Chapter Two
For those who would rule, the greatest threat can often be found standing right next to them, with a well-honed blade and a ready smile.
—Lin Po Lee
Philosopher Emeritus, The League Of Planets
Standard year 2169
FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON,
THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
As a stream of formally attired dignitaries shuffled in through the double doors, Legion General William “Bill” Booly III, and his wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, were forced to pause while the colorfully plumed Prithian ambassador was announced to the crowd beyond. That gave the couple a moment in which to look at what normally functioned as the fort’s mess hall but, having been commandeered for the vice president’s first annual military ball, had magically been transformed into a ballroom.
All of the grim posters cautioning legionnaires about the dangers of land mines, unsecured weapons, and sexually transmitted diseases had been replaced by yard upon yard of colorful bunting that hung in carefully measured scallops along the walls. The previously green support columns had been painted white, detailed to look like marble, and hung with pots of artificial flowers. The normally bare mess tables wore crisp white bedsheets. And the Legion’s best silver, which had been brought up out of the vaults for the occasion, sparkled with reflected candlelight.
Additional color was provided by dress uniforms and the clothing worn by civilians, senators, and other government officials. It was quite a transformation, but Booly had never been one for parties and frowned accordingly. “It looks like a rim world whorehouse,” the officer observed in a voice so low that only his wife could hear it.
Besides being Booly’s wife, Maylo Chien-Chu was president of a vast business empire founded by her uncle, Sergi Chien-Chu, and a natural beauty. She had raven black hair, large almond-shaped eyes, and the high cheekbones of a model. The stiff-collared red sheath dress clung to her long lean body like a second skin and had already begun to attract attention from both men and women alike. She smiled and gave her husband’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Don’t be such a grump. People need to relax once in a while. Besides, when did you become an expert on rim world whorehouses?”
Booly might have made a response but never got the chance, since that was the moment when the formally attired sergeant major announced both their names and brought his intricately carved staff down with a decisive thump. “General William Booly—and Ms. Maylo Chien-Chu.”
As the senior officer on Algeron, or anywhere else, for that matter, Booly was a someone in the small, highly charged world of the Confederacy’s wartime government. And given the fact that there were always plenty of people who wanted to curry favor with the officer’s billionaire wife, the two of them were soon hard at work maintaining important relationships, resisting tidal waves of flattery, and listening for the nuggets of information that are accidentally or intentionally shared at such affairs. Tidbits that can be stored, used, or traded according to need.
Meanwhile, the Legion’s band continued to play, there was a stir as the by now red-faced sergeant major announced, “Vice President Leo Jakov, and Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot.” The words were punctuated with another thump of his heavy staff. The vice president was theoretically the number two person in the government, but actually had very little power, so long as the president was capable of performing his or her duties. Jakov had thick black hair, a vid-star-handsome face, and a full, some said sensual, mouth. His body, which was thick without being fat, seemed to radiate physical power. This fact was not lost on what were said to be dozens of lovers, some of whom were not only well-known, but willing to testify regarding his sexual prowess.
Less known to those outside the realm of government was Jakov’s companion of late. An extremely ambitious diplomat named Kay Wilmot. Those who kept track of such things agreed that the assistant undersecretary had shed at least ten pounds since accepting a temporary position on Jakov’s staff, where, according to certain wags, the “under” secretary took her title quite literally. But even the harshest of critics would have been forced to admit that Wilmot was a match for any of the vice president’s previous consorts on that particular evening. Though not a beautiful woman, the foreign service officer was attractive, and she knew how to emphasize what she had through the use of carefully applied makeup. That, plus a green dress cut to emphasize her large breasts, drew plenty of attention from the human males in attendance.
All conversations came to a halt, and there was light-but-sustained applause as the couple entered the huge room, both because Jakov was well liked, and because the military ball was not only the vice president’s idea, but had been funded out of his pockets. Booly and Maylo watched with amusement as at least half of their fickle admirers left to join the throng of beings now gathered around Jakov and Wilmot.
But such defections were to be expected, and without President Nankool being there to claim the spotlight, it was Jakov’s night to be at the center of attention. A role he clearly enjoyed, as senators, ambassadors, and senior military officers lined up to claim their smile, pat on the back, or well-honed joke.
Hors d’oeuvres were served fifteen minutes later. In spite of the fact that the Legion’s cooks spent most of their time churning out thousands of meals for both the troops and the large contingent of civilians who had been forced to take up residence on Algeron, they could still produce something approaching haute cuisine when the occasion demanded, a fact that quickly became apparent as trays of beautifully prepared appetizers made the rounds. Included were a variety of creations that not only melted in the mouth, beak, or siphon tube, but represented the full spectrum of culinary traditions found within the boundaries of the Confederacy. Never mind the fact that some of the offerings were difficult to look at, had a tendency to crawl about, or produced what some guests considered to be unappetizing odors.
Thanks to the hors d’oeuvres, and the freeflowing drinks from the bar, most of the guests were in a good mood by the time they were instructed to take their places at the carefully arranged tables. Because who sat next to whom, and how close they were to the vice president’s table, was not only an indication of status but a matter of practical importance as well. Since it would never do to put potential antagonists right next to each other—or to unintentionally promote alliances that might prove to be strategically counterproductive later on.
That meant “reliable” people such as Booly and Maylo had been paired with individuals like the recently named Senator Nodoubt Truespeak, who not only lacked some of the social graces expected of top-echelon politicians, but had a tendency to get crosswise with any Hudathan he encountered. Because, while others might have put the horrors of the Hudathan wars aside in the interest of political expediency, both Truespeak and his constituents were slow to forgive.
And as if the sometimes cantankerous Truespeak wasn’t a sufficient challenge, Booly and Maylo had been saddled with the treacherous Thraki representative as well. In fact the short, somewhat paunchy Senator Obduro had recently been part of a conspiracy to help the Ramanthians recondition some of the Sheen warships they had stolen. An offense for which he was anything but contrite.
The evening’s entertainment had begun by then, which, in keeping with the military nature of the ball, involved various displays of skill by well-practiced legionnaires, sailors, and marines. A group of naval ratings had just begun a spirited stick dance, when Booly noticed that a contingent of noncoms were delivering notes to guests who, having read them, immediately got up to leave. Jakov and Wilmot the first to do so.
That was not only unusual, but cause for concern, since any news that was so important that the duty officer felt compelled to notify the vice president was probably bad. Maylo had noticed the messengers as well, and the two of them exchanged glances as a staff sergeant approached their table. “For you, sir,” the legionnaire said, as he handed a note to Booly.
The officer thanked the soldier, read the note, and hurried to excuse himself. Though careful to hide her emotions, Maylo felt something heavy settle into the pit of her stomach as her husband walked away, and knew her appetite wasn’t likely to return.
Fort Camerone’s com center was a windowless cluster of rooms buried below ground level, where it would be safe from anything short of a direct hit by multiple nuclear bombs. It had always been important, but now that the government was in residence on Algeron, the complex was at the very center of the vast web of communications that held the Confederacy together.
Most of the intersystem messages that came into the center arrived via FTL courier ships—or hyperdrive-equipped message torps. However, thanks to a new technology stolen from the Ramanthians, the old ways would soon be obsolete. Because once all of the Confederacy’s ships had been equipped with hypercoms, it would be possible to communicate with each vessel in real time from any point in space. Of course it would be a while before the big clunky contraptions could be miniaturized and mass-produced—but battleships like the Gladiator already had them. Which was why the ship’s commanding officer had been able to notify Algeron of the Ramanthian trap, the loss of her entire battle group, and the resulting surrender.
The vice president was reading the message for the second time when Booly arrived in the dimly lit com center. A single glance at the miserable faces all around him was sufficient to confirm the officer’s worst fears. “Here, General,” the grim-faced duty officer said, as he gave Booly a copy of the decoded text. “This arrived about fifteen minutes ago.”
Booly read the short, matter-of-fact sentences, saw Captain Flerko’s long angular face in his mind’s eye, and swore softly. She was good, very good, so it was unlikely that the loss of the battleship and its escorts had been the result of human error. No, it looked like the Ramanthians had come up with a new strategy, and it was one that Confederacy military forces would have to find a way to counter. In the meantime there was the last part of the message to consider. One that left the officer feeling sick to his stomach. “Have no choice but to surrender . . . The president is alive and will blend with the other prisoners. Do not, repeat do not, announce his capture. Pray for us. . . . Captain Marina Flerko.”
Booly wasn’t the only one who was moved, because when he looked up, it was to see Vice President Jakov comforting a com tech. “There, there,” the official said, as the woman sobbed on his shoulder. “It’s a tough break, but we’ll get the bastards.”
Many, perhaps most, onlookers would have been impressed by the vice president’s composure and his willingness to provide comfort to a lowly technician. But there was something about the scene that troubled Booly. Was it the look of barely contained avarice in Jakov’s eyes? The cold, somewhat calculating look on Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot’s face? Or a combination of both?
But there was no opportunity to consider the matter, as everyone followed Vice President Jakov into the adjoining conference room, and the group that Nankool liked to refer to as his “brain trust” took their seats.
Six people were present besides Jakov and herself, and while Wilmot didn’t know any of the group intimately, she was familiar with their reputations. First there was General Booly, who, had it not been for the fact that he was married to the formidable Maylo Chien-Chu, would have been worth a roll in the hay. He was part Naa, and if the rumors were true, had a strip of fur that ran down his spine.
Also present, and looming large in one of the enormous chairs provided for his kind, was Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, who functioned as both his race’s representative to the Senate and head of state. Which made the craggy hardeyed alien a very important person indeed. And one that Wilmot wasn’t all that fond of given the manner in which the Hudathan had recently gone around her to form a backchannel relationship with a low-level subordinate named Christine Vanderveen. Still, if Nankool was sitting in a Ramanthian prisoner-of-war camp, then so was Vanderveen! A bonus if there ever was one.
Not to be taken so lightly, however, was the woman generally referred to in high-level government circles as Madame X. Her real name was Margaret Xanith. She had a head of carefully styled salt-and-pepper hair and a surprisingly youthful face, which wore a seemingly perpetual frown. Perhaps that was a reflection of her personality, or the fact that as the head of Confed Intelligence she knew about all of the things that were going wrong and rarely had much to smile about. She whispered something to one of her aides, who nodded, and left the room.
Seated next to Xanith was an extremely powerful man who though no longer president of the Confederacy, or head of the huge company that still bore his name, continued to hold the rank of reserve navy admiral and was Maylo Chien-Chu’s uncle. A cyborg who, in spite of the fact that he looked to be about twenty-five years old, was actually more than a hundred.
The final participant was a relative newcomer to Nankool’s inner circle. A female Dweller named Yuro Osavi. Her frail sticklike body was protected by a formfitting cage controlled by a microcomputer that was connected to the alien’s nervous system through a neural interface. The academic had been living on a Ramanthian planet and studying their culture until the war forced her to flee. Osavi had been drafted by Nankool to provide the president with what he called “. . . an enemy’s-eye view of the conflict.” Just one of the many reasons why the wily politician had weathered so many storms and remained in the Confederacy’s top job for so long.
“Okay,” Jakov said somberly, “I suppose we could be on the receiving end of even worse news, but it’s damned hard to think what that would be. And, like you, I am absolutely devastated by the tragic loss of an entire battle group plus thousands of lives. That having been said, you can be sure that our absence will be noted, and unless we return to the ball soon, all sorts of rumors will begin to fly. So, unless there are immediate steps we can take to strike back, or free our personnel, I suggest we adjourn until 0900 hours tomorrow morning. By that time I’m sure that Margaret, Bill, and Yuro will have prepared some options for us.” At that point Jakov scanned the faces all around him, and having heard no objections, rose from the table. Wilmot hurried to do likewise. “All right,” the vice president said cheerfully, “I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that he was gone.
There was a long moment of silence once Jakov and his companion had left the room. The people still at the table stared at each other in utter disbelief. Because although rumor control was important, surely the vice president could have remained long enough to hammer out some sort of initial plan. Unless the politician wasn’t interested in a speedy response that is? A possibility all of them had considered—but only Doma-Sa was willing to give voice to. “So Jakov wants to be president,” the triad rumbled cynically. “This reminds me of home.”
Hudathan politics had been extremely bloody until very recently, so the others understood the reference, even if some were reluctant to agree. “It does seem as if we could go around the table,” Booly agreed. “How ’bout you Margaret? Assuming our people are still alive, where would the bugs take them?”
“We’re working on that,” the intelligence chief replied gravely. “Although we’re pretty sure they wouldn’t be taken to Hive.”
“I agree,” Osavi put in. “The Ramanthian home world serves as the residence of the Queen and is therefore sacred. To land aliens on the surface of Hive would be unthinkable.”
“Well, they’d better get used to the idea because it’s going to happen,” Doma-Sa responded grimly. “And when it does, a whole lot of bugs are going to die.”
“Sounds good to me,” Booly replied. “But it’s going to be a while before we can penetrate their home system, much less drop troops onto Hive. In the meantime, let’s put every intelligence asset we have on finding out where our people are. Margaret’s staff is working on it, but maybe there’s something more we can do. How about Chien-Chu Enterprises, Admiral? Can your people give us a hand?”
The possibility had already occurred to Sergi Chien-Chu. The family business was a huge enterprise, with operations on dozens of planets, some of which were no longer accessible due to the war. But the vast fleet of spaceships that belonged to Chien-Chu Enterprises had access to those that were—and there was always the chance that one or more of his employees would see or hear something. The problem was time, because while all of his vessels would eventually have hypercoms, none was equipped with the new technology as yet. “Maylo and I will put out the word,” the businessman promised. “And report anything we hear.”
“Thank you,” Booly replied gratefully. “In the meantime I will tell the public affairs people to work up a release concerning the loss of the Gladiator but with no mention of Nankool or his staff.”
“It’s imperative that we keep the lid on,” Xanith agreed earnestly. “Because if the Ramanthians realize they have the president, they will use him for leverage. I’m sure he would tell us to refuse their demands, but who knows how much pressure Earth’s government will bring to bear? Or what the Senate may decide? The Thrakies might lead a ‘Save our president’ movement actually intended to aid the Ramanthians.”
“And there’s something else to consider,” the frail-looking Dweller added gloomily. “Very few people within the Confederacy are aware of the Spirit cult that has grown increasingly popular within the Ramanthian military. They believe true warriors always fight to the death. That means they have no respect for prisoners and tend to treat them like animals. So, if Nankool and the rest of the survivors fall into the pincers of those who believe in what they call ‘The True Path,’ life will be very hard indeed. So hard that one of his fellow prisoners may be tempted to reveal the president’s identity in hopes of receiving favorable treatment.” It was a sobering thought, and even though all of them had to return to the party, it was difficult to think of anything else.
* * *
THE VILLAGE OF WATERSONG, PLANET ALGERON,
THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
As the sun started to rise somewhere beyond the cold gray haze, daylight began to fade in, as if emanating from within the planet itself. And gradually, as the mist started to clear, the jagged Towers of Algeron appeared more than a thousand miles to the south. Some of the peaks soared eighty thousand feet into the sky, making the mountains so heavy that if they were somehow transported to Earth, their weight would crack the planet’s crust.
But the two worlds were different. Very different. Because while it took Terra twenty-four standard hours to execute a full rotation, Algeron completed a full 360-degree turn every two hours and forty-two minutes. The cycle was so fast that centrifugal force had created a globespanning mountain range, which thanks to the gravity differential between the poles and the equator, weighed only half what it would have on Earth.
None of which was of the slightest interest to the one-armed bandit chieftain named Nofear Throatcut except to the extent that most of those in the village below him had been asleep for two local days and would remain so for two additional planetary rotations. There would be sentries, of course, because no self-respecting Naa village would be so foolish as to rest without posting some, but having been on duty for a while, and with the gradual return of daylight, the watch keepers would not only be a little sleepy, but slightly overconfident.
But Throatcut and his mixed band of deserters, renegades, and thieves were anything but typical. A fact that quickly became apparent as Nightrun Fargo pulled the trigger on his homemade crossbow and sent a metal bolt speeding through the early-morning mist. The razor-sharp point ripped a hole through a sentry’s unprotected throat. Which was no small feat since it had been necessary for the bandit to crawl within 150 yards of his target without generating noise or being detected by the villager’s acute sense of smell.
The target, a youngster of only seventeen, made a gurgling sound as he attempted to shout a warning, tugged at the now slippery shaft, and was already in the process of falling as Nosay Slowspeak loosed another bolt. This one was directed at an older sentry. There was a dull thump as the bolt hit the warrior’s chest, penetrated his leather armor, and knocked the oldster off his feet.
But the more senior watch keeper was a clever old coot who, having tied a lanyard to the cast-iron alarm bell mounted next to him, managed to ring the device even as he fell. Throatcut swore as a loud metallic clang was heard, and a third sentry fired into the mist. “Okay,” the chieftain said, as he brought a Legion-issue hand com to his lips. “Lindo, you know what to do. Don’t kill all of the females, though. Some of the boys are horny!”
That got a laugh, plus some ribald commentary that would never have been tolerated by the noncoms Throatcut had served under in the Legion. “You got that right!” Longride Doothman put in.
“Save one of those whores for me!” Salwa Obobwa added eagerly, as more shots were fired from within the village.
But Throatcut put forward no objection because he knew how important it was to maintain just enough discipline to get the job done and not one iota more if he wanted to remain in command.
The villagers were beginning to emerge from their underground homes by then. The locals were only half-dressed in many cases but armed to the teeth with a mix of locally produced rifles, Legion-issue weapons of every possible description, and oversized Hudathan hand-me-downs. And, given the rough-and-ready nature of the Naa tribespeople, the villagers would have been able to give a good account of themselves had it not been for Throatcut’s secret weapon.
Like many of his kind, Cady Lindo had been executed for murder back on Earth, given an opportunity to trade oblivion for a place in the Legion of the Damned, and downloaded into a succession of increasingly complex electromechanical bodies until he was qualified to occupy the very latest version of the battle-tested Trooper II (T-2) combat vehicle. A ten-foot-tall machine that stood on two armored legs and could carry a single bio bod into a variety of combat environments while employing a truly devastating array of weapons ranging from an arm-mounted air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun, to an arm-mounted fast-recovery laser cannon and two shoulder-mounted missile launchers, both of which were safely stored up on the mesa that Throatcut and his gang used as a base.
But Lindo had no need for missile launchers as he emerged from hiding to enter the north end of the village. Bullets began to ping against his armor, and a poorly thrown grenade went off about fifteen feet away, as the cyborg opened fire. The outgunned defenders never had a chance as they were snatched off their feet, cut to shreds, or incinerated as they attempted to flee.
Seeing that the head-on assault had failed, some of the local warriors sought to outflank the mechanical monster by turning west into the protection of the rocks that backed the ravine-hugging village. But Throatcut had anticipated such a move and a force of bio bods were there to cut them down. The human named Obobwa, along with Musicplay, Fargo, and Slowspeak opened fire with fully automatic weapons as a dozen half-seen warriors charged into a hail of lead.
Throatcut, who had been watching the slaughter from the top of the rock-strewn slope, began to issue new orders before the last body hit the ground. “Cease fire! Save your ammo! And make sure all of them are dead.”
The bandits rose from their various hiding places, and a series of shots rang out, as Throatcut followed a steep switchbacking trail down into the now devastated village. A comely female, armed with an old muzzle loader, popped up out of a hole. But the long barreled rifle was too heavy for her, and she was still trying to aim it when Throatcut struck the side of her head with his pistol. She collapsed at his feet.
Though no longer engaged in combat, Lindo was standing guard. Though unlikely, there was always the chance that warriors from another village would happen by, or a group of locals would return from the hunt. If so, the T-2’s sensors should pick them up, thereby giving the rest of the gang time to flee or prepare themselves for combat.
There were screams, interspersed by more gunfire, as the bandits fought their way down into the subterranean dwellings, where loot in the form of food, booze, and ammo was theirs for the taking. The older females were generally murdered, as were many of the younger ones, unless they were pretty enough to catch someone’s eye. Then they were hauled up to the surface and loaded onto one of the woolly dooths that were waiting to haul the plunder back to the mesa. Most were crying, some continued to struggle, and one committed suicide by attacking Musicplay with a kitchen knife.
There were cubs of course. Which were typically left to fend for themselves unless they got in the way, as one youngster did when he threw a rock at Lindo. That impertinence earned the cub an energy bolt.
Finally, having obtained what they had come for, and led by Throatcut, who rode high on the T-2’s back, the bandits followed a meandering course back toward the mesa they called home. A trip that exposed them to one of Madame X’s spy sats as it passed overhead. Back in the days when Algeron had been classified as a protectorate, a fly-form would have been dispatched to inspect the group. Especially in the wake of other attacks by a renegade T-2. But the planet was independent now, and theoretically responsible for protecting its own citizens, even if the new government lacked the means to do so. So no action was taken by Xanith’s analysts other than to generate a report that was copied to Senator Nodoubt Truespeak and that individual’s overworked staff.
Seven Algeron-length days had passed by the time Throatcut and his band arrived at the base of the massive stone pillar and began the long arduous journey to the top. The sun had risen once again as the cyborg and the heavily laden dooths made their way up past an extremely treacherous rockslide to the plateau’s windswept top. A rocky spire marked the entrance to their subsurface habitation, and once there, the bandits began to dismount. Cybertech Wylie Rin came out to greet the freebooters, as did three forlorn-looking females, all of whom were put to work unloading the dooths.
In the meantime the latest captives were taken down into a warren of underground rooms to be raped, and in one case tortured, because that was Slowspeak’s notion of sex. Some, those deemed worthy, would be kept, but the others would be put to death a few days later. Because enjoyable though the females might be, slaves require food, and the bandits had no desire to venture out more frequently than they had to.
As night fell, and the relentless fingers of the wind began to probe the ruins, a sad, keening noise was heard. It was as if the cries of those who had suffered on the mesa in the past had somehow been blended with the screams of those held there in the present to produce a time-spanning cry of anguish. But now, as in the past, no help was forthcoming.
* * *
FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
It was easy to lose track of time on a planet where the days were so short, buried under a fortress where there was no natural light, immersed in a flow of work that never stopped. Which was why Booly was surprised to find that after working through the artificial eight-hour “night,” it was suddenly time to attend Jakov’s strategy session. A meeting in which some sort of plan would no doubt be hashed out even if doing so proved to be frustrating. The part of his job that Booly hated most.
The officer was running about five minutes late, so when Booly entered the conference room, he expected to find the other participants present. But in spite of the fact that Chien-Chu, Xanith, Doma-Sa, and Osavi were seated around the table, neither Jakov nor Wilmot was anywhere to be seen. Of course with the entire weight of the Confederacy resting upon his shoulders, it would be quite understandable if the vice president was delayed. So Booly took some food from a side table, poured himself a cup of caf, and listened as Xanith gave an informal report.
“Bottom line, we don’t have the foggiest idea where the prisoners were taken,” the intel chief said grimly. “So, no progress there. The good news, if that’s the right word for it, is that when the Samurai and her battle group dropped into the Nebor system to investigate, they were able to recover a life pod containing a junior officer from one the Gladiator’s escorts. She was able to confirm the essence of Captain Flerko’s hypercom message. Not the part about Nankool—but the way the trap was set. The Sam found lots of debris, but no Ramanthians, or anyone else for that matter.”
The naval command structure would be eager to get any details they could concerning the trap, but the information wasn’t going to help locate the POWs and rescue them.
“I haven’t got anything, either,” Chien-Chu confessed glumly. “Nor would I expect to at this early date.”
There was more conversation, all of which was trivial, until Jakov and Wilmot arrived twenty minutes later. Rather than offer some sort of pro forma apology, as Booly expected he would, the vice president simply took a seat. And if the politician was feeling the weight of the additional responsibilities that had been thrust upon him, there was no sign of it on his freshly shaven face. “So,” Jakov began blandly, “what have you got for us?”
Wilmot, who made it a habit to monitor Jakov’s words for indictors of where she stood, heard the word “us” and felt an immediate surge of pleasure. By including her in the sentence, the vice president had elevated her to a status higher than that of the other beings in the room! Even Triad Doma-Sa, who qualified as a visiting head of state! Clearly her official, as well as unofficial, efforts to keep Jakov happy were working, including the rather rigorous bout of sex that had delayed them.
“So,” Xanith concluded, as she finished her report, “we don’t know where they are.”
Jakov nodded soberly. “That’s regrettable—but understandable. I’m sure you’ll keep me informed. By the way, I’d like to hold these meetings on a regular basis. . . . Although I don’t see any need for all of you to attend. I know Triad Doma-Sa, Admiral Chien-Chu, and Professor Osavi are all very busy. With that in mind I will designate members of my personal staff to fill in for them. Then we can convene the larger group when circumstances warrant. Perhaps Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot would be so kind as to make the necessary arrangements.”
Chien-Chu, who had once been president himself, couldn’t help but feel a sense of grudging admiration for the skillful manner in which he and the other Nankool loyalists had been removed from the inner circle to make room for some of the vice president’s political protégés. And there wasn’t a damned thing any of them could do about it.
“So, unless there’s something else, I’d better get back to work,” Jakov announced lightly. “It seems that the Prithians are upset over the way Thraki freighters have started to appear in the small, out-of-the-way systems that they have traditionally served. Even though such routes couldn’t possibly be profitable for our diminutive friends. And that raises the question of why? Both sides are waiting in my office.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Booly acknowledged. “But I would appreciate it if you could find time to take a look at the rescue plan that my staff and I hammered out.”
“Later perhaps,” Jakov said dismissively as he came to his feet. “It saddens me to say it, but there isn’t much point in working on a rescue plan until we know where the POWs are. Even then, the realities of war, combined with other priorities, may make it difficult to implement such a plan. So keep it handy, but let’s focus on our most important objective, which is winning the war.” And with that, both Jakov and Wilmot departed.
A long silence followed the moment when the door closed. “Damn,” Xanith said finally. “He doesn’t want to find the POWs.”
“No, I think it’s President Nankool that he doesn’t want to find,” Doma-Sa said cynically. “A strategy I can easily understand since it’s the sort of thing that my people are known for!”
All of those present knew how dangerous Hudathan politics could be, so no one chose to debate the point. “I fear you are correct old friend,” Chien-Chu said grimly. “But I’d like to be wrong.”
“Well,” Booly replied thoughtfully, “let’s continue to refine the rescue plan. Then, once we know where the POWs are, it will be ready to go.”
“And if Jakov refuses to authorize a rescue mission?” Chien-Chu wanted to know.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” the officer answered stolidly.
“Any attempt to send a rescue party without the vice president’s approval could be interpreted as treason,” Xanith warned.
“And failure to try and rescue them could be regarded as treason as well,” the general replied grimly. “So let’s hope that we’re never forced to choose.”