A fighting chance

14

PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

The Ramanthian transport was badly overloaded. Engines strained as they struggled to lift twenty-eight bio bods and cyborgs off the power plant’s roof. Lieutenant Ponco was at the controls, and Santana was standing in the doorway behind and to the left of her. “You’re sure you can fly this thing?” he inquired doubtfully.

“I can’t, but my computer can,” Ponco replied confidently. And, as if to prove it, the transport staggered into the air.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Santana said dryly, as the aircraft banked to starboard and began to spiral upwards. “Keep up the good work.”

Santana turned and made his way into the crowded cargo compartment. Captain Ryley was on his feet. Their eyes met. “Go ahead,” Santana said. “Blow it.”

Ryley grinned. “Yes, sir!” The remote was already in his hand. He flipped a cover out of the way and thumbed a button. The charges in the geo tap’s control room went off one after the other. While the ship continued to climb, Santana caught a glimpse of three secondary explosions followed by a tongue of fire that shot straight up. Then a thick cloud of black smoke closed in around the site as if to conceal it.

“Nice work, Captain. My compliments to the second platoon,” Santana said. He intentionally put the comment out over the company push, so that Ryley’s people would be able to hear it. The bio bods grinned proudly.

Satisfied that the power plant was off-line for good, Santana turned his attention to Major Temo. The renegade had received some first aid by that time and sat with her injured leg resting on a Ramanthian ammo box. Santana went over to stand in front of her. “It’s time for you to earn your keep. I want you to go forward and get on the radio. Who was the bug in charge of the power station?”

“Sub Commander Remwyr,” she answered sullenly.

“Okay. Tell Commander Dammo that Remwyr was badly wounded during a surprise attack on the power station-and that you’re bringing him to Headstone for medical treatment. If you say anything else, Sergeant Major Dietrich will show you to the door. And the first step is a lulu.”

“It won’t work,” Temo replied stubbornly.

“You said the attack on the G-tap wouldn’t work,” Santana observed. “Yet here we are. Now get your ass up to the cockpit-or start flapping your wings. Which is it going to be?”

Temo stared up at him. Her hatred was plain to see. Then, with some difficulty, she stood. Santana helped her forward and into the cockpit. “Sit there,” he said, and pointed to a Ramanthian-style saddle chair. “Do you know how to use the radio?”

“Yes,” Temo said, as she pushed her leg out in front of her.

“All right. Make the call. I’ll be listening.”

So Temo took hold of the cylindrical mike, squeezed the handle to activate it, and identified herself. It took less than a minute for a com tech to summon Dammo. It quickly became clear that the officer knew that power had been cut. So he was pissed, and what Temo had to say did nothing to improve the officer’s mood. He was still ranting and raving when Headstone appeared in the distance, and Santana drew a line across his throat. Temo mumbled something about giving Dammo a full report and broke the connection.

“Okay,” Santana said. “I think he bought it. Return to your seat.”

Once Temo was back in the cargo compartment and had been secured to a seat, it was time for the rest of them to get ready. “Listen up,” Santana said over the company push. “The landing pad is about a hundred feet below our objective. But if we work things correctly, we’ll be able to ride an elevator up to the cannon. Of course, the bugs won’t like that, so you’ll have to kick their pointy asses. Any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Grisso said. “Once the cannon has been destroyed, how do we get off the mountain?”

“I’d like to say that we’ll be able to board the transport and fly off,” Santana replied. “But the odds are against that. So the simplest thing to do is kill all of the chits and move in.”

That got some chuckles but not very many. Santana saw their expressions and smiled grimly. “Those of you who served in the Legion will remember that Captain Danjou and a company of sixty-two men were attacked by two thousand Mexican soldiers in the village of Camerone and fought ’em to a standstill.”

It was true, and the legionnaires gave the traditional shout of “CAMERONE,” thereby lifting the spirits of the ex-militiamen and — women as well. Santana smiled approvingly but felt guilty. Because he knew that only a handful of legionnaires had survived the fateful battle on April 30, 1863.

The transport had to climb in order to reach the landing pad located a hundred feet below the summit. Santana had seen a model of Headstone in Colonel Antov’s study. And that had been impressive enough. But as the slipstream buffeted his face and he looked out at the mountain’s sheer cliffs, he realized that any attempt to scale Headstone under fire would be a waste of lives. Even with a thousand troops and air support. Which was why the first attempt to do so had failed.

Now, as the ship gained altitude, all of the missile batteries continued to track it. Was that because they were programmed to follow movement? Or because Dammo was aware of the ruse and about to blow the transport out of the sky? What felt like a steel fist took hold of Santana’s stomach and refused to let go as the landing pad appeared. “Get ready!” Santana shouted, as a crosswind hit the transport and caused it to wobble. “T-2s first. There aren’t any friendlies on this mountain. Kill anything that moves.”

The tension in the cargo compartment was palpable as bio bods checked their weapons, and the transport touched down. “Now!” Dietrich shouted from his place next to the door. “Go! Go! Go!”

The cyborgs hit the ground first. A stretcher party had been sent to fetch Remwyr. Half a dozen troopers were lounging next to a double-barreled antiaircraft weapon. And the ground crew was waiting to refuel the aircraft as the engines spooled down. All of them were swept away as the T-2s leveled their weapons and opened fire.

The result was a bloody mist as the Ramanthians ceased to exist, and what looked like pink confetti fell onto the landing pad. The surprise was complete. And by the time the bio bods jumped out of the transport, all the enemy troopers were dead.

But the advantage wouldn’t last for long, and Santana knew that as he waved the troops forward. “This way! Follow Lieutenant Ponco. The cannon is above us.”

Temo had been forced to sketch the complex. So Santana, his officers, and their NCOs knew that a tunnel led from the landing pad back into the heart of the mountain. That was where they hoped to seize control of a lift that would take them straight up and into the STS battery. By doing so, they could avoid the need to climb a very steep slope while being fired on from above. But as with everything else, the plan required speed, overwhelming firepower, and a measure of good luck.

So time was critical as the troops surged off the pad, entered the mouth of a dimly lit tunnel, and followed a row of ceiling-mounted lights toward the back. When they were fifty feet in, double doors parted at the other end of the passageway to reveal a group of Ramanthian troopers. But rather than standard infantry, these bugs were members of an armored unit. Their helmets had side-mounted bubbles through which they could see, hook-shaped protrusions to accommodate their beaks, and chin flares designed to protect their neck seals. Their bodies were protected by what looked like high-tech chain mail. It shimmered and flared as energy bolts struck it.

Santana knew that, while the Ramanthian warriors might lose a toe-to-toe contest with a T-2, their power-assisted armor could rip a bio bod apart. Never mind the offensive capability resident in the Negar IV assault rifles they were carrying. Both sides fired as they began to close with each other.

What ensued was a horrible melee in which both T-2s and Ramanthian troopers fired at point-blank range, powerful bodies grappled with each other, and any bio bod unfortunate enough to get caught in the middle was torn apart.

Having led his troops forward, Santana found himself at the very center of the fracas with no way out. So he fired his carbine at an advancing Ramanthian, saw dimples appear on the trooper’s armor, and waited to die.

The Ramanthian raised a bulky arm and was about to deal the human a crushing blow when Ponco entered the gap between them. The pincerlike fist struck, penetrated her globe-shaped body, and produced a shower of sparks. Ponco was killed instantly.

But as the Ramanthian attempted to free his pincer from the recon ball’s housing, Santana took advantage of the opportunity to step in close and press the muzzle of his weapon up against a bulbous eye guard. He pulled the trigger repeatedly. The second and third bullets blew holes through the clearplas bubble and went straight through the Ramanthian’s brain.

Santana was going to turn his attention to another trooper when a T-2 plucked him out of the mix and harm’s way. “Sorry, sir,” a voice rumbled over the speakers in Santana’s helmet. “But it isn’t nice to hog all of the fun. Leave some bugs for us.”

The tide began to turn as a phalanx of cyborgs shouted “CAMERONE” and pushed forward. It was hard to get traction on the bloody floor, but they were so tightly packed together that there was no room in which to fall. The cyborgs were angry, a bit stronger than the Ramanthians, and their armor was thicker. Taken together, these advantages made a critical difference as they shoved, kicked, and stomped their opponents into submission.

Even as the Ramanthians were forced to give ground, Santana saw the double doors start to close-and knew that if the lift rose without his troops on board, they would be trapped in the tunnel as the enemy flooded in behind them. “The elevator!” he shouted. “Stop the elevator.”

But the T-2s were still locked in combat, and the doors were only two feet apart when they came to a stop. Santana heard a girlish voice over the radio. “This is Alpha Six-One. I have control of the lift. Over.”

Santana knew the voice belonged to Leesha Stupin. By crawling on her hands and knees, the bio bod had been able to scuttle between the battling giants above and enter the elevator unopposed. And that was wonderful. But once the chits backed onto the platform, Stupin would be easy meat. “I need two T-2s on the lift now,” Santana said over the company push. “Execute.”

As it turned out, three cyborgs were able to break through the crush and attack the Ramanthians from behind. That was the turning point, as all of the remaining enemy soldiers went down. They lay in broken heaps, but a price had been paid. In addition to Ponco, the company had lost three bio bods and a T-2. Gradually, bit by bit, the already-small unit was being whittled down to nothing. “Board the elevator,” Santana ordered grimly. “There’s more work to do upstairs.”

“Reload if you need to,” Santana ordered, as the doors slid closed. The lift had been used during the construction process and was large enough to accommodate twice their number, had that been necessary. “They’ll be waiting for us,” he warned. “And they’ll pin us down inside the elevator if they can. So charge out and get in among them. Remember the ambush, remember the people we buried, and remember what we came here to do.”

Someone shouted, “Camerone!” And this time legionnaires and militia responded as one. “CAMERONE!”

“T-2s first,” Santana said, as the lift jerked to a halt. “And remember… If you’re a bio bod, get in there and protect your cyborg’s six.”

Then the doors opened, a vertical slice of sky appeared, and all hell broke loose. Some enterprising officer or noncom had ordered his troops to reposition an auto cannon so it could fire on the elevator. It roared as the T-2s charged into the open. Three of them fell in quick succession. But by that time the fourth cyborg, a private named Willy Haber, was on top of the gun crew hosing them with gunfire. He screamed epithets the Ramanthians couldn’t understand, stomped their dead bodies, and turned one of them into paste.

Then Dietrich and a bio bod named McTee arrived to slew the weapon around so that it was pointed at the Ramanthians. A corporal stepped in to fire it. Half a dozen enemy troopers were blown away as the rest took cover behind the STS cannon’s dome-shaped housing. “Chase the bastards down!” Santana roared. “Captain Ryley… Take some people, get inside that housing, and plant the demo charges. Let’s finish the job before the bugs can counterattack.”

Ryley tossed a casual salute. “Sir! Stupin, Rajuta, Praxo… Follow me.”

Certain that the lift had been put out of commission by the Ramanthians themselves, Santana knew that the bugs would have to climb upwards to try to retake their mountain aerie. But by which route?

Sporadic gunfire was heard as the last of the defenders were tracked down. Santana took a quick tour of the mountaintop. The need to do so reminded him of Ponco and how she had given her life to protect him. The thought of it made his throat tight and threatened to choke him. Later, he told himself. Focus.

There were two ways to approach the cannon. The first was to climb uphill from the landing pad, which was back under Ramanthian control. Enemy bullets pinged the ramparts around Santana whenever the officer showed himself.

The second way to reach the cannon was over a narrow path that zigzagged up the northeast side of the mountain to the antiaircraft batteries located there. Santana figured that if he was in command of Ramanthian forces, he would send a small force up the path, try to draw the defenders to that location, and send the majority of his troops up from the landing pad. Because even though the slope was steep, it was wide enough to accommodate fifteen or twenty soldiers marching abreast. And they would be harder to stop than a column of twos at the top of the mountain path. But would Dammo, or whatever bug was in charge, see things the way he did?

There was no way to be sure. But Santana had to do something. So he sent a single T-2 plus a couple of bio bods to seal off the trail while the rest of his soldiers took up positions west of the gun turret. Ryley’s voice flooded his helmet. “This is Alpha Two-One. We’re ready. Over.”

“Pull out and execute,” Santana replied. “Over.”

Ryley and his troops emerged a minute later. The officer thumbed a remote, and a series of muted thump s was heard. Smoke poured out of the dome and was snatched away by the wind. “That should do it, sir,” Ryley said, as he made his way over to join Santana. “We destroyed the controls, part of the track that the turntable rests on, and the cannon’s accumulators.”

“Good work,” Santana said gratefully. “It seems that you have a natural talent for blowing things up. Now, no matter what happens next, we can…”

Santana never got to finish his sentence. There was only one Ramanthian fighter. Perhaps that was all the enemy had left. Whatever the case, it came out of the sun, fired a missile, and immediately pulled up. The T-2s detected the threat but too late. The cyborgs were just starting to respond when the weapon struck the west side of the dome and exploded. The blast killed a T-2 and two bio bods.

Santana understood the nature of his error. By destroying the cannon, he had inadvertently freed the enemy to employ airpower. Now that the cannon was off-line, it was all about honor. Even if that meant doing damage to their own fortress.

There was no need to give an order as the T-2s equipped with missiles fired them. The sleek-looking weapons leapt into the sky, snaked away, and converged on the fleeing plane. There was a flash of light followed by a puff of smoke as bits of wreckage twirled toward the ground.

Meanwhile, in concert with the air attack, the Ramanthian counterassault began. And, as Santana had anticipated, they came from two directions at once. He was standing above the landing pad, shoulder to shoulder with his troops, when the Ramanthians marched upslope. Weapons rattled as the legionnaires fired down into the undulating mass of bodies. Many fell, but the bugs kept coming. They were led by a very brave officer. He was waving a sword and seemingly invulnerable to the bullets that kicked up puffs of dust around him. Dammo? Yes, quite possibly.

The officer was flanked by two noncoms. One of them held a Ramanthian battle flag aloft just as one of his ancestors might have a thousand years earlier. The other was carrying a pole with Temo’s head on it. Her eyes were staring sightlessly uphill, the wooden shaft was drenched in gore, and the message was clear: The chits wanted revenge. And they were willing to face a hail of bullets, climb over the bodies of their dead, and even take to the air if required. Those who chose to unfurl their seldom-used wings made excellent targets and were soon shot down.

The order to charge didn’t originate from Santana. It came from a private named David Pynn. His T-2 had been killed during the assault on the auto cannon. And like the enemy in front of him, he was motivated by a desire for revenge. So when he shouted, “Come on! Let’s kill the bastards!” it wasn’t the result of careful thought. But as he jumped the waist-high wall and started downslope, it began a chain reaction. Santana was powerless to do anything other than join them as the rest of his troops followed Pynn, their weapons chattering madly.

The Ramanthian officer was directly in front of Santana. And as bullets whipped past and grenades exploded downslope, Santana made for the Ramanthian. Then, as the two lines clashed and penetrated each other, the bug raised his sword. Santana pulled the trigger on his carbine but nothing happened. He was out of ammo.

There was barely enough time to raise the otherwise-useless weapon and use it to block the descending blade. The strength of the blow sent a jolt down both of Santana’s arms. He grimaced and brought a knee up. It struck the chit in the thorax and threw him off balance. Santana took advantage of that by clubbing the other officer with his rifle butt.

The Ramanthian was stunned. He just stood there for a second as Santana drew his sidearm and fired. The bullets entered through the bug’s thorax and blew bloody divots out of his back. He fell over backwards and slid downhill to join a drift of bodies.

The Ramanthian standard-bearer went down shortly thereafter, as did the noncom supporting Temo’s head. That was when the tide of battle turned. All opposition melted as the T-2s descended the slope like avenging gods. Their weapons continued to fire as their foot pods turned the fallen into a bloody slush.

According to the information available on Santana’s HUD, only sixteen members of the company were still alive. A victory had been won. But the price was so steep there was no joy in it. And he wondered how many more people would have to die before the war finally came to an end. Blood from both sides of the conflict ran downhill, seeped out onto the landing pad, and painted it red.

THE SPACE STATION ORB I, IN ORBIT OVER PLANET LONG JUMP, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Vanderveen was on “B” deck, letting the crowd of spacers, merchants, and crew people carry her in a clockwise direction around the center of the Orb I space station, when a holographic image appeared directly in front of her. The man was about her age and very handsome. “Hey, babe… If you’re looking for a good time, my name is Mark. How ’bout we get together? I’m on…”

Vanderveen never found out where Mark was located because the image exploded into a thousand motes of light as she walked through it. And there were other distractions, too. Including the “zip” ads that circled the bulkheads, the exotic scents that misted the air, and the arrows that appeared on the floor in front of her. Each of them represented a business and was trying to lead her somewhere. All of which made it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. And that was to find the Warrior Queen.

After receiving permission from Secretary Yatsu to travel from Sensa II to Orb I aboard the minesweeper Io, Vanderveen had been forced to part company with Sullivan and his crew half an hour earlier. Kai Cosmo was at her side as she left the ship. But once aboard the space station, it was only a matter of a few seconds before he said, “Thanks for the ride, ma’am,” and promptly disappeared. Which made sense because he was almost certainly a deserter, and there were military personnel in the constantly swirling crowd.

That meant Vanderveen was alone. For the moment at least. Although Secretary Yatsu had promised to send a security team-people who could help her and protect the Queen. Assuming Vanderveen was able to find the monarch. And how hard can that be? she thought to herself. There are only so many places to hide on a space station.

It was a comforting thought, and one that helped boost her spirits as she paused in front of an information kiosk. There were more than a dozen entries under HOTELS. She chose a midpriced hostelry that promised to provide “a comfortable bed, a full suite of electronic conveniences, and a private bath.”

The Sweet Sleep was located on “D” deck right next to a zero-gee gym. After checking in, Vanderveen made her way down a short hall to room four, slid the keycard through the reader, and entered what turned out to be a very small cabin.

The unit included a bunk barely large enough for one person, a fold-down desk, and a tiny bath. But that was enough. So Vanderveen shrugged the backpack off her shoulders and locked the hypercom in a drawer. Then, having unpacked to the extent she needed to, she went looking for something to eat.

The stand-up eatery was located about fifty feet from the entrance to her hotel and was clearly popular with the space station’s crew beings. And that was a reliable indicator of good food at reasonable prices.

So she bellied up to a counter, made her selections from the list on the menu that appeared in front of her, and touched SUBMIT. A utility droid arrived with the food ten minutes later. The meat-and-veggie wrap was excellent.

As Vanderveen ate and washed her food down with occasional sips of tea, she was in a perfect position to watch the passing crowd. She saw humans, Thrakies, Prithians, Dwellers, Hudathans, and LaNorians. But no Ramanthians. And that made sense inside the boundaries of the Confederacy. It also served to illustrate a very important point. If the Warrior Queen and her retinue were aboard Orb I, they were hiding.

But why would the Ramanthian monarch enter enemy territory? To get help perhaps. But what kind of help? According to the Ramanthian doctor on Trevia, at least a dozen experts had examined the Warrior Queen and arrived at the same conclusion. Her condition was hopeless. Which brought Vanderveen full circle. Why hide on Orb I?

Vanderveen had eaten her fill and was about to return to her room when a cyborg wandered past. Not a military form but what looked like a one-of-a-kind civilian who was equipped with four arms. A technical specialist of some sort, she supposed. Somebody with a need for extra limbs.

Suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, Vanderveen had it. Of course! Having given up on finding a cure, the Queen wanted to purchase a custom-designed vehicle. And all of the very best cyberneticists were human, which would explain the royal’s presence on Orb I. Or maybe not. But it was a theory. And the only one Vanderveen had.

Vanderveen felt a rising sense of excitement as she paid her tab with a swipe of the hotel’s guest card and went looking for an information kiosk. A quick search produced three hits.

After jotting the names down, Vanderveen paid quick visits to each, her theory being that one of the cyber labs would be visibly larger and theoretically more successful than the others. And that was the case. TOMKO CYBERNETICS was located on “C” deck. If external appearances meant anything, it was at least twice the size of the other two businesses combined.

Since TOMKO CYBERNETICS seemed best suited to satisfy the needs of a presumably demanding monarch, Vanderveen resolved to start with them. But how? Vanderveen knew that the lab’s employees would stonewall her if she walked in and asked for information regarding the Queen. And they would strengthen their security measures as a result. She could force them to answer her questions by calling for some legal assistance, of course. But that would take weeks if not longer.

So Vanderveen purchased a cup of tea from a vendor and watched people come and go from the lab as she sipped it. Then, having concocted a plan, she went back to her room and made the necessary preparations. She would need the right look and some basic supplies to be successful. An hour later, she was dressed and carrying her briefcase as she entered TOMKO CYBERNETICS and presented herself to the receptionist. Bio bod? Or cyborg? It was impossible to tell. The woman looked pleasant either way. “Yes? How can I help you?”

“I work for ANCO Electronics,” Vanderveen lied. “We’re about to release a new line of synthiskins. I’d like to speak with one of your lead engineers regarding the possibility of a beta test.”

“Everyone is busy at the moment,” the receptionist replied. “Would you care to make an appointment?”

“Can I wait?” Vanderveen inquired. “I’m on a very short layover, and I think your engineers would be interested in what we have to offer.”

The receptionist had clearly dealt with pushy salespeople before. She shrugged noncommittally. “As you wish. But it could be hours.”

“That’s okay,” Vanderveen responded cheerfully. “I understand.”

So Vanderveen took a seat in the small lobby and pretended to do some work on her hand comp as people came and went. Then, after a long, boring twenty minutes had passed, the moment Vanderveen had been waiting for arrived. The receptionist left her desk to visit the restroom or run an errand.

Vanderveen took a quick look around to ensure that she had the lobby to herself, slipped the comp back into her briefcase, and stood. Then, with the quick, confident steps of a person who knows exactly where she’s going, Vanderveen rounded the reception desk and took a hard right. Partly because the receptionist had gone left and partly because people wearing white coats had a tendency to turn right. And the closer she could get to the lab, the better.

A door hissed as it slid out of the way, and she entered a short hall. Another door was visible some twenty feet farther on. But she could see the biometric security scanner located next to the portal labeled CYBER LAB and knew she wouldn’t be able to get past it. Fortunately, the plan didn’t require her to do so. All she had to do was confirm a Ramanthian’s presence.

Vanderveen continued down the hall and checked the signs on the doors that opened left and right before choosing the one labeled STORAGE. As the barrier slid open and the lights came on, Vanderveen felt her heart try to leap out of her chest. Because there, standing with their backs to the walls, were at least a dozen people!

Then she realized that rather than office supplies, the storage room was filled with cybernetic bodies or “forms.” Prototypes perhaps? Experimental units? There was no way to know. Nor did Vanderveen care as she went to the very back of the room and made a place to sit down. The lights went off when she ordered them to, and with the exception of the glow from some LEDs, the compartment went dark. The waiting began.

Vanderveen awoke with a start. She was curled up on the floor. How long had she been asleep? A quick glance at the luminous dial on her watch provided the answer. A good three hours had elapsed since she’d given herself permission to take a fifteen-minute nap. That meant the lab was closed for the day. So why could she hear the characteristic clatter of click speech?

At that point, Vanderveen realized that at least two Ramanthians were right outside the door and might enter at any moment. She got to her feet and was busy trying to come up with a way to hide when the barrier slid open, leaving only one option. The diplomat froze as the lights came on.

Vanderveen could see the Ramanthian from the corner of her eye as he shuffled into the storage compartment. He was holding a pistol in his left pincer. Not one of the Queen’s people, then. Because they wouldn’t have any reason to burglarize TOMKO CYBERNETICS. So who? The assassins. Having listened in on her conversation with Cosmo and heard what the merc had to say, Croth’s killers were on Orb I looking for the monarch. But how did they move around without being spotted? They clearly had help of some sort. She could smell wing wax. Would the Ramanthian realize she was a bio bod rather than a form? Blood began to pound in her ears.

The Ramanthian took a long look around, lowered the pistol, and turned to go. As the door closed, Vanderveen allowed herself to take a deep breath. Then, conscious of the fact that the bug could return at any moment, she opened her briefcase and removed a weapon of her own. The weight of it was comforting as she went to stand just inside the door.

It was tempting to sneak out and shoot the Ramanthians. But how many of them were there? And what would happen if she was killed? The effort to find the Queen would come to a sudden halt. And the lost opportunity could be the difference between war and peace.

So Vanderveen stood with an ear pressed against the door and listened. There was a series of thump s, followed by a muted crash and a storm of click speech. Was someone getting chewed out? Maybe.

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.”