Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (16 page)

They parted after that, as Sca Sor headed toward one of the tables loaded with food—and Vanderveen went in search of a restroom.

A line had formed outside the first one she came to, but the diplomat had been in the building before and remembered a second-floor conference room that boasted its own restroom. There wasn't any security to cope with since the first two floors of the building were almost entirely dedicated to reception and conference rooms and considered to be semipublic areas.

The diplomat left the lift, made her way down a narrow hallway, and spotted the conference room where she had been forced to endure a three-hour meeting. The door was open, so she took a peek inside. A twelve-person table occupied the center of the space and was surrounded by adjustable chairs. Windows dominated one wall, a large holo tank claimed a second, and a pin board covered most of a third.

The door Vanderveen was looking for was off to the right. Consistent with her expectations, the restroom was vacant. The diplomat entered and closed the door.

Five minutes later, just as the foreign service officer finished checking her makeup, she heard a door slam. Next came the sound of a giggle followed by an extremely familiar voice. “Jonathan! Stop it! You're tearing my dress.”

Vanderveen cracked the door open and peered through the gap. The Clone military attaché had removed Ambassador Wilmot's dress by that time, tossed it aside, and laid her on the conference room table. He had just pulled her panties off, and was in the process of removing his uniform, when the Foreign Service Officer closed the door and turned the bolt.

What followed was the longest fifteen minutes of Vanderveen's life as her boss moaned like a lost soul, yelled, “Yes, yes,
yes!
” and uttered a scream so loud that it seemed as if everyone in the building would hear it.

It wasn't long thereafter that someone tried the door. Wilmot was annoyed. “It's locked, dammit! Why would the furballs lock the can?”

“Careful,” a male voice said. “Maybe someone's in there.”

Wilmot said, “Shit! Let's get out of here,” and Vanderveen heard the clack of high-heeled shoes followed by a solid
thud
as the outer door closed.

Not wanting to charge out into the corridor and possibly be seen, Vanderveen forced herself to wait for a full minute before entering the conference room.

But then, before the diplomat could make her escape, the outer door opened again. Concerned that Wilmot had left something behind and returned to get it, Vanderveen backed into the restroom. She pulled the door closed and relocked it.

No one tried the door. Instead, Vanderveen heard the murmur of voices, neither of which sounded like Wilmot's. Slowly, so as not to give herself away, the FSO turned the bolt and eased the door open. What she saw was very interesting indeed. There, sitting catercorner from each other, were two of her fellow diplomats—a Ramanthian, whom she immediately recognized as Ambassador Alway Orno, and the Thraki foreign minister, Oholo Bintha. Of even
more
interest, however, was the nature of their conversation. Vanderveen listened intently.

“. . . Which means,” Orno continued, “that the Sheen ships aren't compatible with the rest of our fleet. Rather than put a computer in charge, the way your ancestors did, our naval officers prefer to command such ships themselves. That means replacing the command and control systems, making modifications to each ship's weaponry, and reprogramming all of the maintenance nano.”

The Thrakies were skilled roboticists, so much so that even their pets were machines, each of which was as unique as its owner. Bintha's pet robot, or “form,” chose that moment to emerge from his coat pocket and climb onto the conference room table. The tiny machine morphed from something that resembled a four-legged spider into a biped that performed a series of cartwheels. The Thraki nodded approvingly. “Yes, I can understand the problem. In spite of
the fact that it was our ancestors who created the Sheen and put them into motion, they chose to control their arks much as yo
ur naval officers do. Even
we
refuse to let machines make decisions for us.”

“Yes,” the Ramanthian agreed, “we are similar in that regard. So, given the fact that your people have the skills required to retrofit the fleet, I wondered if you would be willing to assist us.”

Vanderveen felt her heart beat faster. The Thrakies were neutral, that's what they claimed at any rate, so how would the foreign minister reply?

Bintha frowned. “My people are neutral—I believe you are aware of that fact.”

“Yes,” Orno answered smoothly, “but it isn't military assistance that I seek. My race requires certain services. The same services that you make available to others. Surely neutrality doesn't involve the cessation of all commercial activity. How would your people survive?”

“Well,” the Thraki said thoughtfully, “you make a good point. A truly neutral government would support both sides equally.”

“Although,” Orno continued, “it might be a good idea to keep the relationship confidential, lest someone get the wrong idea.”

“Absolutely,” Bintha agreed, “assuming that some sort of agreement is reached.”

“Which brings us to the matter of terms,” the Ramanthian suggested. “We have approximately three thousand Sheen ships. How much would it cost to refit them?”

Rather than dodge the question, as Vanderveen thought that he would, the Thraki tackled it head-on. A clear indication that the question was anything but unexpected. “About two and a half million credits per ship, or 75 million all together, plus certain trade concessions at the cessation of hostilities.”

There it was, an open offer to provide the Ramanthians with sub rosa support, in return for money and trade concessions. Vanderveen remembered Sok Tok's dying words: “. . . Don't trust the Thrakies . . .” and felt a tremendous surge of anger. The translator had been correct—and here was the proof.

Surprisingly, from Orno's perspective, the financial part of the package was fairly reasonable. That meant that the trade concessions, once the Thrakies put them forward, would be less so. But that was to be expected. Of more importance was the fact that the Thrakies believed that the Ramanthians would win the war and wanted to position themselves for the future. That didn't stop him from trying to get a better deal, however. “The price you put forward strikes me as a bit high, but that's what negotiations are for, and we can leave such matters to the experts.

“As for trade agreements, yes, we would be most interested in sitting down to discuss the postwar environment, and how both peoples could better themselves through mutually advantageous commercial agreements.”

The human diplomat knew that behind all the diplomatic mumbo jumbo was the age-old notion of Ramanthian reciprocity, meaning, “if you scrape my chitin, I'll polish yours.” There was more, but most of it consisted of self-congratulatory posturing and further assurances of sincerity.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Thraki and the Ramanthian left the conference room. Vanderveen forced herself to wait, left the restroom, and crossed the conference room to the door. A quick peek was sufficient to ascertain that the hall was empty. The diplomat's heels made an angry clacking sound as she made her way down the hall. She had information, valuable information, but what to do with it? Should she turn it over to Wilmot? And reveal how the intelligence had been gathered? Or find some other way to take advantage of it, which would involve stepping outside
of proper channels and acting on her own? It was a difficult choice—and one that would haunt her dreams.

One of the planet's one-hour-and-twenty-one-minute-long periods of daylight had just ended as Nodoubt Truespeak and his fellow chieftains approached the outskirts of the village. Local warriors had been aware of both them and their escort for six day-cycles by then, and knew the visitors weren't hostile because of the light arms they carried, the fact that most members of the group were well past middle age, and the peace pennant that fluttered over their heads. Dooths snorted columns of warm vapor out into the air, their hooves beat the semifrozen ground into a muddy stew, and the column fill
ed the trail from side to side.

But the process of entering a village, even a friendly one, was a complicated affair that involved ritual purification, a pro forma inspection by the local master-at-arms, and the giving of symbolic gifts. Seemingly outmoded rituals that had grown up out of a need to prevent the spread of disease, detect hidden weapons, and cement alliances.

That meant that a full night cycle was to pass before Truespeak and his companions were allowed to leave the company of their mounts, enter the village proper, and be received there. Time in which General Booly could have fled had he wished to do so—or summoned airborne troops from the fort.

But the human had done neither one, which was just as well for Truespeak, who had promised his fellow chieftains that the legionnaire would meet with them. What they didn't know was that rather than issue an invitation, which would have almost certainly been refused, Truespeak had conspired with Corporal Nowake Longsleep to take advantage of a trip that Booly had scheduled on his own. It was a
security breach for which Longsleep would almost certainly pay.

Still,
if
the chiefs could get Booly's ear,
if
they could persuade him to arrange a meeting with President Nankool, the entire effort would be well wor
th it. A maiden offered him a cup of hot soup, and he was careful to thank her, but the Naa's
true
hunger was reserved for something else.

 

A warrior armed with a torch led Booly and Maylo into the tunnel. It was oval in shape, and vertical grooves had been cut into the rock walls to simulate the inside of a throat. The temperature fell as they moved inward, and water oozed from above and trickled into gutters. Their guide turned. He was a brindled brute, who wore nothing more than a vest, baggy trousers, and weapons harness. His voice was a growl. “Watch your step.”

The warning arrived just in time. The stairs were broad, cut from solid rock, and worn toward the center of each tread. Booly remembered the passageway from childhood—and reached for Maylo's hand. “Watch out . . . they're slippery.” Maylo thought about her condition and was grateful for her husband's help.

By then a booming sound could be heard, like the sound produced by a kettledrum, or the beating of a monstrous heart. The air grew warmer, the stairs took a turn to the right, and the scent of incense filled Maylo's nostrils. To cover the strong odor associated with humans? Or for some other reason? There was no way to know.

Booly saw the warrior step through an oval-shaped doorway and followed him into the open space beyond. The torchlit cavern was huge. The roof arched upward to vanish in darkness. It was supported by thick, intricately carved rock. A closer inspection revealed packs of wild pooks, herds of wooly dooths, and the Towers of Algeron all woven together to support the ceiling or sky.

The floor of the cave sloped down and away from the point of entry. More than a hundred Naa were already seated toward the back, leaving room for those yet to arrive down in front. Some of the villagers had known Booly as a youth. They remembered him as the cub who could never keep up, who couldn't smell anything that wasn't right under his nose, and always wore a lot of clothes. Now he was a chief among chiefs, a powerful warrior, and a person to reckon with. Not just any person, but
their
person, by virtue of the mixed blood that flowed through his veins.

One of the villagers uttered a strange undulating cry, others joined in, and Maylo felt a chill run the length of her spine as the sound echoed back and forth between the cavern walls. The wail came to an end when the legionnaire raised a fist, shouted something in Naa, and the crowd applauded.

Pleased, but also surprised by the strength of his welcome, Booly made his way down toward the stage and the council seats that had been chipped out of solid rock. There were three to a side, with a seventh slightly raised chair in the middle.

Off to the left, standing shoulder to shoulder, were a now-antiquated Trooper I and an early-model Trooper II. Neither war form was occupied, and hadn't been for a long time, but both had been equipped with glowing red eyes. They were there for the same reason that the Legion maintained various war museums, as a testament to Naa valor and the ultimate cost of war. They had fascinated him as a boy—and still had power over him now.

Two chairs had been brought in and set up next to those that would be occupied by the council. Booly and Maylo accepted the invitation to sit down, and had just taken their seats, when Truespeak, his fellow chiefs, and their retainers entered the cavern and took their various places. The invisible drum continued to pound until Truespeak raised a hand
and brought it down. The sudden silence was as effective as a demand for attention. The Chief of Chiefs gazed out over the audience. He looked impressive in full regalia,
very
impressive, and his voice carried to the farthest reaches of t
he cavern. “This village was once home to one of the greatest chiefs who ever lived. His name was Wayfar Hardman.”

The same undulating cry that Maylo had heard before sounded once again, except that it was louder now, as the newly arrived guests joined in. Maylo knew that Wayfar Hardman was her husband's great-grandfather—and took his hand.