Finally, after five minutes or so, the noises stopped, and Vanderveen opened the door. The briefcase was hanging from her shoulder, the pistol was raised, and she was ready to fire. But there were no targets in sight.
What she
could
see was all sorts of stuff that had been pulled out of various rooms and dumped onto the floor so that Ramanthians could sift through it. Had they found what they were looking for? Or left disappointed? There was no way to know. And what about alarms? Had they tripped any? If so, security people were on the way and would assume that the messy search was Vanderveen’s doing. The State Department would eventually bail her out, but that would take time.
So, determined not to leave empty-handed but aware of the fact that she lacked the expertise to hack TOMKO’S computer system, Vanderveen went to a secondary information source. And that was the room marked GARBAGE. The door was unlocked, and the refuse bins were untouched. Was that because garbage and sewage were traditionally handled by members of the Ramanthian Skrum class? Or because the bugs assumed that garbage was garbage?
Vanderveen stuck the handgun into her waistband, went over to the container marked SHREDDER, and dumped the paper onto the floor. Then, having dropped to hands and knees, she began to paw through the pile. Most of the printouts were routine items of the sort any business would produce. And Vanderveen was beginning to wonder if TOMKO’s employees had been extra diligent regarding materials having to do with the Queen, when she came across a page titled, “Field Trial Four.”
And there, right in the foreground, was what looked like a Ramanthian without any chitin. But rather than the internal organs one would expect to see, all sorts of electromechanical components were visible. Of equal interest were the buildings in the background and the green hills beyond. Were the structures on the planet below? Vanderveen was determined to find out.
There wasn’t enough time to do more than glance at the sheet before stuffing it into her briefcase and coming to her feet. Then, conscious of the fact that security could arrive at any second, Vanderveen followed a trail of debris to a side door. It was closed. But a Ramanthian-sized hole had been cut through the center of it. And that allowed the bugs to enter without tripping the alarm.
Vanderveen was able to duck and step through as well. Then it was a simple matter to stand up straight and follow the corridor out to the main thoroughfare. Had she been photographed by the lab’s security cameras? Without a doubt. So it was time to do some research and get off the space station quickly. She hurried away.
ABOARD THE FREIGHTER
INTHEON
, OVER PLANET LONG JUMP, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
After performing the necessary research, Vanderveen had been able to confirm that Dr. Tomko not only had a home on the planet below but a well-equipped research facility as well. And assuming that the assassins knew what she knew, it was extremely important to reach Tomko’s estate before the Ramanthians did. And that was why she was aboard the
Intheon
. The freighter was so large that she barely qualified for a landing on a planet with something close to Earth-normal gravity. But the
Intheon
was the only ship Vanderveen had been able to hire on short notice. The elderly vessel shook like a thing possessed as she dropped into the atmosphere. Not having wings, the ship couldn’t glide. So it was all about brute force as the freighter’s engines roared and battled to keep the
Intheon
from cratering on the surface below.
The captain’s name was Nora Perthy. And judging from the explosion of gray hair around her head, she was almost as old as the ship. Perthy owned the
Intheon
, but just barely, and couldn’t afford luxuries like a pilot. So the crew consisted of Perthy, a robotic load master, and a rarely seen engineer.
As Vanderveen sat with her hands clenching the chair’s armrests, Perthy was conning the ship. A necessity since the ship’s NAVCOMP was on the blink. The process involved manipulating a small joystick, stabbing various buttons, and coaxing the
Intheon
to do what Perthy wanted. “That’s right, honey,” she said softly. “Slowly, slowly, keep it level. You can do it. Remember the landing on Alto? You did it there, didn’t you? Hmmm. What have we here? There’s a battle going on.”
The last was directed to Vanderveen, who was seated in the nav officer’s chair to left of and slightly to the rear of Perthy. Six curved screens were arrayed above the banks of controls. The camera mounted on the ship’s rotund belly was up on the main screen at the moment, and as a wisp of low-lying cloud blew through the shot, Vanderveen could see that a Thraki-style ship was already on the ground.
Tiny figures were scurrying toward the main complex as smoke poured out of two outbuildings. And from what Vanderveen could see, it looked as though the attackers were about to overrun the largest structure. “See those people?” she inquired. “Take them out.”
Perthy turned to stare at Vanderveen. She looked incredulous. “You must be joking. My ship isn’t armed. But even if it were, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, yes you would,” Vanderveen said, as she pulled the pistol from under her jacket. “Look closely. They’re Ramanthians. On one of the Confederacy’s planets. Attacking some innocent citizens. So you will stop them, or I will blow your brains all over the control panel.”
“But then both of us will die!”
Vanderveen smiled thinly. “That’s correct.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Yes, I am. Now kill them.”
“But
how
?” Perth demanded desperately.
“Use your repellers. Walk the ship back and forth. Burn anything that moves.”
Perthy swore some very unladylike oaths as she turned back toward the controls. Vanderveen’s chair seemed to rise to meet her as the
Intheon
’s descent slowed, and the globe-shaped vessel began to hover some twenty-five feet off the ground.
The attackers had broken off their assault by then and begun to shuffle away from the main building as the
Intheon
’s repellers plowed black furrows in the ground. One of the Ramanthian soldiers disappeared in a flash of fire, quickly followed by another, as the freighter chased them down. “The ship!” Vanderveen shouted. “It’s lifting. Stop it.”
But it was too late. The Thraki vessel was not only a lot smaller, but much more agile, and it had little difficulty making its escape. “Damn it,” Vanderveen said. “You were supposed to kill all of them.”
“I will do no such thing,” Perthy said primly. “That’s what the navy is for. I’m going to land, and you’re going to pay me. Then I’m going to lift.”
Vanderveen lowered the gun and put it away. Some of the would-be assassins had escaped. But the Queen was still alive. Or so she hoped.
Vanderveen was on the ground ten minutes later. She followed a still-smoking furrow up a slight incline toward the building beyond. Judging from appearances, the much-abused facade had been struck by hundreds of bullets and at least one rocket.
When she was a hundred feet away, Vanderveen stopped, and a Ramanthian shuffled out to greet her. He was nicely dressed and bowed formally. “Greetings. And thank you. Dr. Tomko’s security people weren’t prepared for such a concerted attack. And you are?”
“My name is Vanderveen. Christine Vanderveen. I am the Confederacy’s consul on Trevia. The planet where you and the Warrior Queen were in hiding before you left for Sensa II. How is her majesty? Well, I hope.”
There was a long silence as they looked into each other’s eyes. The Ramanthian was the first to speak. “So your government knows?”
“At a very high level—yes.”
“And you were dispatched to make contact?”
Vanderveen nodded. “I was. The Ramanthian cabal wants her majesty dead. And the Queen plans to retake the throne. We can help.”
“But for a price.”
“Of course.”
The Ramanthian nodded. “My name is Ubatha. Chancellor Ubatha. I think it’s time that you met the Queen.”
15
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
—Human folk saying
Date unknown
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
It was dark at the moment and so cold that President Nankool could see his breath fog the air as the Thraki shuttle lowered itself onto the VIP pad. He was standing on one of Fort Camerone’s ramparts looking downwards as the ship was enveloped by a cloud of steam. The entire area had been cordoned off, and security was extremely tight; all hell would break loose if word of the meeting were to leak out—both in the Confederacy and in the Ramanthian Empire. Because fanatics on both sides weren’t willing to settle for anything less than total victory. And in their minds, peace talks would equate to treason. Plus, there were those who were benefiting from the war and wanted the conflict to continue. They included arms manufacturers, senior members of the military, and the rapacious news combines, which continually fed off the conflict.
As for regular folks, if they heard that peace talks were under way, expectations would soar. Then, if the negotiations fell apart, Nankool feared that morale would sink even further. So rather than conduct preliminary conversations in the harsh glare of the public spotlight, he was about to meet with Chancellor Parth in private. And it pained him to do so because there was general agreement that the bugs were winning the war. And that meant he and his staff would be forced to negotiate from a position of weakness.
As the handpicked ground crew surged forth to service the shuttle, Nankool glanced to his right. Judging from all appearances, Charles Vanderveen was just fine. But Nankool knew that the death of the diplomat’s wife had hit him hard. So much so that there were reports he’d been drinking a lot lately. And the fact that his daughter had put herself back in harm’s way didn’t help either. All of which had a bearing on Nankool’s’s decision to include Vanderveen on the negotiating team. Maybe some hard work plus the passage of time would help him to heal. A rectangle of light appeared as a hatch opened, and half a dozen backlit figures shuffled down a ramp to the place where Secretary Yatsu and some of her staff were waiting to receive the Ramanthians. Vanderveen said, “Bastards,” under his breath, and Nankool pretended not to hear.
“Come on, Charles . . . We’re serving live grubs in hot sauce—and you wouldn’t want to miss out.”
Very few Ramanthians had been allowed on the surface of Algeron, and with the exception of a few POWs, all of their visits had taken place prior to the war. As Parth shuffled down the ramp onto the landing pad, he was struck by how cold the air was, the glare of the surrounding lights, and the alien feel of the place. There were members of the cabal, Admiral Tu Stik, for example, who felt that the trip to Algeron was a mistake. As a member of the
Nira
cult, he opposed any form of negotiation. But if overruled, he preferred that the meeting take place on a Ramanthian battleship, so the animals could feel the full weight of the empire’s military might.
But Parth was a politician. And a pragmatist. As such, he knew that while his willingness to visit Algeron could be viewed as a sign of weakness, there were potential benefits as well. The primary one was to place the animals in a receptive frame of mind. And that was important because even though the Ramanthian military had won battle after battle since the beginning of the war, there was a very real possibility that dark days lay ahead.
The burgeoning alliance between the Hudathans and the Confederacy was bad enough. But now that the Clone Hegemony had placed its genetically bred warriors under General Booly’s command, and some sort of horrible disease was spreading among the troops on Earth, Parth feared the military momentum was starting to swing the other way. So it made sense to negotiate a deal while in a position of undeniable strength.
Besides,
Parth thought to himself,
we can always break the truce and attack the animals later on.
Members of the
Nira
cult would object at first but ultimately go along.
Parth’s thoughts were interrupted as a small human with lots of black hair came forward to greet him. “Welcome to Algeron,” Yatsu said solemnly. “I’m Secretary of State Yatsu. It’s an honor to meet you. We often greet guests with a formal ceremony. But given the temperature and the need for security, I suggest that we go indoors.”
Parth bowed. “Chancellor Parth. The honor is mine. By all means, let’s put comfort before ceremony. We can continue the introductions inside.”
Both diplomats made small talk as a phalanx of cybernetic monstrosities led them through an open door into the brightly lit warmth within. The higher temperature felt good, but Parth’s sense of smell was quite acute and the mixed odors of human perspiration and food caused him to gag, a reaction he sought to conceal as he and his staff were escorted through a maze of hallways and into a large conference room.
A formally set table occupied the center of the space, round so as to put everyone on an equal footing. Even if that was a bit delusional where Parth’s hosts were concerned. Six saddle chairs were available as well, and he wondered where they had come from. A Ramanthian world perhaps? Where they had been looted along with everything else that wasn’t nailed down? Yes, he thought so.
Nor did the preparations end there. In place of the offensive odors encountered earlier, the reassuringly familiar scent of Ramanthian cooking hung in the still air. And Parth could see a row of gleaming warmers sitting on the tables that lined one wall. It seemed that the humans had gone all out in an effort to please their superiors. A propitious sign indeed.