Sector 18 was the first to stomp his right foot, Sector 32 followed, and the rest joined in. After years of waiting, the Facers would have their day. Sector 4 looked triumphant. The Runners scowled. All eyes turned to Andragna.
The warrior’s mind flashed forward to the work that awaited him. He felt a great weariness settle onto his shoulders, and bowed his head. “The sectors have spoken . . . I will obey.”
Jorley Jepp waited for the shuttle to settle onto its skids, adjusted the supplemental oxygen mask that covered his face, and entered the lock. Sam, who never liked being left behind, sulked on a nearby seat.
The lock cycled the prospector through and provided access to the surface beyond. The Sheen assigned a number to every planet they encountered, but Jepp preferred names, and was quick to hand them out.
Paradise Lost, which was the name the human had given the once-lush world, was a testament to the downside of technology.
Like humans on Earth, the indigenous race had crawled out of the sea, climbed the long, uncertain ladder to sentience, and discovered the wonders of science—wonders they proceeded to exploit until the atmosphere was poisoned, the climate changed, and the world rendered inhabitable.
What then? Jepp wondered as he stepped onto the rocky surface, felt the heat embrace him, and scanned the once-verdant plain. Did they die? Or simply leave, taking their insanity with them? There was no way to know.
A specially equipped shuttle, its belly full of salvaged metal, rose from the pit ahead. It hovered while the onboard computer requested the necessary clearance.
Then, once the signal was received, the shuttle climbed into the orange-gray sky. The Sheen were hungry—and food was on the way.
Jepp heard gravel crunch under his boots as he walked to the edge of the depression and peered over the side.
Once the top of the ancient city had been stripped away, the Sheen realized that it had been constructed in millennial layers, starting at the bottom of a valley and growing over a period of fifteen thousand years.
In need of considerable amounts of metal, and happy to conserve the energy required to process raw ore, the machines took everything they could. Not in just
one
city, but in
dozens
, around the circumference of the planet.
The process had been underway for more than six local days by the time Jepp landed, and it would soon be complete.
Roads had been carved into the side of the now-restored valley. Machines, all controlled by a very minor aspect of the Hoon’s intelligence, crawl
ed like silver maggots through what remained of the once-proud city, fed on its flesh, and regurgitated their meals onto mile-long conveyor belts. Though huge, weighing many tons apiece, the robots looked like toys when viewed from above.
Jepp felt a sense of revulsion as he watched, knowing that priceless works of art had probably been lost, along with who knew what else? Libraries? DNA repositories? Valuable technology? And yet, repulsed though he was, the human had been a prospector and understood the morality of need.
More than that, Jepp had come to believe that the Sheen had not only been sent by God, but tasked with a divine purpose, a mission that he alone could understand.
That being the case, the rape of an ancient culture was thereby transmuted into something good and wholesome.
Another shuttle lifted from the pit, rose to eye level, and was cleared for takeoff. A second vessel, this one empty, approached from the east.
Jepp watched the machine depart, murmured a benediction over the dead city, and returned to the shuttle. It was
his
time in the wilderness ... and there was much to learn.
The battle cruiser
Darwin
hung motionless in space. She was huge, one of only three ships of her class, but still less than a hundredth the size of a Thraki ark. The rest of the Clone fleet, some three hundred vessels in all, waited nearby. Not
all
their ships, but more than half. That was not many when compared to the thousands they might face.
Of course, “nearby” is a relative term—especially when applied to the vastness of space. Every person on board knew how vulnerable the
Darwin
was . . . and did what they could to ignore it.
But the Thraki had put themselves at risk too, by boarding the Hegemony vessel without so much as a single bodyguard. Or so Harlan Ishimoto-Seven had told not only himself, but the Triad of One, which consisted of Magnus Mosby-One, son to the notorious Marcus-Six and his free-breeder wife, as well as his half-brothers, Antonio and Pietro-Seven.
The scene outside the wardroom was tense, as everyone waited for the aliens to arrive, and wondered if they truly would. Magnus stood talking to Pietro. He had his father’s black hair, his mother’s tendency to put on weight, and a deep, commanding voice.
Their Alpha Clone’s advisors, and in at least one case a lover, stood just beyond earshot. Though influential, Ishimoto-Seven was far too junior to stand shoulder to shoulder with the inner circle, and waited beyond.
That was something of a slight, given the fact that the strategy was his, but typical of the hierarchical way in which the Hegemony was structured.
The better part of two weeks had elapsed since the first, almost unbelievable reconnaissance report, the mass mobilization that followed, and the start of negotiations. Many of the government’s most senior officials, up to and including Antonio-Seven, had opposed any sort of deal. Especially one that would be executed without the knowledge and consent of the Confederacy.
Others had seen the wisdom of such an alliance, however, especially those who happened to be privy to the secret agreement between the Ramanthians, the interim Earth government, Noam Inc., and the Clone Hegemony.
That was an alliance that Ishimoto-Seven had not only nurtured, but sold over the objections of fools like his brother Samuel, who spent an inordinate amount of time spouting outdated homilies about ethics, trust, and brotherhood.
Thank the nonexistent Lord for Svetlana Gorgin-Three, who not only slaved under his brother’s rather uninspired leadership, but kept Harlan apprised of his sibling’s peccadillos, the latest of which dealt with a water tank and a free-breeding executive. A rather useful piece of information, should he need to use it.
The only problem was that now, having sold two out of three Alpha Clones on the original concept, Ishimoto-Seven found himself busy trying to install a much-needed counter. What if the cabal was overwhelmingly successful? What if the Ramanthians grew too strong? Such questions had troubled the diplomat for months, until the Thraki dropped hyper and offered the perfect solution. The crowd stirred as the Thraki party was announced. Everyone turned to look.
Magnus Mosby-One wore a simple white toga secured by the double-helix pin bequeathed to him by his father. He produced a well-known official smile and stepped forward. Pietro was at his side.
Antonio, the doubter, remained with the fleet, ostensibly in case of treachery, but actually because he refused to participate and thereby endorse the meeting.
There were rumors about Antonio, people who claimed that his genetic material had been obtained directly from one of his predecessor’s backup copies rather than the Hegemony’s DNA banks, as if that might account for his independent ways. A seemingly silly theory—since there shouldn’t be any difference—but who could know for sure?
Ishimoto-Seven watched with approval as the Thraki admiral entered the compartment, closely followed by an entourage of office
rs, priests, and a contingent who, in spite of the title “Sector,” sounded suspiciously like the sort of politicians the diplomat was used to.
The two parties merged, exchanged greetings, and were herded in the direction of the
Darwin’s
wardroom—the only space other than the hangar deck that could accommodate such a large group. The Thraki spoke via small robots that rode on their shoulders, were carried like infants, and in one case walked on what looked like stilts.
The clones, by contrast, wore hastily programmed translators that hung around their necks and bounced as they walked. Magnus was uncomfortably aware of his ... and the computer-generated voice that spoke through his implant.
The Thraki admiral was at least two and a half feet shorter than he was and looked sort of feline. Once the initial greetings were complete, he poured it on: “... So, imagine how happy we were when your envoy made contact and it was possible to . . .”
It was drivel, the same sort of drivel Magnus listened to all day and knew how to ignore—a strategy that provided more time in which to think his own thoughts.
Slowly, reluctantly, Magnus had allowed himself to believe that the cabal would make a useful counter against the sometimes inordinate amount of influence that the free-breeders seemed to wield where the Confederacy was concerned. A danger that he, as the product of a free-breeder union, must be especially sensitive to.
Now, the same advisors who had engineered the Hegemony’s participation in the secret alliance wanted to align themselves with the newly arrived Thraki so as to counter the cabal. Where would it end? And why
him
? His father had been born to power—and his mother had married it. Both assumed he wanted the same kind of life they did. Both were wrong.
Doors parted, the leaders entered, and negotiations began.
Raisin hung huge and brown against the blackness of space. There, but no longer beautiful, not to Anvik.
It was lonely on Two Ball,
very
lonely, which came as something of a surprise to the cyborg, who had previously thought of herself as having fewer needs than bio bods did. It was bullshit, but
useful
bullshit, since it made her feel better. Till the aliens arrived, blew the
Rust Bucket
into small pieces, and left Anvik all alone.
But they would be sorry, the technician was sure of that, because in spite of their efforts to sanitize the crime scene,
she
had survived, and would live to tell the tale.
Maybe
Sena launched some message torps,
maybe
one would get through, but
maybe
wouldn’t cut it. No damned way.
Besides, Anvik had survived and, that being the case, was determined to get home. The only problem was
how
, since the sled was way too slow, and there was no telling when the next ship would come. In a month? Two? It didn’t much matter, since neither possibility was acceptable.
That’s why the tech decided to build her own ship—if the amalgamation of salvage could be dignified with such a term.
Her creation, which Anvik called the
Hybrid
, sat crouched at the bottom of a crater. Though strange and largely untested she was almost ready to go.
Powered by the fusion reactor salvaged from the equipment blister, and coupled to an engine removed from the wreckage of the
Rust Bucket’
s starboard lifeboat, the
Hybrid might
, just might, make the journey to Nav Beacon CSM-1706, which, if still intact, contained a tiny life-support module and—of more importance from the cyborg’s perspective—an emergency message torp. Not what any rational being would consider a sure thing—but a helluva lot better than sitting on her plastiflesh ass waiting for help to arrive.
All of which explained why Anvik was willing to launch the sled, enter the slowly orbiting debris field, and search for the necessary parts. That in spite of the fact that the activity forced her to confront bodies, or parts of bodies, some of which were still quite recognizable.
That’s why she cried, prayed, and swore, mixing the three things together into long liturgies of her own devising. “I’m sorry, Nethro, sorry the bastards got you, sorry you died so hard. Look after him, God, he’s one of the good ones, the kind you want to keep. Oh, Lord, whose hand is that? Damn! Damn! Damn!”
Anvik spoke with her friends as well, telling them about her plans and requesting their advice. “So, whaddya think? Should I go with eight steering jets? Or settle for six? Six would be easier. That’s what you think, too? Glad to hear it. Sorry about your face.”
And she
was
sorry. Sorry they were dead, and sorry she couldn’t do better by them.
Yes, the technician might have gathered some of her former comrades up, parts in any case, and buried the remains on Two Ball, but survival came first. Survival followed by revenge—which she knew they’d want.
That’s why Anvik used a piece of conduit to push Sergeant Jones away, turned to hook some wiring, and pulled it in. Though frozen and somewhat desiccated, Jones still managed to look reproachful. Or was that the light? And the radiation that was starting to slow-cook her brain?
And that’s how it was, day after bitter day, until the control interface was complete and the
Hybrid
came to life. There was no hull, just a frame, to which fuel tanks, the fusion plant, and the propulsion system had been strapped, bolted, and in one case wired, with no regard for anything other than function.
There were problems, small things mostly, but problems nonetheless. Three days passed while Anvik worked to fix them, and on the fourth day, she lifted off, broke free of Raisin’s gravity well, and angled outward.
Nobody watched her go—nobody but the stars, that is, and they were mute.
Magnus accompanied the Thraki delegation all the way to the hangar deck, waited while they entered their shuttle, and retreated to the momentary privacy of the VIP lock. Pietro remained by his side. Like his predecessor, the other Alpha Clone was possessed of light brown skin, flashing black eyes, and perfect teeth. Unlike the previous version, he liked jewelry and wore more than he should have. Earrings on both ears, two gold pendants, and rings on every finger. A good sort in his own way—but ambitious, and far too trusting. “So? What do you think?”