“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.”
Parth looked as if he wanted to challenge the reply but apparently thought better of it and chose to let the matter drop. “Good. Let’s discuss the coronation.”
THE PLACE WHERE THE QUEEN DWELLS
During the three days since the Warrior Queen’s funeral, thousands of functionaries had worked day and night to prepare the underground city for the new Queen’s coronation. And now their efforts were about to pay off. Tradition called for the processional to start at the small cavern that was one of the earliest known nests on Hive and a potent symbol of the long climb up to an interstellar civilization. From the cave, the royal was required to demonstrate her humility by shuffling through more than three miles of twisting, turning streets while the commoners looked on. During the journey, which was said to represent the challenges that a ruler must face, she would be required to climb a steep ramp, navigate her way around a mythical monster, and pass through a narrow corridor lined with mirrors. All the while wearing royal regalia that weighed thirty pounds and being tracked by airborne cameras. Along the way, a cheering populace would pelt her with sath seeds in hopes of bringing about an era of prosperity.
Meanwhile, streaming along behind her were hundreds of senior government, military, and religious figures, who by their presence signified their support for the new monarch. Parth, Ixba, Taas, Stik, Nelo, Amm, and Ubatha were at the very front of the column, all wearing formal robes or uniforms. Ubatha’s consisted of a red pillbox hat, gold epaulettes, his medals, a pleated kilt, and a chromed pistol. His sword hung crosswise across his back.
To be there, to be on the receiving end no matter how indirectly of such enthusiastic applause, was heady stuff. And the War Ubatha felt a profound sense of pride as the Queen neared a contingent of soldiers from the
Death Hammer
Regiment, and they crashed to attention. Yet even as he took it all in, Nira’s teachings haunted him. Because, according to the mystic, the warrior’s true enemies were ego, possessions, and relationships. Such thoughts were sobering, and he gave thanks for them as a group of rarely seen Skrum prostrated themselves on the pavement.
Having successfully shuffled up the steep ramp that was symbolic of all the resistance the new Queen would have to overcome, it was time for her to confront the mythical monster. According to legend, the Kathong was the only thing that could destroy the royal house. The richly imagined statue was located in the middle of a traffic circle, where it was usually little more than a well-executed curiosity. But thanks to hundreds of years of tradition, the Kathong took on additional significance whenever a coronation was under way.
In some respects the beast looked a great deal like any Ramanthian, except that it had four tool arms rather than two, and a tail that was brandishing a trident. In keeping with tradition, the Queen stopped in front of the huge statue as if daring the Kathong to bar her way. The idea was that, if the beast disapproved of the Queen, it would suddenly come to life and devour her. It hadn’t happened, of course, and never would, but Ubatha knew that news commentators would be talking about it nevertheless.
Having confronted the Kathong without being eaten, the royal continued on her way as thousands clacked their pincers—and she led the processional into the hall of images. The double rows of full-length mirrors were cautionary in nature, symbolizing all of the different ways in which truth could be expressed and the danger of falling victim to the sort of royal narcissism that some of her predecessors had been subject to.
From there it was a short distance to the royal dwelling, where the final ceremony would take place and the young female would become Queen. The only problem was that she wouldn’t be the
real
Queen until such time as Ubatha could find the missing royal and kill her.
A full day had passed since the coronation. As the ground car stopped in front of the upscale dwelling, the War Ubatha steeled himself against what was to come. Two members of the military police were riding on a platform to the rear. He waited for one of them to step down and open his door. Slowly, and with a feeling of reluctance, he got out of the vehicle. It was a test of sorts. He forced himself to look at the familiar facade and monitor his emotions as he did so. Was he happy? Or sad? No. Home was no longer a physical place but something he carried inside him. “Sir?” the noncom named Nenk inquired. “Should we accompany you?”
“Yes,” Ubatha answered evenly. “And bring the satchel. We might need it.”
Ubatha followed a short but scrupulously clean path to the front door. A single pair of sandals had been laid out in front of it.
His.
Because Chancellor Ubatha was dead. Or supposed to be. The War Ubatha entered a number into the key pad and waited for the door to move aside. Then, with two soldiers at his back, he entered what had once been his home.
He could smell the incense in the air, the faint odor of newly baked wafers, and what? A whiff of the Egg Orno’s perfume? Ubatha felt a pang of regret, hurried to repress it, and made his way forward. First came the carefully arranged rock garden, followed by a hallway with heirloom prints on both walls and a formal reception room. The Egg Ubatha bowed as he arrived. Her click speech was both precise and elegant. “I’m sorry . . . I had no idea you were coming. I would have met you at the door.”
“The fault was mine for not letting you know,” the War Ubatha replied. “I suggest that we retire to the sitting area.”
The Egg Ubatha made no move to obey. It was both literally and figuratively
her
house. “And your soldiers?”
“They are with me.”
Bringing soldiers, especially enlisted soldiers, into the most intimate recesses of the house was unprecedented, and subtle changes in the Egg Ubatha’s posture signaled her disapproval. “And your weapons?”
“They are part of me,” the War Ubatha replied. He normally left his sidearm and sword on an antique rack designed for that purpose.
There was a good ten seconds of silence as she studied him. Then, having reached some internal decision, she turned and shuffled away. That was intentionally rude. But anger, like love, was something that Ubatha had forsworn. He followed.
The chamber beyond was large enough to seat twenty. Something the space had often been called upon to do back during the days when the Chancellor had been in residence. Saddle seats surrounded a tiled area that was empty at the moment but could be configured in a number of different ways. The Egg Ubatha stopped in the middle of it and turned. She was beautiful, or had been back when the soldier had been captive to such things. “Now what?” she said defiantly.
“Now you will tell me the truth,” the War Ubatha replied coldly. “The Chancellor is still alive. Where is he?”
“How strange,” she replied. “The government notified me of his death. Yet you believe he’s alive.
Why?
”
The War Ubatha took three steps forward, brought his right pincer back over his left shoulder, and struck the side of her head. The Egg Ubatha fell and slid across the tiles. “Pick her up,” the warrior ordered. “And hold her.”
The troopers hurried to obey. The War Ubatha saw that the blow had pulped his mate’s right eye. That hadn’t been his intention. But what was, was. Perhaps it was for the best. She would take his questions seriously now. Blobs of viscous goo dripped down onto her otherwise-pristine gown. “I’m going to ask the question again,” Ubatha said harshly, as his mate sobbed. “Where is the Chancellor? He would never leave Hive without telling you where he’s going. Speak or suffer some more.”
The Egg Ubatha was half-blind. But somehow, in spite of the intense pain, she managed to raise her head. “So this is what you have come to . . . I am to be dishonored by common filth.”
“No,” the War Ubatha replied. “You are to answer my questions. Turn her around.”
The troopers, who were none too pleased by the way they had been described, wrestled her into position. The War Ubatha ripped the gown away. That exposed the Egg Ubatha’s wings and the shiny chitin of her back. With that accomplished, he shuffled over to the satchel, rummaged around inside, and removed a pair of clippers.
Then it was back to where his mate was being held. The War Ubatha raised the tool so she could see it with her remaining eye. “Unless you answer my questions I am going to remove your right wing. Where is the Chancellor?”
She continued to sob but made no answer. The Egg Ubatha was defying him. And the War Ubatha couldn’t help but admire her. Because deep down he knew that what she was doing for the Chancellor she would do for
him
. And her strength, as well as moral clarity, was worthy of a warrior. But to show pity was to violate the way. The War Ubatha took hold of a wing, cut it off, and felt a pang of regret when he heard her high-pitched scream. “Look,” he said, as he held the appendage up for her to see. “Where is the Chancellor?”
The Egg Ubatha sobbed and said something unintelligible.
The warrior came closer. “Say it again.”
She did.
“That’s where he is?”
She answered in the affirmative.
The War Ubatha drew his sword. The weapon made a whispering sound as it left its sheath. “Release her.”
The soldiers did so. The blade rose. Light glinted off the slightly curved blade as it came around. There was a loud
thunk
as it struck, and the Egg Ubatha’s head fell free. Her body barely made a sound as it hit the floor. The War Ubatha bent to wipe his blade on her gown. Then, having returned the weapon to its sheath, he shuffled away. The Egg Ubatha’s head lay on its side. A glassy eye watched him go.
3
War without allies is bad enough—with allies it is hell!
—Sir John Slessor
Strategy for the West
Standard year 1954
PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Having clumped into the living room of his waterfront home, Colonel Antov snatched the binos off the side table and brought them up to his eyes. A Ramanthian submarine! In the middle of Baynor’s Bay. It didn’t seem possible. Yet there the humpbacked apparition was, sitting on the surface and shelling his town.
Santana didn’t have glasses. But the submarine was large enough that he didn’t need them. The warship was about 150 feet long and mounted two auto cannons. One forward and one aft. They were firing three-round bursts at targets Santana couldn’t see from his position. “Is this sort of thing common?” Santana inquired, as the com set in his pocket started to vibrate.
“No, sir,” Captain Kimbo replied. “Air attacks, yes. But this is the first time the bugs have sent a submarine. We didn’t know they had one. I wonder where it came from?”
“Odds are that the Ramanthians assembled it here,” Antov said grimly as he lowered the binos. “They see the TACBASE as a harbinger of things to come and want to destroy it right away. Get on the horn, Captain. Order our people to open fire. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Santana removed the com set from his pocket but didn’t open it. He knew Rona-Sa was on the other end and wanted to open fire. And judging from the water spouts that had appeared around the submarine, the people in the north-bay area already had. “Could I make a suggestion, sir? Before you open fire?”
Antov frowned. “Yes? What is it?”
“I suggest that we keep our troops on standby for a minute or two. Let’s see what happens.”