The President formed a steeple with his fingers. “All of which is good except that it won’t last, won’t mean anything, if the Sheen destroy the Confederacy as part of their effort to reach the Thrakie. ”That’s why I’m going to name you as my secret envoy, give you more power than any one being should rightfully have, and let you enter talks with the Hudathans.
“Sell them what you sold me, attach all the conditions you can, and do it quickly. Time is short—and the clock is ticking.”
4
To see the future one has but to visit the past.
Naa folk saying
Circa standard year 1700
Planet Algeron, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
It was cold. Snowflakes twisted down out of the heavens, and the Towers of Algeron were but shadows in the distance. Some of the peaks soared more than eighty thousand feet into the atmosphere, which made them taller than Olympic Mons on Mars. In fact, the mountains were so massive, that had they been located on Earth the Towers would have sunk down through the planet’s crust.
However, thanks to the fact that Algeron completed a full rotation every two hours and forty-two minutes, centrifugal force had caused the equator to bulge outwards.
In fact, although Algeron possessed roughly the same amount of mass Earth did—its equatorial diameter was 27 percent larger. That, combined with the fact that the planet’s polar diameter was 32 percent smaller than Terra’s produced an equator nearly twice the diameter of the poles. All of which meant that the Towers of Algeron, which rode the world-spanning bulge, weighed only half what they would on Earth.
All facts that General William Booly had been aware of since childhood—the earliest part of which had been spent in a village seventy-five miles to the northeast.
The legionnaire stepped out onto the parapet, saw his breath jet outwards, and was glad of his jacket. He’d been dirtside for one standard week by then, and the sentries had become familiar with his morning walks. The habit had been born on the walls of his previous command, in Djibouti, Africa, and continued here. Precious minutes during which he could think and no one dared disturb him. He followed the top of the wall.
Fort Camerone, which had been named after what the Legion considered to be its most important battle, crouched on a dry rocky plain, and, with the exception of antenna arrays, fly-form landing pads, and missile launchers that interrupted its boxy lines, was reminiscent of Legion forts in North Africa. It was, Booly decided, the way a fortress should look. Hard and uncompromising.
It was strange to be there, not only in command of Fort Camerone, but of the entire Legion as well. Yes, he’d been ambitious enough to fanaticize about such an achievement, but never believed that it would happen. Not to a half-breed.
But it had happened—though not in the way he would have preferred. Rather than earn the position, he had inherited it from officers who, like Mortimer Kattabi, had died in battle, or like Leon Harco, who had chosen the wrong side and paid the price. Good officers, perhaps better officers, who, except for a moment of bad luck, or poor judgment, would have been in command. A fact that played into the feelings of inferiority that had been born right there, beyond the veil of the slowly falling snow, where he and his Naa playmates had fought their play pretend wars. Wars that he generally lost.
A sentry snapped to attention, presented his weapon, and waited for Booly’s acknowledgement. Like everyone on the battlements, he was aware of the general’s presence and more than a little self-conscious. The officer returned the salute and continued on his way.
Yes, it was hard to compete when your peers could smell game from a hundred feet away, could sense heat with the soles of their bare feet, and on a cold day, much colder than this one, had the capacity to run nearly naked through the snow, for miles on end if need be, laughing all the way.
Booly had been smart enough, always toward the top of his class, but had never won a footrace, wrestling match, or other test of athletic ability until he had entered the academy and competed with humans. The fact that he could win, could excel, had been something of a revelation.
The instructors taught him how to lead, and he had, though never with the confidence of classmates like Harco. Now that might come back to haunt him, and not just him, but the thousands of men, women, and cyborgs under his command.
The officer paused to look out over the densely packed domes collectively known as Naa Town. As darkness fell, he saw squares of buttery yellow light, fingers of dark gray smoke, and the wink of the occasional torch. More than that, his supersensitive nostrils could pick up the odor of incense, burned to cover the smells that emanated from the fort, and the faint scent of slowly drying dooth dung. A valuable source of fuel.
And it was out there, beyond the edge of the slum, that his mother and father, both of whom had served in the Legion, had given up their lives in order to free the fort. The plaque, which he had visited only two days before, bore a single line:
They died that others might live.
Was it colder? A chill ran down his spine. Booty scanned the horizon, watched another to-hour-and-forty-two minute day come to an end, and turned toward a door. A private held it open. His office awaited as did his work. Plans, requests, appeals, budgets, promotions, reports, and more. All the stuff that he hated ... but was forced to do.
Booty thought longingly of Maylo, wondered what she was doing, and stepped through the doorway. His responsibilities closed around him.
A staff meeting plus three hours of administrative work passed before Booty rewarded himself with a break. He rarely ate in the officers’ mess, preferring the chow hall instead. That’s where the troops were, and while they weren’t about to spill their guts to a general, they didn’t have to. Like most good officers, he could learn a great deal about how the legionnaires felt, what they were thinking, and their general state of readiness by simply looking at them.
Booty had named Colonel Kitty Kirby to command the fort, and she was tough but fair. She, combined with the efforts of the officers and noncoms who reported to her, had been good for morale. The results could be seen in the way that members of various units sat together, the buzz of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. Things had improved a great deal since the mutiny and the bloodshed that accompanied it.
The mess hall featured bright lights, artificially cheerful colors, and odors left from the previous meal. Something that Naa troopers never stopped griping about. When you eat lunch they reasoned, it should smell like lunch, and not like breakfast. Fans had been installed—but the complaints continued.
Booly joined the chow line, joked with the cooks, and headed out into the hall. A table of heavily bearded Pioneers started to rise and the officer shook his head. “At ease ... How ’bout it, Sergeant? Is there room for one more?”
The legionnaire grinned. “Yes, sir! Watch what you say though ... we’re talking about sports. Cramer says that Earth is going to win the next powerball ptayoff—and Rober favors the clones. It could get violent.”
Booly laughed. “I’ll take my chances.” The Pioneers made room—and the hour passed quickly.
Booly returned to his office to find a package waiting on his desk. His adjutant turned from a pile of printouts. Her name was Tan. She had served under Cadet Leader Voytan during the battle for Los Angeles, survived, and been posted to Algeron. She had short black hair, serious brown eyes, and quick little hands. “That came while you were away, sir. A cub gave it to one of the sentries and said it was for you.”
Booly raised an eyebrow. The relationship between the Legion and the Naa was complex to say the least. Even as some of the tribes encouraged young warriors to join the organization, others continued to fight it just as they fought each other. Patrols were subject to ambush, sentries had been killed, and the occasional SLM slammed into the fort. Many of the chieftains would like nothing better than to bag a general. The box could contain anything ... including a bomb.
Tan read his expression and shook her
head. “No, sir. The package is clean. I had the demolitions folks check it out.”
Booly nodded his thanks and took a moment to remove the protective wrappings. The gar wood box had been decorated with crudely cut semiprecious stones. Such containers were common among the Naa, and he had seen hundreds of them. But not like this, not with the cap badge of the 13th DBLE carved into the lid, above the motto: “Legio patria nostra. ” (The Legion is our country.)
Booly had watched his father burn the words into the wood with a laser pen. Then, long after his mother had opened the present, and remarked on how beautiful it was, he had seen it on her dressing table, next to her bed, and on her desk. For this was the box in which Connie Chrobuck kept small treasures. He remembered them well: one of her mother’s earrings, a rock her son retrieved from a riverbed, a holo of her sister, some small, extremely sharp scissors, and, Algeron being what it was, some stray rounds of ammunition. Those and other things had lived in the box. Now, at long last, they lay before him.
The officer turned, discovered that Tan had left the room, and was grateful. Generals weren’t supposed to cry—everybody knew that—but the tears continued to flow.
Booly closed the door, wiped his face with his sleeve, and sat at his desk. Was the box empty? Did it contain the odds and ends she had kept there? Or had they been looted? Or more likely lost? Treated like what most would think they were: junk.
Carefully, lest his suddenly clumsy fingers betray him, Booly opened the box. It was empty, except for his mother’s scent, and a note written in her neat hand. “I knew you would return as surely as a brella must return to its roost. In spite of the fact that I wasn’t born on Algeron, and lack your father’s blood, his mother taught me many things ... Among them was the importance of a peaceful heart, the beauty that dwells around us, and the way of the Wula sticks.
“They speak of a great chief, the Chief of all Chiefs, and of great sadness. A battle lies ahead, a great battle, the one you were born to fight. No one can be sure how it will end, not even the sticks, but look at the map. Follow it and find that which you seek.
“We love you—and always will. Watch your six . . . Your mother and father.”
Booly laughed, wiped the last of the tears away, and examined the reverse side of the note. The map was good—but the officer didn’t need one. He’d been there before. He departed two hours later.
It was dark at the moment, but that made little difference to the Trooper II, who, thanks to a full array of sensors, could “see” quite well indeed. She had light-amplification equipment, infrared sensors, and the benefit of a highly accurate Global Positioning System, which, thanks to high quality maps, displayed her position to within three inches. More than enough data for a little stroll in the boonies.
The cyborg went by the name of Wilker, although her real name was something else, and was glad to clear the fort. Yeah, the rider was a pain, but what else was new? Anything beat garrison duty. She scanned the terrain ahead, spotted the heat that radiated from some recently deposited dooth droppings, and headed that way.
First Sergeant Neversmile had ridden on cyborgs before and knew better than to tighten up. The best thing to do was stick boots into the slots provided for that purpose, lean backwards, and allow the harness to take your weight. Then, with knees bent, the motion was easier to take.
Wilker followed the trail down into a gully and up the other side. Servos whined, heat radiated off her cowling, and the odor of ozone filled Neversmile’s nostrils. Just one of the things he hated about box heads.
Still, they did have their advantages, not the least of which was the firepower they carried. Wilker was equipped with an arm-mounted air-cooled .50 caliber machine gun, an arm-mounted fast-recovery laser cannon, and a pair of shoulder-mounted missile launchers. Yeah, Colonel Kirby knew what she was doing. Wilker had more than enough clout to deal with a handful of bandits—or some warriors on a tear. All of which was fine, or would have been, had the mission made more sense.
It seemed that nobody was sure what the hell the general was up to. A gift had been delivered to his office. The rumor mill was clear about that, but the rest was weird. Shortly after receiving it the Legion’s most senior officer had announced that he was going on a trip, would need a dooth, and would dispense with the usual escort. A dooth for god’s sake! Neversmile hadn’t been aboard one of the wooly beasts in more than fifteen years—and figured Booly was the only officer on Algeron that knew how to ride one.
The noncom felt a momentary sense of pride in the nature of the general’s origins and remembered Kirby’s orders: “Don’t let the old man see you ... and don’t come back without him.”
Not that the last part was necessary, since Neversmile had served under the general during the mutiny and had a lot of respect for him. Good officers were hard to come by.
A faint pink line marked the eastern horizon. Wilker followed the trail, and the Naa continued to worry. The general was crazy, the colonel was pissy, and the problem was his.
Dimwit Timewaster was standing there, pissing on a rock, when the rich pungent odor of dooth passed beneath his nostrils. Not his dooth, a mangy animal tethered to a withered bush, but a distinctly different beast. And there was something more, the tart, not altogether unpleasant smell which, along with plastic and ozone, he had learned to associate with humans. The clip clop of hooves combined with the clink of poorly secured equipment served to reinforce what the Naa already knew. A lone, presumably stupid human, was heading up into the hills. Not only that, but, judging from odors ranging from gun oil to aftershave he came bearing gifts! His mother had been right. The gods did smile on those in need.
The Naa shook himself off, secured his trousers, and slipped through the rocks. The bedroll looked like a long lumpy tube. Nocount Quickknife jerked as a hand covered his mouth, went for his blade, and relaxed when he smelled who it was. Dimwit nodded toward the trail. His voice was little more than a whisper. “We got company. Easy pickin’s. Move your ass.”
Nocount yawned. Dimwit winced at the smell of his companion’s breath and started to gather his gear. There was no particular hurry, something neither of them liked to do, since every stride carried their victim further from the fort. An advantage if the idiot called for help. Not that it mattered ... since he’d soon be dead.
Booly left the reins loose and allowed the dooth to pick its own way up the rockstrewn trail. A good decision since the animal was native to Algeron and well equipped to survive there. It had been a long time since the officer had ridden anything more challenging than a command car, and his knees were starting to hurt. His butt would come next, followed by his lower back. The legionnaire had already started to regret the journey but was too stubborn to turn back.
The dooth completed one long stretch of trail, tried to snatch a bite of greenery from a likely looking bush, and took a kick to its barrel-shaped ribs. Dooths were never ones to suffer silently and were famous for the variety of sounds they could make. This particular animal produced something that bordered between a belch and a grunt.
Booly kicked the animal again and guided it up through still another hairpin turn. The gravelly trail stretched up toward the swiftly rising sun. It was then, as the dooth started to climb, that Booly detected, or thought he detected, a foreign scent. The officer’s hand went to his sidearm. He stood in the stirrups and took a long careful look around.
Weather-smoothed boulders littered the surrounding hillside. Many were the size of battle tanks. A full company of legionnaires could have hidden there, concealed among the rocks, and he wouldn’t have been able to spot them. Especially if they were Naa—and didn’t want to be seen.
Uneasy now, but not sure why, the legionnaire climbed toward the sunrise. Everything was normal ... except for the fur that ran the length of his spine. That stood on end.
The Trooper II rounded an outcropping of rock, “saw” a patch of green smear itself across the blue grid that overlaid her surroundings, and stopped dead in her
tracks. Then, weapons ready, she backed around the corner. Numbers shifted in the lower right hand comer of the cyborg’s vision as the threat factor gradually decreased.
Neversmile, who had allowed himself to be lulled into a sort of half-conscious trance, came fully awake. He spoke into a wire-thin boom mike. It was jacked into a panel at the base of Wilker’s duraplast neck. “What’s up?”
“Naa,” Wilker replied. “Two of them. Both mounted. Maybe a quarter mile ahead. Between the general and us.”
Neversmile swore silently. Just his luck. The general get’s a wild hair up his ass ... and the colonel chose him to deal with it. “Can you nail the bastards?”
“A shoulder-launched missile would handle it, assumin’ you ain’t too worried about due process or how big a hole I make.”
Neversmile remembered how many innocent females and cubs the Legion had accidentally slaughtered over the years and knew he wasn’t willing to take that chance. Not to mention the fact that he was supposed to maintain a low profile. “No, hold your fire. Feel free to close the distance, however—but don’t let the shitheads see you.”
It was a stupid order—Wilker thought so anyway—but knew better than to say so. Not to a sergeant—and not to this Sergeant. Gravel crunched under her weight, and the cyborg continued to climb.
Dimwit emerged from the rocks still buttoning his pants. It was the second time he had stopped to take a pee and the second time he had fallen behind. Nocount was irritated. “Hurry up! The human’s slow but not that slow. We’ll lose the furless bastard.”
“It ain’t my fault,” Dimwit complained. “I had to pee and it hurts.”
“All because you’ll screw anything with a pulse,” his companion replied unsympathetically. “Come on, let’s go.”
By Force of Arms Page 5
