a significant amount of time. And this approach would allow you to return to the throne more quickly.”
There was a gentle bump as the ship made lock-to-lock contact with one of the many berths located around the disk-shaped space station. That was the cue for the unloading process to begin—and Ubatha could tell that the royal persona was back in place. “Don’t let them drop me,” she said crossly. “Or you’ll be sorry.”
Ubatha knew that the Queen would be helpless without him—and that he was the one in a position of power. But he bowed, and said, “Yes, Majesty, of course, Majesty.” Not so much for the Queen as the empire. Because, for better or worse, Ubatha was a patriot.
After being unloaded onto Orb I’s “A,” or cargo deck, the specially designed containers were placed on floating power pallets and towed onto a spacious lift. The elevator carried them up to “B” deck where the robo tug hauled them out onto the utility track that circled the space station’s core.
Horizontal air slits had been cut into the cargo module that Ubatha was sharing with five other members of the Queen’s retinue. So rather than focus on the uncomfortably close quarters and a growing sense of claustrophobia, Ubatha chose to peer through a nearby slot instead. He could hear announcements over the PA system, see the “zip” ads that slid across the electroactive walls, and smell the strange amalgam of body odors, perfumes, and lubricants that filled the air. Foot traffic had been relegated to a path farther out, and it was crowded with humans, Prithians, Hudathans, Dwellers, Thrakies, and androids. But no Ramanthians. Not a single one.
It was frightening to see how isolated the Queen and her retainers were. What if Benjii had betrayed them? What if they were about to be given over to the humans in exchange for a trade agreement? And what about Dr. Tomko? Could he be trusted?
There were so many dangers that Ubatha felt a great sense of foreboding as the robo tug took a right-hand turn—and towed the containers down a side passageway into a lift that was smaller than the first. It carried them up to “C” deck where, much to Ubatha’s relief, Benjii was waiting to meet the royal party. Ubatha caught a glimpse of the Thraki and heard him say, “Follow me.”
The tug started up again, passed a succession of numbered hatches, and took a hard right. That took the short train into what looked like a storage space with racks all around.
Moments later, some white-suited animals appeared, opened the containers, and went about the delicate task of moving the Queen into what one of the technicians referred to as “the clinic.” Ubatha was in attendance throughout, doing the best he could to comfort the royal and satisfy her more reasonable requests.
Eventually, once the process was complete, the Ramanthians found themselves inside a high-tech lab. It looked like a combination operating theater and research laboratory, with adjustable lights overhead and workbenches against the bulkheads. All of which was intimidating and reassuring at the same time.
Moments after the Queen was positioned under the lights, a human entered the room. Though no expert on such matters, Ubatha was sufficiently acquainted with animal culture to know that the individual who introduced himself as Dr. Tomko was both handsome and well dressed. Perhaps too well dressed, given how elaborate the clothing was. “Welcome!” Tomko said jovially as he went over to stand where the Queen could look up at him. “I understand you are interested in acquiring one or more electromechanical vehicles.”
According to the cover story established by Benjii, the Queen was a wealthy Ramanthian who had been paralyzed as the result of a terrible hunting accident. And, if Tomko thought otherwise, there was no sign of it on his handsome face. “Yes,” the royal replied, “I am. But before we proceed further, I have a question.”
“Of course,” Tomko replied. “Please ask it.”
“Have you performed what I believe you refer to as a ‘transfer’ on a member of my race before?”
Tomko shook his head. “No, madam, I haven’t. So that means there is some additional risk. But, should you decide to go forward with the operation, two highly qualified Ramanthian surgeons will be present to assist me. Plus, it may interest you to know that we will first practice the procedure using virtual-reality technology. Then, having perfected our techniques, we will perform simulated operations on a custom-built animatronic surrogate. So by the time we effect the actual transfer, the team will have had lots of relevant experience.”
The Queen was silent for a moment, as if considering what had been said. Then she spoke. “Forgi
ve me . . . My standard is less than perfect. But I believe there is a saying in your culture. Something regarding the possibility of human error.”
Tomko grinned, reached up, and removed his head. Then, having been tucked under an arm, the object continued to speak. “There is always an element of risk, madam. But we will do everything in our power to reduce it. And, as you can see, I am living proof of how good the technology is.”
The Queen scented the air with chemicals that made her retainers feel good. “You are most persuasive, Doctor. But, if it’s all the same to you, I would like to keep my head firmly in place.”
9
The skillful tactician may be likened to the Shuai-jan. Now the Shuai-jan is a snake that is found in the Ch’ang mountains. Strike at its head, and you will be attacked by its tail; strike at its tail, and you will be attacked by its head; strike at its middle, and you will be attacked by head and tail both.
—Sun Tzu
The Art of War
Standard year circa 500 B.C.
PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The sky was so dark, it could have been evening. Occasional bolts of lightning strobed the sky, thunder rolled across the land, and the rain fell in relentless sheets. Most of the water was intercepted by the uppermost layer of foliage. Then it trickled from leaf to leaf before eventually reaching the already-soaked ground. That was why the O-Chi Raiders were temporarily trapped on a rise that had been transformed into an island. The defensive ditch had become a moat that was subsequently subsumed by steadily rising water. “We won’t be going anywhere today,” Rona-Sa predicted sourly. “Not even the tractors could plow through this mess. Never mind the cyborgs and the bio bods.”
Rona-Sa was correct, and Santana knew it, as the officers stood next to Alpha Company’s quad and looked out over what some wag had dubbed “Lake No-go.” Santana was wearing a bush hat plus a poncho, but his uniform was wet nevertheless. Two days had passed since the Ramanthian attack and resulting stampede. And, insofar as Santana could tell, the bugs believed that the battalion had been destroyed.
That perception wouldn’t last forever, of course, which was why it was imperative to close the distance between the Raiders and their objective as quickly as possible. Before the Ramanthians discovered the truth. Something sinuous snaked through the turgid brown water about twenty feet offshore. Santana looked at the Hudathan. He wasn’t wearing any raingear and seemed unfazed by the weather. “The least you could do is look miserable like the rest of us.”
“You should visit Hudatha,” Rona-Sa replied humorously. “First it rains, then it begins to snow.”
Santana knew that his XO’s home world was in orbit around a star called Ember, which was 29 percent larger than Terra’s sun and well on the way to becoming a red giant. That, plus the fact that the planet Hudatha was locked into a Trojan relationship with a Jovian binary, produced a wildly fluctuating climate. Something that Rona-Sa’s people had evolved to cope with. “I’ll put a visit on my list of things to do right after we win the war,” Santana replied dryly. “In the meantime, let’s use the day to perform maintenance and rest the troops.”
“It’ll be two days minimum,” the Hudathan said gloomily. “Because once the rain stops, we’ll be up to our asses in mud.”
Santana sighed as Rona-Sa turned away. The battalion still had a long way to go, and he was beginning to wonder if he had bitten off more than he could chew. Rainwater trickled down his neck, and mud sucked at his boots as he turned to leave. If there was an answer, it continued to elude him.
The downpour stopped shortly after the noon rats were issued. The clouds parted, the sun appeared, and the ground began to steam. It was still too muddy to go anywhere, however, so all the battalion could do was eat lunch and watch the waters of Lake No-go start to recede.
It was a very frustrating time for Santana, who was aching to get under way but knew it would be foolhardy to do so. The solution was to stay busy, which he did by visiting each company, supervising things that didn’t need to be supervised, and generally making a pest of himself. So Santana was kneeling next to a tractor, inspecting a huge bogie wheel, when he heard a squelching sound and turned to find Corporal Colby at his side. “Sorry to interrupt, sir . . . But an urgent call came in.”
“A call? From whom?” Santana responded, as he came to his feet.
“A Colonel Farber, sir.”
“He was on the hypercom?”
“No, sir. The radio, sir. The colonel is in orbit and asked for our coordinates.”
Santana frowned as they crossed the compound together. “He’s about to drop?”
“Yes, sir.”
Santana’s thoughts churned as he stepped under a widespread tarp and made his way over to the folding table where the battalion’s com gear had been set up. Farber was a much-decorated officer, best known for leading a raid on Worber’s World in a futile attempt to rescue a group of Confederacy diplomats being held there. Unfortunately, all of the prisoners had been killed by the Ramanthians along with more than four hundred of Farber’s five-hundred-person landing team.
Some of the press referred to the mission as “Farber’s Folly” and claimed that the officer was incompetent. Others portrayed Farber as a misunderstood hero. And because Earth had fallen and the Confederacy was badly in need of heroes, the second perspective won out. Major Farber received a Medal of Valor from President Nankool and was promoted to colonel. Now he was in orbit around O-Chi 4 and about to land. The question was, why?
The com tech gave Santana a headset with a boom mike attached. He put it on. “This is Zulu Nine. Over.”
The voice that filled his ears was bright and confident. “Farber here . . . Glad to meet you, Major. Sorry about the short notice, but there’s a war on, eh what? There will be two of us. The navy types assure me that we’ll put down within two miles of your position. Once on the ground, we’ll stay put until your pickup team arrives. Over.”
Given the circumstances, there wasn’t anything Santana could say except, “Yes, sir. Over.”
The next thirty minutes were spent assembling a pickup team and getting it ready to go. In addition to Lieutenant Ponco, Santana chose to take Dietrich and four cyborgs, including Joshi. After that, it was simply a matter of waiting for the computer-guided drop pod to enter the atmosphere. Then, assuming that it held together, parachutes would be deployed, and a homing beacon would come on. Ponco was ready and waiting when the time came. “It looks like the pod is going to land about a mile out, sir. The swabbies did a nice job.”
Santana nodded. “Let’s hope the bugs are taking a nap. Because if they aren’t, the pod will show them where to look for us. Let’s get going.”
Ponco did what she could to lead the group along a path that kept them up out of the water and the worst of the mud. The result was a snaking route that made the trip longer but prevented the heavy cyborgs from becoming trapped in the muck. But it wasn’t raining, and Santana might have enjoyed the shafts of sunlight that slanted down through the trees if it hadn’t been for the sense of foreboding that hung over him.
Joshi’s foot pods made sucking sounds as Ponco led the team along a rise, through a screen of vegetation, and into the clearing beyond. That was where Santana spotted the two-man pod. Or what remained of it. The egg-shaped capsule had been blackened while falling through the atmosphere and dented by a succession of thick branches as it crashed through the jungle canopy. Then, after hitting the ground with what had probably been a resounding thump, the petal-like side panels had opened, revealing the passengers within.
One of them was still seated, one leg over the other, smoking an old-fashioned pipe. The officer was wearing a green beret complete with the winged-hand-and-dagger emblem of the 2nd Regiment Etranger De Parachutistes, which legionnaires referred to as the 2nd REP. It was an organization that didn’t include cyborgs and no longer used parachutes except to slow their combat pods just prior to landing.
Farber was dresse
d in the shimmery “ghost” camos that Santana’s troops were supposed to have but didn’t. The fabric sought to match the background as Joshi came to a halt and Santana jumped to the ground. He saluted. “Welcome to O-Chi 4, sir. I’m Major Santana.”
Farber knocked the tobacco out of his pipe and raised it by way of a reply. “Nice of you to drop in, Major. I was beginning to wonder. Well, better late than never as they say. Perhaps you would be so kind as to have one of your people cut that parachute down. We wouldn’t want to attract any bugs, would we?”
There was a strong possibility that the Ramanthians had tracked the pod electronically and knew exactly where it was. But there was no point in saying so, and Santana didn’t. He looked up to where the fabric was caught in the foliage above. “I believe Lieutenant Ponco is working on that, sir,” Santana said. A branch snapped as the last cord was cut, and the chute came slithering down to puddle on the ground.
“Good,” Farber said, as he removed a pack from the pod. “Which machine will I be riding?”
Santana didn’t want to get crosswise with Farber but knew his legionnaires hated being referred to as “machines” and felt compelled to say something. “They are cyborgs, sir . . . And you will ride Corporal Batta. He fought on Gamma-014. So you’ll be in good hands.”
“Yes, of course,” Farber replied. Although it was clear that he couldn’t see the hulking T-2 as anything other than a piece of equipment.
“I was told to expect two people,” Santana said tactfully.
“Here I am,” a sandy-haired man in civilian clothes said, as he emerged from the bushes. “I was taking a leak. The name is Smith. Harry Smith.”
Something about the hard planes of Smith’s face, his well-worn body armor, and the businesslike submachine gun that he held across his chest screamed special ops. The kind of man who had worn a uniform at some point in the past and was way too savvy to reveal himself until he got a good look at whatever appeared out of the jungle. Santana nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith. You’ll be riding Private McKay over there.”
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