A Fighting Chance Read online

  Then, as if to emphasize the seriousness of the situation, a siren began to wail. Baynor’s Bay was under attack.

  2

  A monarch should be ever intent on conquest; otherwise, his neighbors will rise in arms against him.

  —Akbar

  Mughal Indian emperor

  Standard year circa 1572

  PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  As the destroyer Star Taker dropped into orbit, the War Ubatha looked up through a viewport to the planet floating over his head. The mission to Bounty had been a waste of time and energy. But there was no way to have known that in advance.

  Security around Hive had always been tight, but in the wake of the surprise attack that the Confederacy had launched eight standard months before, even more ships had been assigned to protect it. A show of force was necessary, of course, but the War Ubatha thought that another attack was unlikely, especially since the humans and their despicable allies were losing the war.

  A patrol vessel issued a challenge to the destroyer. Codes were exchanged, checked, and double-checked. Then, and only then, was the Star Taker allowed to proceed to one of twenty-four heavily armed space stations that orbited Hive. It took the better part of an hour to dock and match locks. Finally, the War Ubatha was allowed to disembark. He, like all other incoming personnel, regardless of rank, had to pass through a Detox Center, where highly sophisticated sensors were used to detect off-world pathogens, cyborgs, and cleverly designed intelligence-gathering nanos. Some of which were only microns across.

  Once cleared, the officer was released into the station proper. Rather than being forced to wait for a regular shuttle, the War Ubatha was escorted onto a military transport that departed moments later. The ship bumped its way down through the atmosphere and entered a high-priority flight path.

  The War Ubatha never tired of looking at his home planet and peered through a viewport. In marked contrast to the ugly cities that covered Earth, it was the very picture of perfection. Rivers went where they should go, fruit trees marched in orderly rows across low-lying hills, and crops grew within irrigated circles.

  All of which was made possible by the fact that Ramanthians preferred to live underground. A basic instinct that maximized the use of arable land and made their industrial base more difficult to attack. Not impossible, as had been proven months earlier, but more difficult.

  Despite the race’s carefully managed infrastructure, however, there was one variable they couldn’t control. And that was the Ramanthian reproductive cycle. Because in addition to the three eggs produced by each tripartite family unit, the race had a secondary means of procreation as well. Every three hundred years or so, the Queen would produce billions of eggs. The result was a population explosion so massive that previous hatchings had triggered social change. Some birthings had positive effects. Like the one that led to interstellar travel. And some had led to famine and civil war.

  Now, having been gifted with an estimated five billion new souls by the great mother, the empire needed planets for them to live on. The race knew from bitter experience that Hive couldn’t accommodate such a large number of additional citizens without negative consequences. Especially given the antisocial tendencies the newly hatched nymphs were known for.

  The War Ubatha watched as the transport sped east, lights appeared below, and darkness cloaked the land. It wasn’t long before the aircraft slowed and began a gradual descent. Eventually, the shuttle flared in for a vertical landing on a landing pad defined by a circle of amber lights. Once the skids made contact, a platform lowered the vessel into the ground.

  Minutes later, the War Ubatha left the terminal, entered a government vehicle, and was whisked away. The funeral was scheduled for the next morning. That left just enough time to get some sleep and, if the gods were willing, a few hours of peace. Because even if the animals were millions of light-years away, he still fought them in his dreams.

  THE PLAIN OF PAIN

  The sky was clear, the sun was beating down, and the deep boom, boom, boom of the heart drums could be heard. The War Ubatha and the Egg Ubatha were seated toward the front of the seats reserved for members of the royal family, senior government officials, and members of the priesthood. Airborne cameras hovered here and there, beaming video to the citizens of Hive and the rest of the empire as well. It was a sad day. Having buried the great mother within the past year, the Ramanthian people were now forced to confront the death of her successor, the so-called Warrior Queen. She’d been a young, and some said reckless, royal who had been wounded on Earth and brought back to Hive. Unfortunately, the empire’s finest doctors hadn’t been able to save her. Or so the government claimed.

  As her funeral cortege made its way up out of the Royal Reliquary, where the embossed casket had been on display for the requisite three days, a deafening clatter was heard as five hundred thousand citizens began to click their pincers. They were seated in a bowl-shaped amphitheater at the center of the Plain of Pain, where the pretenders had been slaughtered almost a thousand years earlier and all of the nest clans had been brought together under a single queen. Ancient weapons and chunks of fossilized chitin were still being found as scouring winds removed layers of sand and soil.

  It was a moving sight as members of the funeral procession, all clad in imperial livery, shuffled up out of the underground complex and made their way toward the conical hill at the center of the dry lake bed. From there it was necessary to follow a spiral pathway to the top, where the Queen’s remains would be cremated. The clatter had faded by then, but the mournful sound of the kleege pipes could still be heard, along with the occasional snap of a pennant as a persistent breeze blew from the east.

  All of which was very touching except for one thing: The Queen was still very much alive. Or so the War Ubatha assumed. Although there was the possibility that the royal’s paralysis had worsened and she had died. But there was no way to be sure. And that made her a threat. Because, were the royal to surface after the state funeral and the coronation of her carefully selected successor, both he and his allies would be tried and executed for treason. Thereby ensuring that the monarch’s incompetent rule would continue, the empire would fall to the animals, and the thousand years of darkness that Nira the truth-bringer had warned of would begin.

  The very thought of it made the War Ubatha feel cold even though he was seated in direct sunlight. The processional had arrived at the top of the hill by that time. The priests formed a circle and began the prayer for the dead as the richly decorated coffin was placed on a metal grating. The body inside was that of a female Skrum, or untouchable, who had been abducted and killed so that the casket would weigh the right amount. Plus, there were the remains to consider. Though spectacular, open-air cremations were notoriously inefficient. There were often beaks, bits of chitin, and toe claws left over. Details are important, the War Ubatha reminded himself. Perfection can be achieved.

  Like all Ramanthians, the War Ubatha had excellent peripheral vision. That meant he could see the Egg Ubatha and her posture. As with all Ramanthians, her body language was quite eloquent if one knew what to look for. Even the slightest tilt of the head had meaning. But as one would expect of an upper-class female, the Egg Ubatha’s body was expressionless. What is she thinking? he wondered. About the funeral? About him? Or about their mate, Chancellor Itnor Ubatha? The high-ranking government official had been listed as dead for weeks—even if no body had been recovered from the wreckage of his air car. Which raised an interesting question. If one of her mates was dead, why hadn’t the Egg Ubatha spent more than the minimum required time in mourning?

  The War Ubatha’s thoughts were interrupted as a priest held the ceremonial spear of truth aloft, a tongue of fire shot up from deep inside the hill, and the casket was consumed in a ball of fire. Flames crackled, and gray smoke poured up into the sky, where, much to the satisfaction of the mourners, it was blown to the west. Thereby ensuring the Queen’s speedy passage into the afterlife. Or the S
krum’s afterlife, the War Ubatha thought to himself, as the Ramanthian people waited for the ceremony to end. The War Ubatha had killed her himself to make sure the job was carried out properly. Not a pleasant chore but a necessary one. Such was the life of a warrior.

  THE PLACE WHERE THE QUEEN DWELLS

  The royal eggery was empty and had been for many months, ever since the great mother’s inevitable death and the Warrior Queen’s ascension to the throne. But as the War Ubatha entered the royal residence and submitted himself to a biometric scan, he could smell the lingering egg odor. It was a reminder of the fact that billions of recently hatched Ramanthians were depending on him to do the right thing for them and the rest of the empire. No matter how difficult that might be.

  The thought served to reinforce his sense of resolve as he shuffled up a series of ramps to the ornate platform where the grotesquely swollen great mother had been confined during the last months of her life. It was empty, and would remain so until another three hundred years had passed and another Queen was required to make the ultimate sacrifice.

  A liveried functionary was waiting for him there and led the officer through an arched entryway into the private chambers beyond. It was there, within the royal reception hall, that the council of advisors was waiting for him. They were more than that, of course; because for all practical purposes, they were in control of the government. Not publicly. That would have to wait until their Queen officially named them to the posts they had chosen for themselves.

  But thanks to the positions they had held during the great mother’s reign, and the networks of cronies created then, the advisors were very much in control. It was a good thing, too. Because, unbeknownst to the average citizen, the empire was in grave danger, and urgent action was required to save it.

  As the War Ubatha entered the reception hall, he saw that a curtained enclosure had been put in place on the raised platform normally occupied by the Queen’s throne. That meant the Queen was seated within and would be able to hear the ensuing discussion. Not for the purpose of ruling, which the council would do on her behalf, but in order to play the part of figurehead with skill and grace. The draped cloister was a pretence, a way to have the royal-in-waiting present without having to defer to her.

  Most of the council members were already present. That included Su Ixba, the onetime head of the Department of Criminal Prosecution. He was already hard at work vetting candidates for hundreds of important positions and identifying potential loyalists, who would soon find themselves living on remote nursery planets.

  Ixba was seated next to Cam Taas, who had been in charge of the Department of Transportation until the Warrior Queen let him go. Though hidebound and averse to anything new, he was very dependable. And given the challenges before them, that was a valuable quality.

  Also present were Admirals Tu Stik and Zo Nelo plus General Ma Amm. All were students of the third-century mystic warrior Haru Nira. There were greetings and formal bows all around. Then, as if determined to make an entrance, ex-Governor Oma Parth shuffled into the room. Though old enough to have age spots on his chitin, his movements were precise, and he exuded energy. Space black eyes darted from person to person. “You’re all here . . . Excellent. We’ll hear from Commander Ubatha first. His report will be followed by a strategic review. It’s important to make sure all of us understand the current situation.” Ubatha suspected the last was a reference to the queen-in-waiting.

  “Please,” Parth continued. “Take your seats. Commander Ubatha?”

  Ubatha chose to remain standing as the others sat on matching saddle chairs. There was a skylight overhead, and sunshine pooled on flagstones worn smooth by thousands of shuffling feet. In keeping with his reputation for unflinching directness, the War Ubatha made no attempt to soften his report. “I am sorry to report that my mission to the hive world Bounty was a failure. As you know, the Warrior Queen was, or is, extremely popular there. So there was a distinct possibility that, having learned of our plan, Chancellor Ubatha might have taken the Queen to the planet. But such is not the case. Thanks to Su Ixba’s intervention, members of the local police were very cooperative—and made use of their resources to scour the entire planet. A large cell of denialists was identified and dismantled. But there was no sign that they were hiding anyone.”

  All of the council members were aware that there were thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of citizens so devoted to the Warrior Queen that they refused to believe that she was dead. Such individuals were generally referred to as denialists. Ixba clacked a pincer approvingly. “Well done.”

  “Thank you,” Parth said, as he came to his feet. “I know I speak for the entire council when I say that Commander Ubatha’s mission shouldn’t be considered a complete failure. At least we know of one place where the Warrior Queen isn’t hiding. We will return to that very important subject later on. In the meantime, let’s review the strategic situation, which, in spite of numerous military victories, can only be described as poor.

  “I suggest that we begin with a discussion of planet Earth. Truth be told, there were some things the Warrior Queen did right. One of them was to invade Earth’s solar system, destroy the fleet positioned to protect it, and attack the planet itself. But then, rather than glass the pus ball, she made the decision to occupy it. That was worse than wrong—it was stupid. And I can prove it.”

  Those were strong words to direct against a monarch, even a failed one, and the War Ubatha wondered what the queen-to-be was thinking. But there was no way to know as Stik, Nello, and Amm all clacked their pincers in agreement.

  “First,” Parth continued, “by occupying Earth, we are tying up twenty divisions desperately needed elsewhere. Because, while our troops chase resistance fighters around the surface of the planet, there’s evidence that the Confederacy is starting to target our nursery planets. Some of which are quite vulnerable. And that isn’t all. In addition to the soldiers killed in action on Earth, we’re losing personnel to some sort of disease. General Amm . . . What can you tell us about that?”

  Insofar as Ubatha knew, Amm had never fired a shot in anger but had risen through the officer ranks by virtue of his administrative abilities and cold-blooded willingness to do whatever was necessary. A philosophy that was apparent in the way he answered the question. “We are investigating the nature of the problem, sir,” Amm replied. “In the meantime, rather than run the risk of infecting additional personnel, or allowing the pathogen to reach other Ramanthian planets, a quarantine is in place. No additional troops will be sent to Earth—and no troops will be allowed to depart until this matter has been resolved.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Parth said, “but it can’t be avoided. Please let me know the moment more information becomes available.”

  Parth’s eyes swept the small audience. “I’m sorry to say the challenges we face don’t end there. All of you know that the Hudathans have surrendered their independence to the Confederacy in return for help in dealing with their increasingly uninhabitable home world. Meanwhile, thousands of so-called volunteers have been allowed to join the Legion. And they are very formidable warriors. So that has to be counted as a win for the Confederacy.”

  Was the new Queen taking all of it in? The War Ubatha hoped so as Parth tackled the next subject. “But, fortunately for us, the Hudathans are relatively few in number. That isn’t true where the Clone Hegemony is concerned, however. Which is one of the reasons why the Warrior Queen chose to attack Gamma-014, where General Akoto’s forces were victorious.

  “But while that campaign was taking place, the Clone Hegemony’s heretofore insular government was overthrown, and the rebels elected to join the Confederacy. That means we will be facing a unified command. One that is likely to make effective use of the clone military caste. So, as you can see, we face some formidable challenges. Did I leave anything out?”

  “I think the Thrakies are worth a mention,” Ixba said. “There’s considerable evidence to suggest that they played a role
in spiriting the Warrior Queen away. The question is whether the individuals who did so were acting on their own or with the knowledge and consent of their government. That would be very worrisome indeed. Because if they know the Warrior Queen is alive and where she is, the Thrakies could reveal that information and attempt to return her to the throne.”

  Parth clacked his agreement. “I think it’s safe to assume that our furry friends are waiting to see what will happen, with plans to benefit either way.” He turned toward Ubatha. “We can’t allow the Thrakies to have that kind of power over us. Or to run the risk that the denialists will learn that the Queen is alive and coalesce around her. So, much as it pains me to do so, I’m afraid I must ask you to have a conversation with the Egg Ubatha. Believe me, I understand how painful such a situation is, but having failed to find the Warrior Queen any other way, we are left with no choice. If anyone knows where Chancellor Ubatha is, she does. And once you find your mate, the Queen will be nearby.”

  The War Ubatha had seen it coming but felt a heavy weight settle into the pit of his stomach nevertheless. Because despite everything Nira had written regarding the need for complete detachment, he was still in love with the Egg Ubatha. It was a weakness. He knew that. And one he would have to confront in order to pursue the Hath or “true path,” a discipline so strict that devotees were expected to sever all ties with their mates. That had been relatively easy to do where Chancellor Ubatha was concerned, but this was different. He forced himself to reply. “I will speak with her.”

  “When?”

  For one brief moment, the War Ubatha hated Parth and all the rest of them. “Soon,” he clicked. “When the time is right.”