A Fighting Chance Page 8

  Was there a wistful quality to Maylo’s voice? As if such occasions were all too rare? Vanderveen thought so, as the restaurant’s proprietor came bustling out of the kitchen to greet them. She was middle-aged, somewhat plump, and her brown fur was shot through with streaks of black. There was a smile on her vaguely catlike face. “Madam Chien-Chu! This is an honor.”

  “I brought you a new customer,” Maylo said, as they embraced. “This is Christine Vanderveen. Christine, this is Bakewell Goodeat. She owns the restaurant.”

  Having collected a hug of her own, Vanderveen followed Maylo and a solemn-looking waiter, who led them to a table next to the fire. What followed was an excellent meal. There was a salad made from assorted marsh greens, a meat pie with a wonderfully flaky crust, and a generous slice of cake. Vanderveen was still in the process of finishing her dessert when a female Naa arrived at the table.

  A good deal older than Goodeat, she was slightly stooped over, and her eyes were somewhat rheumy. Her fur had once been jet-black but was now shot with gray. It was clear that Maylo knew her. “Christine . . . This is Dreamsee Futurewalk. She can throw the Wula Sticks. And, more importantly, read them. Let’s move our plates. She’ll need some room.”

  Vanderveen didn’t believe in fortune-tellers, but it appeared that Maylo did. Or was this a simple act of charity? A way to help an aging female make some money? It was impossible to tell as Futurewalk placed a one-legged stool next to the table and rested her weight on it. She upended a tube and black Wula Sticks came pouring out. They were about twelve inches long and wound up in an untidy pile.

  Then Futurewalk began to remove sticks in what looked like random order, sliding each one back into the brightly decorated tube as she did so. Two or three minutes passed before she began to speak. Her voice was surprisingly youthful and melodious. “Your fates are bound together,” she announced. “But not here. The moment of truth will occur in a distant place, where fire rules the sky, and death dances the land. One of you will gain everything, and the other will lose everything, as billions of lives hang in the balance.”

  The words, and the way they were said, sent a chill down Vanderveen’s spine. And as Maylo’s eyes came up off the tangle of sticks, Vanderveen saw fear in them. And that was even more troubling. Because if Maylo Chien-Chu had reason to be afraid, what about her?

  “Well,” Maylo said with a grim smile, “to hell with the calories. We might as well finish our desserts.”

  With nothing productive to do, and her fate hanging in the balance, Vanderveen had been forced to wait for what seemed like an eternity. But finally, for better or for worse, the day of reckoning had arrived. So Vanderveen was dressed in a conservative suit, and ready for just about anything, as she entered the reception area and made herself known to the android named Chet. “FSO-2 Vanderveen. I’m scheduled to meet with Secretary Yatsu.”

  A suspenseful moment followed as Chet consulted the screen in front of him. What if Yatsu was ill? Or had been called away? Or any of a dozen other possibilities?

  Vanderveen felt a rising sense of apprehension as the seconds ticked by, and she confronted the possibility that it might be necessary to wait for another week. Then came a feeling of relief as Chet spoke. “Here we are . . . The secretary is running about ten minutes late. Please take a seat. I’ll call your name as soon as she becomes available.”

  Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Eventually, after more than half an hour of watching people come and go, Vanderveen heard her name. She stood and made her way up to the desk where a flesh-and-blood person waited to meet her. The woman had carefully coiffed hair, dark eyes, and coffee-colored skin. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “I’m Nanci. Secretary Yatsu’s assistant. Please accept our apologies. The meeting with the Prithian delegation ran over. I’m sure you understand.”

  Being an FSO-2, Vanderveen did understand. Even if the wait had been painful. She forced a smile. “Of course. Thank you for squeezing me in.”

  “Please follow me,” Nanci said, and Vanderveen did so. Their heels made clicking sounds as they made their way down a corridor and past more than a dozen offices. Eventually, they entered an open area, rounded a desk that had Nanci’s name on it, and passed between a pair of large double doors. It was a nice office by local standards. There was a circular conference table, which was made out of local wood and was intended to put everyone on an equal footing. A massive desk could be seen beyond that, backed by a large Confederacy seal and flanked by appropriate flags. Just the thing for official photos.

  “Please have a seat,” Nanci intoned. “The secretary will be back shortly—and Assistant Secretary Holson will be joining you as well. Can I get you anything? Some caf perhaps?”

  Vanderveen had been feeling slightly positive about the meeting up until that point. Because even though Yatsu was tough, she was also known to be fair. But Holson had been very angry about her activities on Alpha-001. Partly because of her refusal to follow orders, which was perfectly understandable, but also because of the way that he had been left standing on the sidelines when the rebels took over. It was a grudge he would have an opportunity to settle. So as Vanderveen sat down, she could feel the world closing in around her. If her own father would reduce her to file clerk—what would Assistant Secretary Holson do? “No, thank you. I’m fine.” Nanci nodded pleasantly and left the office.

  Vanderveen was still mulling her fate when Yatsu and Holson entered the room two minutes later. Yatsu was a tiny birdlike thing, with a mop of black hair and bright, inquisitive eyes. Her teeth were very white and flashed when she smiled. But there was strength lurking behind the girlish charm, which was why Yatsu was referred to as the “Iron Maiden” behind her back.

  Holson had brown hair, some of which flopped down over a high forehead. His wide-set eyes were slightly hooded, as if to conceal what he was thinking, and a carefully trimmed mustache served to emphasize a slashlike mouth.

  Vanderveen stood and found herself on the receiving end of a warm handshake from Yatsu and a cold stare from Holson, who had chosen to sit across from her. “There will be one more participant,” Yatsu said, “and here he is now.”

  Vanderveen turned toward the door and was astonished to see President Marcott Nankool enter the office. Having shed thirty pounds on Jericho and a few more as Earth fell to the Ramanthians, it appeared as though his weight had stabilized. His face still had a gaunt appearance, however, and the smile was in marked contrast to the sadness in his eyes. It was no secret that the never-ending stream of bad news was taking a toll on him. “Christine!” he said warmly. “I heard about this meeting and asked Secretary Yatsu if I could sit in. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Vanderveen didn’t mind. Nankool was upset with her. She knew that. But the fact that they had survived the horrors of Jericho together meant there was a bond between them. One that Holson was clearly aware of judging from the way he frowned when Nankool gave her a hug.

  But Vanderveen wasn’t out of the woods. She knew that. In spite of the relationship that existed between them, Nankool couldn’t allow his diplomats to do whatever they pleased. So as they took their seats, her future was still in doubt.

  All eyes went to Yatsu. She consulted a hand comp before looking up again. Her expression was serious. “I must say that in all my years of Foreign Service experience I haven’t run into anyone quite like you. On the plus side, you more than distinguished yourself while serving on LaNor during the Claw uprising. Then there was the partnership with His Excellency Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, which resulted in an important intelligence coup. That was followed by your imprisonment on Jericho, where the president described your actions as ‘heroic.’ All capped off by the recent one-diplomat effort that culminated in a historic agreement with Clone Hegemony. It’s a very impressive record, and that’s why you’re the youngest FSO-2 in the Foreign Service.”

  Yatsu paused at that point, formed a steeple with her fingers, and frowned. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that wh
ile you were stationed on Alpha-001, you disobeyed a directive, which, had things gone the other way, could have been disastrous.”

  Holson smiled thinly. And there was no mistaking the hostility in his half-shuttered eyes.

  “Nor was that the first time,” Yatsu added sternly. “For example, your work with Triad Doma-Sa was unauthorized, and your superior put a letter to that effect in your P-1 file.”

  “Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Wilmot was later convicted of treason, Madam Secretary,” Vanderveen put in.

  “She has you there,” Nankool said, as he spoke for the first time.

  “With all due respect, Wilmot’s conviction came well after the time the letter was written,” Holson commented darkly.

  Yatsu nodded. “The point is that discipline is important to an organization such as ours. Just imagine if all our FSO-3’s and 2’s were running about cutting deals on their own! Say what you will about our bureaucracy—but it exists for a reason.”

  Vanderveen felt there had been extenuating circumstances associated with all of the situations that Yatsu had mentioned, but knew the secretary was correct where the need for a disciplined approach was concerned. She nodded contritely. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Good,” Yatsu replied. “So with all of that in mind, we are faced with a very difficult decision. And, given what we do for a living, you won’t be surprised to learn that we settled on a compromise.” It was a joke, and Vanderveen managed to produce a weak smile.

  “The president wants to reward you for bringing the Hegemony into the Confederacy,” Yatsu added. “So, effective today, I’m promoting you to FS-1. But Richard feels that it would be inappropriate to reward your behavior by posting you to one of the core worlds. And I agree.”

  “As do I,” Nankool added sternly.

  “So we’re sending you to Trevia,” Yatsu announced. “It’s a rim world, which is located outside the boundaries of the bug empire but has a significant population of Ramanthian expatriates. Eccentrics mostly, plus a scattering of political exiles and members of other races.”

  Vanderveen felt a crushing sense of disappointment. They were sending her to prison. A place far from civilization, where she could be left to rot for who knew how long.

  Nankool saw the look in her eyes. “It’s more than a holding cell,” he assured her. “We need eyes and ears out there. So make a lot of contacts. And who knows? Once the war begins to go our way, one or more of your new friends might prove to be useful where negotiations are concerned.”

  “Or, depending on how things go, you may find yourself living inside the Ramanthian Empire,” Holson said unsympathetically. “But I’m sure you’ll manage given your well-known capacity to take care of yourself.”

  That earned Holson a dirty look from Nankool. But if the diplomat regretted his comment, there was no sign of it on his face.

  “I guess that handles it,” Yatsu said blithely. “Congratulations on your promotion—and have a nice trip.”

  5

  The measure of an officer is not in victory but in defeat.

  —Grand Marshal Nimu Wurla-Ka (ret.)

  Instructor, Hudathan War College

  Standard year 1958

  PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  There was a violent jerk as his half of the rope bridge struck something solid. Santana lost his grip, fell backwards, and crashed through multiple layers of branches. When he hit the ground, the impact drove all of the air out of his lungs. But thanks to his helmet and the foliage that slowed his fall, he was uninjured.

  As the Ramanthian transport rose, Santana could see the platform where Temo had been standing. She had somehow been able to establish contact with the bugs and cut a deal. The bitch. The lights were extinguished, and Santana knew the renegade had escaped.

  A spectral form appeared above him. “No offense, sir,” Dietrich said. “But you’re lying down on the job. An officer should set a good example for the troops.”

  Santana accepted the proffered hand, allowed himself to be pulled up onto his feet, and was pleased to discover that he could stand unassisted. No broken bones, then. That was good. “Thank you, Sergeant Major. I’m glad to see that you survived the fall—and are keeping a sharp eye out for slackers. Have you seen my weapon by any chance? I lost it.”

  “It was barrel down in the ground,” Dietrich replied as he gave the carbine over. “So don’t try to fire it. Orders, sir?”

  “Pass the word . . . There’s no point in blundering around in the darkness. Tell our people to count heads, collect the wounded, and muster below the lodge. We’ll search it and the clearing at first light. Then we’ll have some field rats and get the hell out of here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And one more thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “That’s the last time I follow you out onto a rope bridge.”

  More than a day had passed since the failed attempt to capture or kill Major Temo, and the battalion was back in Baynor’s Bay. One thing had been accomplished, however. With the exception of a small number of O-Chi Scouts who had escaped with their leader—the rest of Temo’s loyalists had been captured or killed. And that meant Santana was free to go after the STS cannon. Assuming he could integrate the O-Chi Rifles, O-Chi Scouts, and legionnaires into a single fighting force. And do so quickly.

  The sun was still rising in the east and a gauzy mist was floating just off the ground as the troops made their way out onto the athletic field adjacent to the Baynor’s Bay trischool. They hadn’t been ordered to form up. But as Santana climbed onto the top of a quad named Sy Coto and looked out over their heads, he wasn’t surprised to see Scouts with Scouts, Rifles with Rifles, and legionnaires with legionnaires. Once Santana was in position, Dietrich bellowed, “Ten-hut!” The legionnaires looked pretty good as they came to attention, but many of the militia men and women were somewhat sloppy.

  Santana was wearing a lip mike. And when he spoke, his voice could be heard over Coto’s PA system. “At ease. You’ll notice that you weren’t required to muster as part of a unit. That’s because, as of this morning, you are members of a battalion-strength expeditionary force called the O-Chi Raiders. It will consist of three companies, each having three platoons, with three squads to a platoon.”

  Based on facial expressions and body language, Santana could tell that none of the soldiers liked that. Especially his troops, who saw themselves as part of an elite unit and were proud of the Legion’s long history. He smiled grimly. “And that isn’t all. Not only will you become part of a single organization, you will serve in a company, platoon, and squad with people from the other units. A table of organization (TO) will be distributed at the conclusion of this briefing. At that time, you will report to your platoon leaders, who will go over their expectations with you.

  “Then, after a word from your company commander, you’ll be heading into the bush on a three-day training exercise. Each company will have a flag, and the objective will be to capture as many flags as you can and deliver them to me. During this evolution, you will be unarmed. Should you run into serious trouble with the local wildlife, a quick reaction force comprised of T-2s will be available to respond. The rules governing this field exercise will be delivered to squad leaders and above along with the TO charts. Lieutenant Ponco will serve as referee, and, should there be some sort of dispute, her decisions will be final.

  “Finally,” Santana added, “remember this . . . About five days from now, we will depart on a very important mission. This is your chance to prepare for it. That will be all.”

  RAMANTHIAN BASE 46791, AKA “HEADSTONE,” THE PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  The pit was utterly dark except for the beams of light that slanted down through the metal grating to make a pattern on Major Temo’s face. Ever since the last-minute rescue from the clearing, she’d been waiting to learn her fate. The cell was about four feet wide, six feet long, and eight feet high. There wa
s no furniture and no conveniences other than the floor drain located in one corner.

  So as Temo crouched on the floor and listened to the shuffle of Ramanthian feet and occasional bursts of click speech, she had no way to know what would happen next. The fact that she was still alive could be credited to the family’s business manager. A shrewd Thraki named Eban Rhaki. As a member of a race that was officially neutral, he had been able to forge a friendly relationship with the bugs on O-Chi 4 months earlier. But whether that would be enough to save her life remained to be seen.

  Shadows rippled across her face as the grating was removed, and a Ramanthian noncom peered down at her. Like all of his kind, the soldier had compound eyes, a parrot-shaped beak, and two short olfactory antennae that projected from his forehead. “You stink,” the Ramanthian said contemptuously. His standard was wooden but serviceable. “Take your clothes off.”

  Temo was about to refuse when a blast of cold water hit her from above. Suddenly, there was reason to hope. After all, why bother to hose her down if the bugs were about to put a bullet in her head?

  So she stripped off her filthy clothing, shivered as the water blasted her body, and forced herself to perform a slow 360. Then, as suddenly as the shower had begun, it was over. The noncom said, “Catch,” and a bundle of clean clothes fell into her arms.

  Temo discovered that it was civilian clothing, which, though slightly too large for her, was a lot better than the filthy uniform that lay on the wet concrete. She had finished tucking the shirt in and was fastening the trousers when her combat boots thumped onto the floor. There weren’t any socks to go with them, but Temo wasn’t about to complain as she tied her laces.