“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 was 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.
Once she was dressed, a ladder slid down into the pit and came to rest about a foot away. “Commander Dammo will see you now,” the noncom announced. “Climb the ladder.”
The Ramanthian-style ladder consisted of a long pole to which crosspieces had been fastened. V-shaped supports provided stability at both ends. Temo climbed up, stepped out onto a concrete floor, and saw that two escorts were waiting for her. They stood on their hind legs and clutched Negar III assault rifles with their pincers. Their uniforms consisted of armor plates held together by sections of metal mesh and harness-style ammo bibs. “Go with them,” the noncom ordered. “And do as you are told.”
Having been born into a wealthy family and educated on Earth, Temo wasn’t used to being addressed in that fashion. So she felt a flash of anger but managed to conceal it as the troopers took charge. One led the way, which meant Temo could see the long, seldom-used wings that were folded along his back and smell the wax that had been applied to them.
Temo had participated in the disastrous attack on Headstone during which more than a thousand of her fellow citizens were killed. But she had never been inside the complex. So it was natural to pay close attention to everything around her, and she was impressed. The corridor was clean. Racks of weapons were located at regular intervals. First-aid stations stood ready in alcoves. Side passageways led to what might have been gun emplacements and missile launchers. And the troops who passed her in the hall appeared to be well fed. All of which was consistent with what Rhaki had been telling her for months: The Ramanthians were going to win the war. And that, according to Rhaki, was why companies like Temo Pharmaceuticals should establish meaningful relationships with the Ramanthians while such a thing was still possible.
Those were Temo’s thoughts as she followed the first soldier into a side corridor. A ramp led up to a door, where two sentries stood at the Ramanthian equivalent of port arms. They remained motionless as Temo passed between them and entered a spacious office. The walls were hewn from solid rock and had been left rough, a look that Temo knew to be consistent with the underground dwellings the bugs preferred.
Two beings were waiting to receive Temo, one of whom was Rhaki. He was seated on a Ramanthian-style saddle chair and stood as she entered. The Thraki’s brown fur was shot with gray. He had pointy ears, a short muzzle, and was dressed in a white business suit. A jacket with a high collar hung down over a pair of neatly bloused pants. The pull-on boots he wore were well polished and way too nice for the bush. “Donna!” he said warmly. “Commander Dammo and I were just talking about you.”
Having known the Thraki for years and having learned to read his nonverbal expressions, Temo recognized what she thought of as his sales mode. Without being told, she knew it was her job to play along. Not ideal, perhaps, since it put her under Rhaki’s control, but what choice did she have? Temo forced a smile but knew it wouldn’t mean anything to the other person in the room, a stern-looking Ramanthian with a bulging prosthesis in place of his right eye. “I don’t know what you were saying—but I hope it was nice.”
“Of course it was,” Rhaki said jovially. “Commander Dammo, please allow me to introduce Major Donna Temo.”
Temo looked at the Ramanthian. Here was the officer responsible for taking part of what she considered to be
her
planet—and killing more than a thousand of its citizens. She should tell him to screw himself. But not if she wanted to survive and see Temo Pharmaceuticals prosper. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Dammo was silent for a moment. He was seated on a saddle chair. The officer’s scarlet uniform fit just so, his leather cross belts were polished, and everything about him conveyed a sense of controlled power. And when he spoke, his standard was so good that Temo suspected that he had spent time on one of the Confederacy’s planets prior to the war. A military attaché perhaps—or something similar. “I suspect those words cost you dearly,” he said. “But you were able to utter them nevertheless. Many of my peers would judge you harshly for that. Especially those who are members of the
Nira
cult.
“But I have no time for such nonsense. I, like citizen Rhaki here, am a pragmatist—a person more interested in results than process. And based on what I’ve heard about you, as well as what I’ve seen so far, it appears that you and I may be similar in that regard.”
Temo was impressed with what the Ramanthian had to say and the way in which it was said. “Yes, sir.”