Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (3 page)

It was an audacious idea, one that was almost certain to run into a great deal of resistance, especially since the very beings who would have to approve it represented the spacefaring races. Not only were they unlikely to want their power diluted, but if a Naa senator was admitted to the Senate, other heretofore marginalized races would demand representation, too, thereby raising all sorts of complicated questions having to do with definitions of sentience, the meaning of the word “civilization,” and levels of racial maturity.

Still, Truespeak was correct, or so it seemed to Longsleep, and the legionnaire felt a sudden surge of anger. “I see your point, sir. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Truespeak smiled grimly as he made use of both hands to shift his injured leg. “Why yes, son, as a matter of fact there is.”

The security around Hive had always been tight, but now, in a time of all-out war, it could only be described as intense. An entire fleet had been assigned to protect the Ramanthian home world, and in recognition of his role in what the Queen liked to refer to as the “Sheen affair,” Admiral Enko Norr had been placed in command of it.

Though not an especially brilliant individual, he was extremely diligent, a virtue where military officers are concerned. And because of his diligence Norr had gone to great lengths to protect the
entire
solar system, realizing that even though the other four planets were largely uninhabited, it was extremely important not to let the enemy gain a foothold on any of them.

That was why a destroyer escort issued a challenge to
Ambassador Alway Orno's ship only seconds after it dropped hyper and appeared in-system. Codes were exchanged, checked, and double-checked. Then, and only then, was the sleek courier ship allowed to proceed toward the precious mottled brown sphere beyond.

A senator until the destruction of the
Friendship,
the politician had become an overnight hero on Hive and cemented his position among the ranks of the Queen's most trusted advisors. Now, having assumed the mantle of Ambassador at Large, he was returning from a visit to the Clone Hegemony.

But no one, not even the great Orno, was allowed to bypass the orbital security system that kept the home world free of contamination. The word had come to mean not only off-world microorganisms, but all manner of cyborgs and cleverly designed robots as well. An exhausting task, since every ra
ce that had the capacity to do so, spent billions of credits each year trying to penetrate Ramanthian security. The efforts that would only increase now that hostilities were under way.

The first stop was one of the twenty-four heavily armed space stations that orbited Hive, where Orno had to disembark and pass through a detox center. Then, having been cleansed of artificial contaminants, the diplomat was scanned and sampled to ensure that he was who he claimed to be, before being released into the station proper.

But, rather than waiting for a regular shuttle as he had in the past, Orno was escorted to one of the vessels reserved for top government officials. The ship broke contact with the space station, bumped its way through the atmosphere, and entered a high-priority flight path. Orno, who never tired of looking at his home planet, peered through a viewport. Thanks to the common vision that had been passed from one queen to the next, Hive looked much the way it had during preindustrial times, only better.

In marked contrast to the sprawling cities that covered Earth like a scabrous disease, Hive was the very picture of refinement. Once undisciplined rivers flowed within carefully shaped banks, rows of fruit trees marched army-like across low green hills, and crops flourished within well-irrigated circles. All of which was made possible by the fact that consistent with both their instincts and the dictates of reason, the insectoid species lived underground. That strategy maximized the use of arable land, made the industrial base almost impervious to attack, and protected the citizenry.

Provident though the race had been, however, the gods of evolution had still seen fit to challenge Ramanthian ingenuity. Rather than rely on the three eggs produced by each three-person family unit for its survival, the race had been gifted with a secondary means of reproduction, one that threatened as well as served them. Every three hundred years or so the current queen would produce
billions
of eggs, a number so large that previous hatchings had triggered significant advances, one of which opened the way to interstellar travel and enabled the Ramanthian people to journey among the stars.

Of course there was a dark side as well, because more often than not, the sudden increase in population resulted in famine and civil war. Now, with an estimated 5 billion new souls on the way, the race was struggling to cope.

However, thanks to the advent of spaceflight, it was now possible to ship most of the excess population off-planet. That was why the Queen and senior members of her government had worked so hard to secure additional planets, the spaceships required to move billions of eggs, and the infrastructure required to support the newborn nymphs. Not just for days, weeks, or months, but for
years.

It was an enormous challenge, and one for which a great deal had been sacrificed, even including one of Orno's mates.
But such service was an honor, and trying though it might be, the Ramanthian was determined to do his best.

The shuttle swooped in for a vertical landing, jerked as a platform lowered the vessel into the ground, and soon vanished from sight. A few minutes later Orno disembarked in the underground city called The Place Where The Queen Dwells, entered a government vehicle, and was whisked away.

The cell-powered car carried him along busy arterials, through vast chambers, and under a heavily reinforced arch. The diplomat knew that a blastproof door was hidden above the structure and stood ready to fall if the planet were attacked. The Queen, not to mention billions of eggs stored in the climate-controlled vaults below, lived within walls so strong that not even a subsurface torpedo could destroy them.

The car was forced to stop for two different identity checks before being allowed to proceed through the royal gardens, along a gently curving ramp, and up to the royal residence itself. The carvings that hung above the entryway told the story of the first egg, the first hatching, and a glorious future. They were said to be more than three thousand Hive-years old.

The car came to a stop, an attendant opened the rear door, and a squad of heavily armed warriors came to attention as Orno backed his way out of the vehicle. Then, unsure of the reception he might receive, the diplomat entered the building.

A series of ramps led up to a broad, scrupulously clean platform that surrounded the hive mother. Her body, which had once been of average size, had grown steadily over the last year until it was so huge that it required the support of a specially designed cradle. Though swathed in colorful silk and tended by dozens of retainers, Orno knew that the Queen felt like a prisoner. Something that made her cranky, unpredictable, and therefore dangerous.

The diplomat's sense of smell was centered on the two
short antennae that sprouted from his upper forehead. The rich pungent odor of recently laid eggs triggered the release of certain chemicals into his bloodstream causing the functionary to feel protective, receptive, and subservient, reactions that 98 percent of the race felt in the presence of their Queen. That made it difficult for subjects to lie to her, but it also limited the amount of objective advice the monarch received, something she had a tendency to forget at times.

Though trapped within her factory-like body, and confined to the eggery, the Queen missed very little of what went on around her. She watched, via one of the monitors arrayed in front of her, Orno shuffle up on
to the platform. He paused to speak with one of her functionaries, and that was sufficient to summon her wrath. “Well, Ambassador Orno . . . Did you come here to speak with me? Or to exchange gossip with my staff?” The Queen's voice was electronically amplified and boomed throughout the enormous bombproof chamber.

Orno, who had paused to find out what sort of mood the monarch was in, had his answer. Not wanting to annoy her further, the diplomat hurried toward the other end of the Queen's enormous body, and turned to face her. He bent a knee. “I come to see
you,
Majesty. May I inquire as to your health?”

“The egg factory is running at full tilt, if that's what you mean,” the royal answered irritably. “Now, what news do you bring me?”

Like all his kind, Orno had two short antennae, compound eyes, and a parrotlike beak. A pair of seldom-used wings were folded along his back but hidden by the loose-fitting scarlet robe that hung nearly to the floor. He bowed by way of apology, then looked up again. The single aspect of the Queen's physiology that hadn't grown any larger was her head. It looked tiny by comparison with the rest of her grossly distended body, but he harbored no doubts regarding
the strength of the mind that lurked within. As always the diplomat chose his words with care. One aspect of his mission had m
et with success. It seemed best to begin with that. “I'm pleased to announce that negotiations with the Drac Axis were successful. They have agreed to join their forces with ours.”

The Queen rotated her head slightly. “Excellent. I'm glad to hear it. What about the question of command?”

The Dracs had been understandably reluctant to place their forces under Ramanthian command, but had finally agreed, conditional on representation at theater-level command conferences. Ramanthian officers would hate the requirement but be forced to accept if they wanted to add some five hundred heavily armed warships to the force already at their disposal. “We retain command,” Orno replied, “but they have the right to monitor the decision-making process. They fear some of our officers might spend Drac lives too freely otherwise.”

The Queen offered the Ramanthian equivalent of a grimace. “Unfortunate but understandable. Well done. I know the Hudathans stand against us—but what of the Clone Hegemony?”

That was the question that Orno had been dreading. He steeled himself against what might be an extremely negative response. “In spite of the fact that they have worked closely with us in the past, the Clones h
ave grown closer to what they refer to as ‘the free breeders' over the last year or so and are presently unwilling to ally themselves with us.”

The Queen's eyes seemed to narrow. “What does that mean? Will they support the Confederacy?”

“I don't know for sure,” Orno replied, “but if I were forced to guess, I'd say ‘yes.' ”

“That's regrettable,” the Queen said, as if thinking out loud. “It's my understanding that their military is quite strong. What of the Thrakies?”

“The Thraks claim to be neutral,” Orno replied, “but they tend to be rather pragmatic where political relationships are concerned, and could prove useful. Not as formal allies, mind you, but as go-betweens, through whom we can interact with others. Of more immediate importance is the need for technical assistance where the newly acquired Sheen ships are concerned. They need to be retrofitted in order for the navy to make full use of them. The Thrakies have the necessary know-how.”

“Yes,” the Queen replied, “the War Norr mentioned the matter to me. I assured the admiral that you and your staff would do everything in your power to resolve the matter.”

There had been no firestorm of criticism, and insofar as Orno could tell, there wasn't going to be. He allowed himself to relax slightly. “Yes, Highness, please rest assured that we will.”

“Good,” the Queen replied. “Give my best to the Egg Orno . . . and may the gods guard your travels.”

Orno, knowing a dismissal when he heard one, bent a knee and withdrew. Meanwhile, during the relatively brief conversation, 1,754 eggs had been added to repository below. The race continued to grow.

In spite of the fact that the cyborg was dressed in civilian attire, the officer of the day (ODD) knew who Sergi Chien-Chu was, and shouted “Atten-hut!” as the man that many called the Father of the Confederacy stepped out onto one of Fort Camerone's snow-encrusted ramparts. His appearance was that of a twenty-five-year-old male with blond hair and a woodenly handsome face. The
reality was something else. While his brain continued to function, the rest of his biological body had been dead for many years.

It was daytime, for the next seventy-two minutes at
least, and the former president of the Confederacy, founder of Chien-Chu Enterprises, and Reserve Navy admiral wanted to take a brief look around prior to plunging into what promised to be a long series of meetings. He nodded to the parka-clad ODD. When he spoke no vapor appeared. “As you were, Captain . . . Do you mind if I take a little stroll?”

The captain wanted to say, “Yes,” she did mind, but Chien-Chu's naval rank was equivalent to that of a two-comet general, and there was only one answer she could properly give. “No sir. Watch out for the ice—it's kind of slippery.”

Chien-Chu could see the concern in her eyes and knew it didn't have anything to do with the ice. He smiled. “Don't worry—I'll keep moving. Besides, I have a backup body back in my room.”

The captain laughed at the joke, but she knew that if the cyborg took a high-velocity slug through his brain box, it would put him down just as effectively as a bio bod such as herself. The moment the admiral was out of earshot the ODD triggered her belt radio and spoke into the boom-style mike that curved out in front of her lips. “Blue Six to Blue Five. Launch two fly-forms and tell them to pull a check on the surrounding hills. Over.”