A Fighting Chance (24 page)

“His
real
name is Bebo Hoknar. And prior to the Warrior Queen’s death, he served as her majordomo. It’s my belief that the locals are well aware of that, which is why they defer to him. He’s the most senior ex-official on Trevia.”

“Brilliant,” Vanderveen said. “Excellent work. But why use a false name?”

Sayers shook her head. “I don’t know, ma’am. Unless he wants to keep non-Ramanthians in the dark about his identity for some reason.”

“Well, maybe we’ll find out,” Vanderveen replied. “Please set up a meeting.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And Missy . . .”

“Ma’am?”

“Thank you.”

The Thraki ship
Light Runner
landed on Trevia without any fanfare and began to discharge its passengers an hour later. There were six of them, all but one of whom were Ramanthians, the sixth being a Thraki, who remained with the ship.

The rest, led by a richly robed merchant named Ortu Bacula, were transported into the dome. According to the information provided to the city’s registrar, Bacula and his party planned to meet with local officials regarding the construction of a pollution-spewing factory that would not only create jobs, but complement their efforts to produce greenhouse gases.

So it wasn’t surprising to the few people who were paying attention when Bacula and his retinue checked into a hotel at the heart of what the local humans referred to as “bug town.” It was a section of the city where Ramanthian cuisine, sand baths, and entertainments were widely available.

But, contrary to appearances, Bacula was the lowest-ranking member of the party, and one of his servants was in charge. The servant role was one that the War Ubatha had chosen for himself so that while all eyes were on Bacula, he would be free to look for the Warrior Queen. Because, thanks to the information extracted from the Egg Ubatha, the soldier knew his quarry was hidden nearby.

That didn’t mean the process would be easy, however. Most of the roughly twenty-five hundred Ramanthians who lived in Dome City were exiles, nonconformists of various stripes, or outright criminals. None of them was likely to cooperate with government agents. Especially a group of resident denialists who continued to send antigovernment tracts to Hive and other Ramanthian planets. Though careful not to claim that the Warrior Queen was still alive and living on Trevia, they liked to natter on about how “the memories of our rightful monarch will never die.” The key word being “rightful.”

Since he couldn’t go door to door searching for the Queen, the War Ubatha would have to use a less-direct approach. And that was to keep an eye on the individuals that a resident intelligence agent thought were most likely to know where the royal was hiding. Then, having identified such a person, the War Ubatha would follow him or her to the Queen’s hiding place.

To accomplish that, Ubatha had brought a surveillance expert plus a trunkful of very sophisticated equipment to Trevia. Devices which would not only allow his team to remain in the shadows—but greatly increase the number of suspects they could track.

The first step was to set up a command center in Bacula’s hotel suite. Once that was accomplished, hundreds of tiny self-propelled spy balls were launched into the air with orders to seek out the addresses of the individuals on Ubatha’s list and take up positions inside their homes. The process was delightfully simple thanks to the absence of roofs.

So, within one rotation of landing, the War Ubatha and his team were not only established but on the receiving end of a steady flow of information. Most of which was mind-numbingly dull. As a result, Ubatha had to take frequent breaks lest the banality of the incoming conversations drive him mad. That was why he was in his room, practicing crosscuts with his sword, when Ras Qwen appeared in the doorway. The surveillance technician was clearly excited. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. But subject Six has a human visitor.”

Each suspect had been assigned a number by the intelligence agent who had compiled the list of names. The lower the number, the more important that individual was thought to be. And since the agent was also the city’s registrar—he was in a position to know who was who. So a meeting between a human and Six was clearly of interest.

The warrior followed the technician into the central living area, where a bank of monitors had been set up. “This is the one,” Qwen said, indicating screen three. The picture showed a room decorated to resemble a home on Hive, a Ramanthian functionary who looked vaguely familiar, and a pair of human females. All three were seated.

Ubatha lowered himself onto a saddle chair and settled in to watch. “Names,” he demanded.

“The functionary calls himself Hamantha Croth. But his actual name is Bebo Hoknar. He served as the Warrior Queen’s majordomo and fled Hive two days
before
her death was announced to the public. According to the data supplied by the registrar, both of the animals work for the Confederacy’s consulate. The creature on the far right is Consul Christine Vanderveen. She arrived a week ago and appears to be making a round of courtesy calls.”

“And Hoknar is at or near the top of her list.”

“It appears that way—yes.”

“Back it up. I want to see it from the beginning.”

Qwen complied. Ubatha watched and listened as the pleasantries came to an end and the
real
conversation began. And it was painfully mundane as the Vanderveen animal probed Hoknar for information, and he fended her off. “She knows something,” Ubatha observed. “Or believes she does.”

“Perhaps,” Qwen allowed. “But if so, she isn’t getting anywhere.”

And that was true. Because fifteen minutes later, as the humans got up to leave, nothing of any real consequence had been said. “Sorry, sir,” Qwen said, as the visitors left and the door closed behind them. “I thought we were onto something.”

“Quiet,” Ubatha ordered, as a female Ramanthian shuffled into the picture. The Egg Hoknar? Yes, the warrior thought so.

“What did they want?” the Egg Hoknar inquired.

“It was a courtesy call,” Hoknar answered. “But the new animal seemed to be after some sort of information. We must be very careful. What if the animals were to learn the truth? There’s no telling what might happen.”

“Come,” the Egg Hoknar said. “Your lunch is ready.”

Ubatha felt the slow, pleasurable flush of victory as the couple shuffled out of the room. He still didn’t know where the fugitive Queen was. But he knew whom to ask.

Thanks to the spy ball in Hoknar’s home, the War Ubatha was very familiar with the expat’s habits. So the home invasion took place at two in the morning. A time when both of the Hoknars would be sound asleep.

It took less than a minute for Qwen to neutralize the alarm system and pick the lock. A few moments later, Ubatha and his team were inside. It was a simple matter to enter the bedroom and turn the lights on. The couple was sleeping on floor bolsters facing the door. Hoknar awoke with a start and was trying to get up when Ubatha placed a foot on his back.

Meanwhile, the Egg Hoknar did something completely unexpected. She reared up, produced a pistol, and fired. The bullet nicked one of the troopers. So he shot her in the head. She collapsed in a heap.

“You fool!” Ubatha said, and brought a closed pincer around. There was a loud clack as chitin made contact with chitin and the soldier staggered backwards. Suddenly, some of Ubatha’s leverage, not to mention a possible source of information, was gone. There was one benefit, however—and that was Hoknar’s reaction to his mate’s death. Judging from his body language, he was both shocked and terrified.

“Check to see if the noise woke anyone up,” Ubatha ordered. “Take Hoknar into the eating area and secure him to the table. But leave his tool arms free so he can talk.”

Troopers were busy tying Hoknar to the table when Qwen returned. “There isn’t any activity in the area, sir. If other residents heard the Egg Hoknar’s shot—they didn’t recognize the noise for what it was.”

“Good,” Ubatha replied. “Stay out front. Let me know if you see anything.”

With his subject secured to the table, Ubatha was ready for the interrogation. By pulling a chair around, he could sit only inches away and stare into Hoknar’s face. “This could be quite painless,” Ubatha said. “And that would be my preference. Your name is Bebo Hoknar. Not Hamantha Croth. You served as the Warrior Queen’s majordomo. And shortly after she left Hive,
you
left Hive. And followed her here. That much is obvious. And admirable in a way . . . because loyalty is a virtue. But there is something else to consider. And that is loyalty not to a single person but to our entire race. So tell me where the Queen is, and we will leave you in peace.”

The last was a lie, of course. Because Ubatha had no intention of allowing Hoknar to live. But it was necessary to lie in order to achieve a higher purpose. Hoknar blinked rapidly. A sure sign of stress. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Truly I don’t.”

Ubatha tilted his head in a way that signaled pity. “Your egg mate is dead. Who will arrange for her funeral once you’re gone?”

“I would tell you if I knew,” Hoknar insisted pitifully. “But I don’t.”

“Okay,” Ubatha responded. “Perhaps what you say is true. But my duty is clear. I have to make sure.”

Then, looking up at one of his troopers, Ubatha gave the necessary orders. “Tape his beak and remove his wings.”

Hoknar screamed. Or tried to. But he couldn’t open his mouth, so no sound came out. “Now,” Ubatha said, as he held one of the severed appendages up for Hoknar to examine. “Are you ready to tell me what I need to know?”

Hoknar had no choice but to communicate via click speech.
“Please,”
he said. “How can I tell you what I don’t know?”

“You are starting to annoy me,” Ubatha said heartlessly. “Remove his left foot.”

Hoknar struggled. Or tried to as a trooper took hold of his left foot and pulled. Having grabbed a meat cleaver from a rack, a second soldier raised it high above his head. There was a solid
thunk
as the blade cut through Hoknar’s ankle and sank into the wood tabletop. Blood spurted and began to pool on the floor.

Hoknar fainted at that point. He came around when a trooper dumped a panful of water onto his head. “I’m waiting,” Ubatha said grimly. “Tell me what I want to know.”

And Hoknar did. The ensuing conversation lasted for more than ten minutes. And by the time it was over, Ubatha knew the truth. The Warrior Queen had been smuggled into the city in a cargo module. But it was apparent to Hoknar and others that she wouldn’t be able to hide on the planet for long. The Ramanthian community was simply too small. Somebody would notice. Plus, there was the hope that a cure could be found. And that was why she had been taken to Sensa. “By whom?” Ubatha demanded. “
Who
took the Queen to Sensa?”

“Chancellor Ubatha,” came the reply. “And a Thraki named Benjii.”

The War Ubatha wasn’t surprised to hear his mate’s name. But a Thraki? That was news. Especially since the fur balls were providing him with assistance as well.
They’re supporting both sides,
Ubatha thought to himself.
So they win either way. The eggless scum.

The warrior stood and made eye contact with one of the troopers. “Shoot him. Use your silencer.”

There was a soft
phut
as the soldier fired, Hoknar jerked, and his body went limp. The entire party would be aboard the Thraki ship and in hyperspace before the bodies were discovered. Then the long, tiresome business of killing the Queen would continue. But, as Nira had written, “In order to achieve strength we must conqueror resistance.” And that made him feel better.

11

An army is a team, lives, sleeps, fights, and eats as a team. This individual hero stuff is a lot of horseshit.

—General George S. Patton Jr.
Standard year 1944

PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Trees had been cut down. Ground had been cleared. And graves had been dug. Seventy-six in all. Santana still had difficulty believing it. Nearly a third of the battalion had been wounded or killed in a single engagement. Yet as the sun sent hesitant rays of pale yellow light slanting down through what remained of the forest canopy, the evidence was clear to see.

Each hole was seven feet long, six feet deep, and four feet wide. They were spaced exactly two feet apart and laid out on a grid. Bodies and parts of bodies had already been placed in the graves. And with the exception of those assigned to guard the perimeter, the rest of the battalion stood at attention as soil was shoveled into the neatly excavated holes.

Captain Zarrella occupied one of the graves as did the mysterious Mr. Smith. But missing, and still unaccounted for, was Colonel Max Farber, who had last been seen running into the jungle as the fighting began. Dietrich had gone into the forest looking for the officer and returned with Farber’s still-functional helmet. But there had been no trace of the man himself. Dead probably. Killed by the O-Chies. Santana’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Dietrich’s voice. “The battalion is ready, sir.”