For Those Who Fell Page 3

  Though trapped within her factory-like body, and confined to the eggery, the Queen missed very little of what went on around her. She watched, via one of the monitors arrayed in front of her, Orno shuffle up onto the platform. He paused to speak with one of her functionaries, and that was sufficient to summon her wrath. “Well, Ambassador Orno . . . Did you come here to speak with me? Or to exchange gossip with my staff?” The Queen’s voice was electronically amplified and boomed throughout the enormous bombproof chamber.

  Orno, who had paused to find out what sort of mood the monarch was in, had his answer. Not wanting to annoy her further, the diplomat hurried toward the other end of the Queen’s enormous body, and turned to face her. He bent a knee. “I come to see you, Majesty. May I inquire as to your health?”

  “The egg factory is running at full tilt, if that’s what you mean,” the royal answered irritably. “Now, what news do you bring me?”

  Like all his kind, Orno had two short antennae, compound eyes, and a parrotlike beak. A pair of seldom-used wings were folded along his back but hidden by the loose-fitting scarlet robe that hung nearly to the floor. He bowed by way of apology, then looked up again. The single aspect of the Queen’s physiology that hadn’t grown any larger was her head. It looked tiny by comparison with the rest of her grossly distended body, but he harbored no doubts regarding the strength of the mind that lurked within. As always the diplomat chose his words with care. One aspect of his mission had met with success. It seemed best to begin with that. “I’m pleased to announce that negotiations with the Drac Axis were successful. They have agreed to join their forces with ours.”

  The Queen rotated her head slightly. “Excellent. I’m glad to hear it. What about the question of command?”

  The Dracs had been understandably reluctant to place their forces under Ramanthian command, but had finally agreed, conditional on representation at theater-level command conferences. Ramanthian officers would hate the requirement but be forced to accept if they wanted to add some five hundred heavily armed warships to the force already at their disposal. “We retain command,” Orno replied, “but they have the right to monitor the decision-making process. They fear some of our officers might spend Drac lives too freely otherwise.”

  The Queen offered the Ramanthian equivalent of a grimace. “Unfortunate but understandable. Well done. I know the Hudathans stand against us—but what of the Clone Hegemony?”

  That was the question that Orno had been dreading. He steeled himself against what might be an extremely negative response. “In spite of the fact that they have worked closely with us in the past, the Clones have grown closer to what they refer to as ‘the free breeders’ over the last year or so and are presently unwilling to ally themselves with us.”

  The Queen’s eyes seemed to narrow. “What does that mean? Will they support the Confederacy?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Orno replied, “but if I were forced to guess, I’d say ‘yes.’ ”

  “That’s regrettable,” the Queen said, as if thinking out loud. “It’s my understanding that their military is quite strong. What of the Thrakies?”

  “The Thraks claim to be neutral,” Orno replied, “but they tend to be rather pragmatic where political relationships are concerned, and could prove useful. Not as formal allies, mind you, but as go-betweens, through whom we can interact with others. Of more immediate importance is the need for technical assistance where the newly acquired Sheen ships are concerned. They need to be retrofitted in order for the navy to make full use of them. The Thrakies have the necessary know-how.”

  “Yes,” the Queen replied, “the War Norr mentioned the matter to me. I assured the admiral that you and your staff would do everything in your power to resolve the matter.”

  There had been no firestorm of criticism, and insofar as Orno could tell, there wasn’t going to be. He allowed himself to relax slightly. “Yes, Highness, please rest assured that we will.”

  “Good,” the Queen replied. “Give my best to the Egg Orno . . . and may the gods guard your travels.”

  Orno, knowing a dismissal when he heard one, bent a knee and withdrew. Meanwhile, during the relatively brief conversation, 1,754 eggs had been added to repository below. The race continued to grow.

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  In spite of the fact that the cyborg was dressed in civilian attire, the officer of the day (ODD) knew who Sergi Chien-Chu was, and shouted “Atten-hut!” as the man that many called the Father of the Confederacy stepped out onto one of Fort Camerone’s snow-encrusted ramparts. His appearance was that of a twenty-five-year-old male with blond hair and a woodenly handsome face. The reality was something else. While his brain continued to function, the rest of his biological body had been dead for many years.

  It was daytime, for the next seventy-two minutes at least, and the former president of the Confederacy, founder of Chien-Chu Enterprises, and Reserve Navy admiral wanted to take a brief look around prior to plunging into what promised to be a long series of meetings. He nodded to the parka-clad ODD. When he spoke no vapor appeared. “As you were, Captain . . . Do you mind if I take a little stroll?”

  The captain wanted to say, “Yes,” she did mind, but Chien-Chu’s naval rank was equivalent to that of a two-comet general, and there was only one answer she could properly give. “No sir. Watch out for the ice—it’s kind of slippery.”

  Chien-Chu could see the concern in her eyes and knew it didn’t have anything to do with the ice. He smiled. “Don’t worry—I’ll keep moving. Besides, I have a backup body back in my room.”

  The captain laughed at the joke, but she knew that if the cyborg took a high-velocity slug through his brain box, it would put him down just as effectively as a bio bod such as herself. The moment the admiral was out of earshot the ODD triggered her belt radio and spoke into the boom-style mike that curved out in front of her lips. “Blue Six to Blue Five. Launch two fly-forms and tell them to pull a check on the surrounding hills. Over.”

  There was a double click by way of response followed by a steadily rising scream as four engines wound up, and two of the skeletal fly-forms jumped into the air. Outside of the heavily armored brain boxes that housed the pilots, the aircraft were unmanned. That meant every bit of their considerable payload could be devoted to ordnance. Each ship mounted a laser cannon in its blunt nose, a .50 caliber machine gun on each stubby wing, and enough rockets and bombs to put the hurt on an entire battalion of dooth-mounted indigs.

  Not that there was any likelihood of that. It was the ODD’s hope that the fly-forms would cause any snipers who might be hanging around to dig in deep—if only for the period of time that the admiral was out wandering around.

  Chien-Chu, who was oblivious to the efforts on his behalf, continued along the top of the thick outer wall. His sensors took in the white maze that was Naa Town, the lacy fingers of smoke that drifted up to merge with the lead gray sky, and the hills that lay beyond. But his thoughts were focused on the past rather than the present.

  A different war had been under way during his last trip to Algeron, a war in which the Ramanthians had been allies and the Hudathans had been enemies. A desperate battle had been fought on and around the planet, and, if it hadn’t been for the efforts of the Say’lynt, as well as thousands of legionnaires and the Naa who fought alongside them, the Confederacy would have been destroyed. Yet, even as that war was won, another had been brewing. It never seemed to end.

  An internal alarm went off, a message flashed in one corner of his electronic “vision,” and Chien-Chu turned to retrace his steps. The meeting was about to begin.

  The top portion of the fort, the part that could be seen above ground, represented only 20 percent of the total structure. The rest, including vast storage rooms, living quarters, mess halls, classrooms, maintenance bays, and a first-class hospital, were all underground.

  Work was already under way to construct an extension of the fort to house the Senate, bu
t that effort was far from complete, and the steadily growing contingent of government personnel was being crammed into every conceivable corner of the existing structure. Officers were being forced out of their quarters to make room for Senators, one section of the mess hall had been roped off for civilian use, and staff people were living in what had been barracks.

  It made for a chaotic environment, and as Booly made his way through a crowded passageway, he found himself rubbing shoulders with sharp-looking legionnaires, skeletal spider forms, and harried civilians, many of whom appeared to be disoriented, confused, or lost.

  Booly handed out directions, returned dozens of salutes, and finally made his way into the base theater. It boasted five hundred seats, a steeply slanting floor, and a raised stage. Above the platform, in letters six feet tall, were the words, “Legio patria nostra,” The Legion Is Our Country. A reminder that the sentients who made up the Legion were loyal to each other first—and whatever political structure they might serve second. Yet, in spite of that, the increasingly diverse organization had come to be the one force that people everywhere could count on.

  Booly’s shoes made a clacking sound as he walked down the right aisle toward the stage. The theater wasn’t especially fancy, but it was large enough to seat the Senate and associated staff, which would have to do. Some of the politicians had arrived, but most remained in transit, which meant that the first full session wouldn’t begin for three standard days yet. In the meantime President Nankool hoped to make some progress where overall strategy was concerned and had convened a meeting of what he referred to as his “brain trust,” a high-powered group that included Booly, senior military officers, and a number of key civilian advisors like Sergi Chien-Chu, Charles Vanderveen, and Margaret Rutherford Xanith.

  Given the relatively small number of participants, the decision had been made to meet up on the stage. Booly climbed a short flight of stairs and saw that a number of smaller tables had been combined to make a larger one—which had been covered with a light-duty duralon field tarp. The random blotches of brown-and-tan camouflage added a somewhat martial air to the proceedings, as did the olive drab chairs.

  Chien-Chu was already present and turned as Booly crossed the stage. The two men were related, thanks to the fact that Booly had married the industrialist’s niece, and they had been friends for quite a while by then. But it still felt strange to shake hands with a man who was more than a hundred years old, looked like he was twenty-five, and seemed to be ageless. Both men grinned as they came together. “Sergi! It’s good to see you!”

  “And you,” Chien-Chu replied, “although I wish the circumstances were different.”

  They would have said more, but President Nankool arrived then, along with Charles Winther Vanderveen, his senior political advisor, Margaret Rutherford Xanith, the head of the Confederacy’s Department of Intelligence (CONINT), and a phalanx of support staff.

  Booly’s team which consisted of Colonel Kitty Kirby, his chief of staff, Colonel Tom Leeger, and the recently appointed head of Inter-Arm Operations, Major Drik Seeba-Ka, a dour Hudathan who had distinguished himself during the recent hostilities on LaNor and been cajoled into accepting a staff position.

  There were others, too, including a six-officer naval contingent and all manner of specialists, analysts, and liaison people. There was a certain amount of milling around as each participant looked for a place card with his or her name on it, took a seat, and settled in for what promised to be a long session.

  President Nankool opened the meeting by thanking those who had organized it, joking about the tablecloth, and giving everyone an opportunity to introduce themselves. Then, after activating his hand comp, he read the agenda. “We’ll start with a review of the political situation, followed by the military summary and the strategy discussion. I think you’ll all agree that it’s absolutely critical for this group to achieve consensus on a general approach before we make presentations to the Senate requesting funding. All right, let’s get on with it.”

  Charles Winter Vanderveen was a tall, patrician-looking man, with carefully combed gray hair, and piercing blue eyes. He stood, took a moment to remind his audience that all the information at his disposal was at least six standard days old, and began his presentation. The essence of the situation was that, while the Dracs hadn’t allied themselves with the Ramanthians, not formally at any rate, Confederacy intelligence analysts assumed that they would.

  Vanderveen went on to indicate that both sides were hard at work trying to woo the Clone Hegemony, and, while it was not yet clear which side the Clones would come down on, the answer would soon be apparent. If Senator Ishimoto-Six arrived on Algeron during the next few days, it could be assumed that the Hegemony had decided either to fight on behalf of the Confederacy or assume a neutral posture. Either of these would be acceptable, although it was Vanderveen’s hope that the Clones would add their military clout to the anti-Ramanthian alliance.

  “Fortunately,” Vanderveen continued, “the Thraks refused to ally themselves with the Ramanthians, as some of us feared they might, and declared their neutrality instead. All of their warships have been pulled back to their home system to protect Starfall. If you want more granularity, check your hand comp. My report is titled ‘Political Summary,’ and bears today’s date.”

  A murmur of approval and relief ran around the table. The Thrakies possessed a large armada of ships and were skillful fighters where space combat was concerned. Their ground forces were something of a joke—but that wasn’t at issue. “That’s good news indeed,” Nankool said. “Thank you. Colonel Leeger?”

  Leeger had white sidewalls, a stiff crew cut, and ears that protruded like the handles on a jug. His uniform looked like it had been sprayed on, and there were four rows of ribbons over his left shirt pocket. Dark brown eyes stared out from under craggy brows. There was no preamble—just a straight-on attack. “Having hijacked thousands of ships, many of us expected the bugs to go on a rampage, attacking anything having strategic value. That hasn’t been the case. Rather than lash out, the Ramanthians have assumed what amounts to a defensive posture, and we think we understand why.

  “Based on what we know about the Sheen ships, which is a great deal since we still have the balance of the fleet, every single one of them is robotic. An approach that has certain advantages, but lacks flexibility, and runs counter to Ramanthian culture. That means the bugs have to retrofit all three thousand vessels before they can put them to use. No small task, and something that will be especially difficult without assistance from the Thrakies, who invented the technologies involved. That buys time, valuable time, which we can use to move against the Ramanthians. I guess that’s all, sir. More when we have it. My full report can be found on your comps under ‘Military Summary’ with today’s date.”

  Nankool thanked the officer and declared a bio break. Twenty minutes later, when the meeting reconvened, Chien-Chu noticed that Xanith, often referred to as Madam X, had disappeared. He wondered why.

  Once the strategy discussion got under way, a number of things became apparent, the first of which was that in spite of the fact that all of the armed forces reported to Booly, the navy was firmly in the lead. That was sensible because if the swabbies could find a way to defeat the Ramanthian fleets, there wouldn’t be a need for ground combat.

  What made less sense, to Chien-Chu’s mind at least, was the fact that Admiral Yato wanted to precipitate a series of large-scale space battles in hopes of cutting the enemy down to size before the Sheen ships could be brought on-line. The strategy wouldn’t work if the Ramanthians were smart enough to avoid it, which the industrialist believed they were.

  The discussion, which had come to center on how the Confederacy might draw the Ramanthians out into the open, had been under way for more than an hour when Nankool decided to intervene. “I’ve been watching my old friend Sergi Chien-Chu for some time now, and he’s starting to fidget. That usually means that he has something to say.”

 
Most of the group chuckled, but the diminutive Admiral Yato didn’t, and the industrialist knew why. The regular officer considered Chien-Chu’s naval rank to be more honorary than real—and was nervous lest the ex-politician suck energy away from the strategy that he favored. Knowing that, Chien-Chu sought to disarm the naval chief while still getting his concerns across. “Thank you, Mr. President. As everyone here knows I’m a much better businessman than I am an admiral—which means that I tend to look at things from a slightly different perspective. And, while I see the necessity to draw the enemy out prior to the point when they can bring the Sheen vessels into play, I wonder if there isn’t something we should work on first.”

  The combination of self-effacing humor and the nod toward Yato’s point of view acted to mollify the admiral if not satisfy him. The senior officer forced a smile.

  “While the Ramanthians certainly qualify as an aggressive, expansionist race,” Chien-Chu continued, “those qualities are not responsible for this war.

  “The bugs went to war because they were about to experience a population explosion so large that it threatens the well-being of the rest of their race, they knew we would perceive the situation as a threat, and sought to preempt an attack by us.”

  The industrialist paused to eye the faces around him. “I know you’re aware of all that—but I would like you to consider the implications. Because of the unique nature of their situation, the bugs are focused on moving billions of eggs from Hive to their colony planets. Not only that, but they will have to move billions of tons’ worth of supplies in order to support not only the nymphs but the adults charged with raising them.