Chapter Two
And a great pestilence will be upon the stars, as billions are born, and billions must die.
—Author unknown
The Pooonara Book of Prophecies
Standard year 1010 B.C.
ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN CARRIER SWARM
The carrier was in hyperspace, so the enormous hangar bay was pressurized as General Oro Akoto looked out over the two thousand eight hundred members of the Death Hammer Regiment. The Hammer, as it was popularly known, consisted of three battalions of crack troopers who were all standing at attention as they waited for the new Queen to appear. They were dressed in ceremonial attire, rather than combat armor, and stood with their wings respectfully vertical. The air was thick with the combined odors of chitin wax, cold metal, and ozone.
Akoto’s division included two other regiments as well, each on its own ship, as a Ramanthian Battle Group that consisted of more than fifty vessels prepared to strike deep into the Clone Hegemony. A powerful force, or that’s how it appeared, but the general knew better. The truth was that only one-third of the division, the regiment now before him, was truly battle-ready. The other regiments had been cobbled together from support battalions, reserve units, and so-called veteran volunteers. Meaning middle-aged warriors who were fit for garrison duty but not much else. However, the choice to use such a force was not motivated by desperation, but the Queen’s belief that it would be adequate for the job, even if Akoto wasn’t so sure. Would the previous sovereign have overridden his judgment? No, the old warrior didn’t believe so, but the new Queen was very different from the “great mother,” the much-loved monarch who had sacrificed herself in order to bring more than five billion new citizens into the galaxy.
Akoto’s thoughts were interrupted by a ceremonial blare of foot-powered battle horns as the Queen shuffled up a ramp to join him on the speaker’s platform. In marked contrast to the great mother, who had been incapacitated by her egg-swollen body during the final years of her life, the new monarch was not only extremely fit but dressed in spotless combat armor, signifying her intention to take the same risks her subjects did. It was a decision that horrified her advisors and thrilled the Ramanthian populace.
As the so-called warrior queen arrived on the platform, and Akoto bent a knee, the officer felt his body respond to the cloud of pheromones that surrounded the royal. The chemicals caused him and every other Ramanthian who came into contact with them to feel protective, receptive, and willingly subservient. The royal’s space black eyes glittered with intelligence as she motioned for the officer to rise. “Good morning, General. . . . Or is it afternoon? It’s hard to tell sealed inside this ship.”
It was a simple joke. But one that made her seem more accessible. The banter was captured by the hovering fly cams that were present to record the moment for both historical and propaganda purposes. It was just one of the many tasks for which Chancellor Itnor Ubatha had responsibility. The civilian followed the monarch out onto the platform, took his place behind her, and felt a sense of satisfaction as he looked out over the warriors arrayed in front of the royal. Ramanthian citizens everywhere would feel a sense of pride as they watched their Queen address her troops prior to battle.
“Greetings,” the Queen said, as she stepped up to the mike. And that was the moment when the members of the Hammer realized that the royal was wearing armor identical to theirs. The high honor elicited a loud clack of approval as 5,600 pincers opened and closed at the same time.
“Seek approval, and enjoy its warmth, but under no circumstances come to rely on it.” That was one of the many teachings that the Queen had learned from her predecessor, which was why she made a conscious effort to discount the applause, and went straight to the point. Her much-amplified voice was piped into every nook and cranny of the ship. “By this time tomorrow, you will be on the surface of Gamma-014 doing battle with the Clone Hegemony,” the royal said. “There are two reasons for this. First, because the clones are human and will inevitably be drawn to their own kind. And second, because Gamma-014 is rich in a mineral called iridium, which we need for a multiplicity of applications.”
Ubatha had heard both arguments before but remained unconvinced. Yes, the clones came from human stock, but they believed themselves to be both morally and physically superior to the rest of the “free-breeding” species. That meant there was an opportunity to drive a wedge between the two groups, or would have been, had the royal been willing to pursue diplomacy rather than war. And there were plenty of other planets with significant deposits of corrosion-resistant iridium, so why go after Gamma-014? Unless there was a third reason for the unprovoked attack, something the Queen wasn’t ready to share with even her most senior advisors—but would prove compelling once it was understood. Ubatha hoped so. Because the alternative was to conclude that the new sovereign wasn’t all that bright. A depressing thought indeed.
“You will have the element of surprise,” the Queen assured her troops. “And you will outnumber clone military forces two to one. But most importantly, you will be armed with the inherent superiority of the Ramanthian race, which is destined to rule the galaxy.” That was the line the regiment’s political officers had been waiting for, and they took the lead as a resounding clack echoed between durasteel bulkheads.
“Finally,” the monarch concluded. “Know this. When you land on Gamma-014, I will land with you.”
That statement resulted in a storm of frenzied clacking, which continued even after the royal had left the platform and made her way down to the deck below. The people of Gamma-014 didn’t know it yet, but death was on the way.
* * *
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
The Ramanthian attack came without warning as dozens of warships emerged from hyperspace, quickly destroyed the tiny contingent of navy vessels that were in orbit around the planet, and spewed hundreds of aerospace fighters into the atmosphere. There were no pronouncements from space and no requests for surrender, as the sleek aircraft began a carefully planned series of surgical strikes. Precision-guided bombs hit government buildings, leveled power plants, and flattened the main military base. The targeting data had been gathered by Ramanthian, Thraki, and Drac merchants during the preceding year.
But, thanks to careful planning on the part of General Akoto, certain airfields, roads, and bridges were spared. The reason for that strategy soon became apparent as a swarm of assault boats dropped out of space, bucked their way down through the planet’s frigid atmosphere, and sought their preassigned landing zones. There were only twenty-three major cities on the sparsely settled planet, so it wasn’t long before they were in enemy pincers, as the Queen landed and symbolically entered the rubble-strewn capital. The fact that she was carrying an assault rifle wasn’t lost on the population of the Ramanthian home planet when they saw the video less than an hour later. The propaganda coup would have been impossible back when messages were carried aboard ships or faster-than-light (FTL) message torpedoes. But now, thanks to the new hypercom technology that had been developed by Ramanthian scientists, real-time communication over interstellar distances was an everyday reality.
Decisive though the alien victory was, there were holdouts. One was a clone officer named Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666, who, like all of the soldiers both above and below him, was a genetic replica of a dead hero who was said to have embodied all of the military virtues. Which was why the original Seebo had been chosen by founder Carolyn Hosokowa to “father” an entire army.
This approach, when replicated across all professions, was intended to produce ideal citizens, each playing his or her part in a nearly perfect society. But even though their genes were identical, each clone had different experiences, which made them individuals. Some of whom, like the increasing number of people who favored “free breeding,” threatened to bring the carefully designed social structure crashing down around them. For there was no place for so-called accidental people in a strictly hereditary society. Or that’s the way Colonel Six and other social conservatives saw it.
Of course all such concerns were placed on the back burner when the Ramanthians attacked. Once it became clear that the planet’s orbital defenses had been crushed, and the Ramanthians were landing in force, “Colonel Six,” as most people called him, took immediate action. The officer was in charge of the army’s Cold Weather Survival school located at the foot of a rugged mountain range. It was a military facility that had been used to train thousands of troops over the years but was currently on hiatus until the really cold weather set in. That meant only forty-six instructors and support personnel were present. That was the bad news. The good news was that all the Seebos under the colonel’s command were battle-hardened veterans who knew how to survive in a wintry environment and fight a guerrilla-style war, which was what the clone officer fully intended to do.
And, thanks to the fact that Six was in charge of a facility that was both remote and intentionally primitive, the bugs left the Spartan base alone as the Seebos took all of the supplies they could carry, loaded them onto genetically engineered pack animals, and disappeared into the mountains. It was a seemingly meaningless event in the grand scheme of things, but one that would cost the Ramanthians dearly over the days and weeks to come. For there was only one thing more dangerous than winter on Gamma-014, and that was Colonel Six.
* * *
PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
A significant portion of the spaceport had been sealed off from regular traffic, flags snapped in a stiff breeze, and rows of Jonathan Alan Seebos stood at attention as the spotless shuttle settled onto its skids. As the main hatch began to cycle open, a band comprised of nearly identical musicians struck up “All Hail to the Confederacy,” which seemed pretty unlikely as the Ramanthians won battle after battle, and the government was forced to go looking for new allies. The once-hostile Hudathans were on board, but the Clone Hegemony considered itself to be nonaligned, something President Marcott Nankool was determined to change as he stepped out into bright sunlight.
A receiving line that consisted of senior government officials was waiting to greet Nankool and his staff as they stepped onto the blast-scarred tarmac. The clones who had met the president on previous occasions took note of the fact that he was at least forty pounds lighter since his stint in a Ramanthian POW camp.
Precedence is important where diplomatic matters are concerned, so Christine Vanderveen found herself toward the tail end of the Confederacy’s delegation, in spite of her recent promotion from Foreign Service Officer (FSO)-3 to FSO-2. It involved a significant increase in authority and responsibility that was partly the result of the manner in which she had distinguished herself while on Jericho. An experience shared with Nankool, who had been on his way to visit the Hegemony, when captured by the enemy.
But rather than resent her relatively low status in the delegation, Vanderveen relished it, knowing that very little would be expected of her until actual negotiations got under way. That meant she had more time to look around and absorb the atmosphere as her superiors shook hands with peers, told lies about how wonderful the Hegemony was, and began what was sure to be a high-stakes round of negotiations. Because without help from the Hegemony, which was to say hundreds of thousands of Seebos, there was a very real possibility that the Confederacy would dissolve into its component parts, all of whom would vie with each other to cut a deal with the Ramanthians.
As Vanderveen made her way down the receiving line, one of the first people she ran into was Ewen Ishimoto-Nine, the Hegemony’s ambassador to the Confederacy. He was normally stationed on Algeron, where the Confederacy’s government had taken up temporary residence, but was home because of the visit. Rather than kiss her on the cheek, as the diplomat normally would, Vanderveen’s counterpart was careful to shake her hand instead. Because kissing, like all other aspects of free-breeder sex, was officially frowned upon. “Christine,” Ishimoto-Nine said warmly. “I was so very happy to hear of your safe return.”
Vanderveen said, “Thank you,” and wanted to talk more but was forced to move on. That was when she was introduced to Henry Hyde-Fifteen, the deputy secretary of state, as well as his boss, Carly Chambers-Ten, the secretary of state, both of whom were friendly if somewhat distant. Normally at least one of the Hegemony’s three Alpha Clones would have been present to receive a head of state, but none were. Was that an intentional snub? Or a manifestation of how busy they were? There was no way to know.
The bar codes that all of the clones wore on their foreheads took some getting used to, as did the fact that when Vanderveen looked over at the band, the only factor that distinguished one musician from the next was their relative ages. But there wasn’t all that much time for reflection as the receiving line spit her out and the officer in charge of Nankool’s security detail herded the VIPs toward a convoy of six-wheeled limos, each of which flew a small Confederacy flag from whip-style antennae. The legionnaire didn’t look the least bit like Santana but had a similar manner and served to remind the diplomat of the leave the two of them had shared on Earth. Where was he, she wondered? Back on Adobe? Or on his way to some other hellhole? It wasn’t easy maintaining a relationship when both of them were on the move and a war was under way.
Orders were given, doors slammed, and the convoy departed. Having found herself in a car with three administrative assistants, Vanderveen took advantage of her new rank and maintained a lordly silence. Bio bods mounted on Trooper IIs jogged alongside the vehicles, weapons at the ready, as the motorcade left the spaceport and entered the city beyond. The metroplex was a study in symmetry. Grid-style streets met each other at right angles, box-shaped buildings stood in orderly rows, and a cookie-cutter park occupied every sixth block.
But, having read the fifty-page intelligence summary that Madam Xanith’s people had prepared for Nankool and his staff, Vanderveen knew that the city was actually less orderly than it appeared. Tensions were seething just below the surface—including the discontent being voiced by a nascent opposition party. Young people, for the most part, some of whom were rumored to be “naturals,” and hoped to overthrow the hereditary dictatorship in favor of a democracy. The opposition consisted of social conservatives and secret death squads that might or might not include members of the police.
As if summoned by her thoughts, two clone policemen, both riding gyro-stabilized unicycles, pulled even with Vanderveen’s limo. Both wore white helmets equipped with face shields, black body armor, and combat boots. One of the clones looked straight at the diplomat, and she felt a chill run down her spine, as he nodded and accelerated away.
The motorcade turned onto a tree-lined boulevard shortly after that. Ranks of citizens lined both sides of the street. They had been ordered to come out and welcome Nankool to Alpha-001 whether they wanted to or not. And because the Hegemony’s citizens had been prevented from intermarrying, and reproducing in what Vanderveen considered to be the normal manner, they stood in the racial groupings that coincided with their professions. Computer technicians here, dental assistants there, and so forth all according to a plan handed down from on high. What are they thinking? the diplomat wondered, as the black, brown, and white faces slid by. Do they favor an alliance with us? Would they prefer to go it alone? There was no way to tell because, in keeping with the orderly nature of clone society, citizens weren’t allowed to cheer, hurl insults, or pepper the motorcade with rotten fruit. All the clones could do was wait for the foreign dignitaries to roll past, then return to their jobs.
By peering past the driver, Vanderveen could see the low, boxlike structure that lay ahead. It was topped with a dome and soon proved to be the motorcade’s destination as the lead vehicle swept around a circular driveway and paused under a formal portico, where a clutch of ominous T-2s stood waiting. Many of the cyborgs wore the machine equivalent of tattoos—some of which were quite fanciful.
It took a while for the more senior officials to exit their cars, but Vanderveen’s opportunity eventually came, and the diplomat followed a gaggle of talkative undersecretaries into the capitol building. A formal reception area led to a short flight of stairs and the corridor beyond. Heels clicked on stone, and voices echoed between barren walls, as a guide led the presidential party past a checkpoint and into the Chamber of Governmental Process.
It was a large circular room with a highly polished white floor. Triangles of shiny black marble pointed in toward the center of the space, where a beautiful green-and-blue double helix served as both pillar and sculpture. Vanderveen knew the column was intended to represent a single molecule of a chemical substance called deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA, which is the basic building block of all living organisms. The symbol had religious as well as scientific significance for the clones.
The sculpture shimmered as bars of light representing the four chemical compounds called bases floated upwards and disappeared into the ceiling. A circular table fronted the column, and a man rose to greet them. The Alpha Clone went by the name Antonio Seven. His hair had once been black, and shiny with pomade, but that was long ago. Now it was white, and what remained of once-thick curls circled the ruler’s head like a silver crown. What hadn’t changed were the almost military manner in which he held his body, the Spartan black tunic that he favored, and the matching pantaloon-style pants. His bare feet made a slapping sound as he came forward to embrace Nankool. “Greetings old friend!” the Alpha Clone said warmly. “I’m afraid that Marcus is too sick to join us, and Pietro sends his apologies. The demands of government require his presence elsewhere.” That was a lie, since Pietro rarely did much of anything anymore, preferring to sit on his veranda and paint. But Antonio saw no reason to disclose that, both because it would have been disloyal to do so, and because it suited his purposes to conceal the extent to which he ran the government.
The next forty-five minutes or so were spent making introductions, and consuming a seemingly endless procession of appetizers, as both sides began to jockey for position. This was a rather chaotic process in which Vanderveen found herself going one-on-one with a clone general. The topic of conversation was the pros and cons of Ramanthian assault rifles, a subject about which the military man was surprised to learn the young woman was quite knowledgeable.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to all but those gathered around Nankool and Antonio, a messenger arrived. After scanning the piece of paper that had been handed to him the Alpha Clone frowned. Nankool could sense that something important was in the offing and was paying close attention when the other man opened his mouth to speak. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen,” Antonio said gravely. “But I just received word that Gamma-014 has been attacked by the Ramanthian Empire. And, based on preliminary reports, it appears the planet has fallen.”
Gasps of surprise were heard, along with expressions of incredulity, as everyone sought to absorb the terrible news. Except that Nankool, who should have been sad, felt wildly jubilant instead. Because here it was! A heaven-sent opportunity to secure the alliance he so desperately needed! But none of that was visible on the politician’s face as he offered his condolences. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” the head of state said soberly. “And I’m sure I speak for the entire Confederacy when I say that we stand ready to fight side by side with people of the Hegemony to stop Ramanthian aggression.”
Vanderveen, who was close enough to hear, was impressed by the way the chief executive had been able not only to seize upon the unexpected opportunity but to do so in such a graceful manner. Meanwhile Antonio, who was increasingly burdened by his age, felt an impending sense of doom. Because not only was there the fate of Gamma-014 to consider but it was likely that troublemakers within the Hegemony would use the Ramanthian attack to advance their demands for change. But it would have been a mistake to say any of those things out loud, or to accept Nankool’s offer of assistance without giving such an alliance careful thought, so Antonio sought to push the matter off. “Thank you for your condolences,” the Alpha Clone said feelingly. “We appreciate your kind thoughts. Now, if you will excuse us, my staff and I have work to do. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Nankool replied kindly. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Antonio departed a few minutes later—with most of his senior officials in tow. Given all the time they had spent together on Jericho, there was a special bond between Nankool and Vanderveen. A relationship the diplomat sought to downplay for the most part—but allowed her to address the president directly when she chose to do so. “So what do you think?” the foreign service officer inquired, as she appeared at Nankool’s elbow.
“I think the bugs are going to be sorry,” the president of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings said grimly, as he popped a ripe olive into his mouth. “Very sorry indeed.”
* * *
PLANET ADOBE, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The robot army attacked at night, when their sensors would give them a significant advantage over the Legion’s bio bods, at least half of whom would probably be asleep. And, because Major Liam Quinlan had placed Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC along the front edge of the desert escarpment, they were the ones who took the brunt of the assault as the oncoming horde sought to break through the defenders and reach the power plant beyond.
There were three types of robots, starting with skeletal androids, who stood six feet tall and carried assault weapons. Then came so-called rollers, which traveled on four fat tires but were equipped with six, and built in such a manner that they could perform somersaults and keep on going. Behind them were the aptly named slabs, which were low, heavily armed tanklike vehicles, specifically designed to engage the Legion’s quads, who were armed with machine guns, energy cannons, and missiles. They unleashed a barrage of fire that swept across the top of the escarpment as hundreds of robots rushed forward to close with the enemy.
Santana heard the explosions, rolled off his air mattress, and was exiting the command bunker when a simulated rocket landed not ten feet away. There was a flash of light, followed by a loud bang, and something analogous to a mild electric shock as the indicator light attached to his body armor went from green to red. As that took place Santana’s name vanished off the ITC, and First Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo was put in command.
All of which was readily apparent to General Mortimer Kobbi, who was seated in the command quad five miles to the rear, watching to see how the battalion would deal with the unexpected onslaught. It was disappointing to lose Santana early on, but that was often the way of things, and having served with the cavalry officer on Savas, the general was already acquainted with the young man’s capabilities. So it was with considerable interest that Kobbi watched Amoyo rally the badly mauled company as the first wave of androids boiled up over the escarpment, a development Kobbi could monitor by listening to the company push and switching between the various video feeds that continued to pour in from bio bods and cyborgs alike.
Meanwhile Santana, who was no longer allowed to interact with his subordinates, went in search of a place to sit and watch the action without getting in the way. Having found a flat rock, and placed his back against a boulder, Santana alternated between scanning the highly codified data available on his helmet’s HUD and the fireworks going off all around him. A line of simulated explosions rippled along the face of the escarpment as Dietrich triggered the mines placed there the evening before, and static rattled through the cavalry officer’s helmet speakers as electronic counter measures (ECM) took roughly 10 percent of the aggressor bots off-line.
Dozens of robots had been neutralized by that time and would remain right where they were until reactivated at the end of the exercise. But there were more of them, and Alpha Company was soon forced to fall back, as a tidal wave of androids and rollers came up over the ten-foot-high embankment. The battle was very realistic. So much so that Santana felt a moment of fear as a squad of robots stalked past him, their heads swiveling back and forth, their weapons at port arms. His heat signature was clear to see, but so was his indicator light, so the hostiles left Santana alone as a flare went off high above them. The eerie light threw harsh shadows toward the west, as the survivors of Alpha Company were forced to fall back on the rest of the battalion, and the fake power plant beyond.
Which raised a rather interesting question. . . . Where was the normally assertive Major Quinlan? Because so far, in spite of repeated calls from Amoyo, there had been no contact with Bat HQ other than with the CO’s radio tech (RT), who was busy routing everything to Captain Mitch Mays of Bravo Company because the XO had theoretically been “killed” by an infiltrator.
It was a question that was of interest to General Kobbi as well, since Quinlan was still “alive” according to the ITC, but literally missing in action. There was a pause in the fighting as Mays allowed the surviving members of Alpha Company to pass through his lines, followed by eerie screams as a flight of unseen fly-forms swept in to provide close air support. Thunder rolled across the arid landscape as electronic “bombs” fell on the horde, flashed as they went off, and left dozens of machines motionless on the battlefield. That was when Quinlan’s voice was finally heard. It sounded thick, as if the officer had just awoken, and was a bit disoriented. “This is Zulu Six. . . . Alpha, no Bravo Company, will pull back to the defensive wall and hold. Over.”
“No!” Santana said out loud. “There’s no way through the wall! The robots will crush Bravo Company against it!”
Of course Captain Mays was no fool, and could see the same thing, since the very real steel wall that protected the fake power plant was twelve feet high, and the only entrance to the enclosure was on the southern rather than the northern perimeter. So the officer objected, was immediately put down, and forced to obey Quinlan’s orders. With predictable results. Half an hour later, just as the sun started to peek up over the eastern horizon, the last member of the 2nd Battalion, 1st REC was officially killed. His name was Liam Quinlan—and his promotion to lieutenant colonel came through later that same day.
* * *
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
As the imperial battleship Merciless and her escorts dropped into orbit around the Planet Jericho, the Queen was in the control room to witness the event. Not because the regent hadn’t seen a ship make planet fall before, but because the world below was of particular interest to her. Viewed from space, it was a beautiful planet, one of a number of such worlds granted to the empire in partial restitution for damage suffered during the Hudathan wars. It was a Hive-normal planet, which meant it was Earth-normal, too, and had been home to an advanced civilization long before her race had risen to sentience. Evidence of that could still be seen in the ruins scattered about the world’s emerald green surface.
But that was ancient and therefore boring history as far as the royal was concerned. Because her purpose in visiting Jericho was to assess the condition of the Ramanthian nymphs that had been hatched there over the last few months, thousands of whom had been left to fend for themselves in the wake of a commando-style raid by Confederacy forces. It was a calamity that she, as their moral, if not actual, parent, was obliged to mitigate.
Five hours later the Queen shuffled down a ramp and onto the surface of Jericho. The airstrip, which had only recently been carved out of the forest some twenty miles west of what had been Jericho Prime, was protected by guard towers and an electrified fence. The air immediately around the royal yacht was heavy with the acrid stench of ozone, and a series of loud pings was heard, as hot metal started to cool. Moments later an entire file of heavily armed Ramanthian troopers moved in to protect the royal, not from alien soldiers, but an equally potent threat.
The officer in charge of the so-called reorientation center had been a largely unknown military functionary prior to being put in charge of the experimental facility. And, not having met a member of the royal family before, never mind the Queen herself, was understandably nervous as he bent a leg. “Welcome to Jericho, Majesty. Commander Sool Fobor, at your service.”
“What are the fences for?” the royal inquired bluntly. “Do animals attack the airstrip?”
Fobor looked from the Queen to Chancellor Ubatha as if beseeching him for help. One of the problems traditionally associated with the tercentennial birthing was that after millions of nymphs were born, the youngsters went through a wilding state during which they hunted in packs, killing and eating anything they came across before gradually becoming more biddable. It was a process that had been extremely hard on both Hive and Ramanthian society over the past 200,000-plus years. Which was why the great mother ordered her subordinates to acquire planets like Jericho and seed them with eggs. And with predictable results. Because once hatched, the voracious predators began to roam Jericho like bloodcrazed beasts, killing everything they encountered—members of their own species included. So, never having dealt with a royal before, Fobor didn’t know how to respond. Ubatha came to his rescue. “The fences are positioned to keep the nymphs out, Your Excellency,” the Chancellor put in carefully. “They can be quite violent as you know.”
“Not anymore,” the Queen objected staunchly, as she eyed the tree line. “The wilding should have been over weeks ago.”
“True,” Ubatha replied patiently. “Except that once the aliens destroyed the processing centers, the nymphs were left on their own. And, in the absence of proper socialization, some of them turned feral.”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Fobor said defensively. “But having missed the point in their neurological development where the nymphs are most biddable, it’s been very difficult to work with them. Perhaps her majesty would allow me to show her one of the holding pens?”
The Queen thought the term “holding pen” was objectionable, but rather than strike out at the officer the way she wanted to, she managed to keep her temper in check. “Show me,” she grated.
So the royal entourage was invited to board armored cars, which passed through a gate and followed a dirt road into the jungle. Though unable to look up through the metal roof, the royal ordered the driver to open the vehicle’s windows. That allowed the Queen to peer out into the sun-dappled depths of the triple-canopy forest that surrounded them. It was an environment very similar to the equatorial zone on Hive, where the Ramanthian race had risen to sentience. The process had been heavily influenced by the fact that the species had been gifted with two types of females. Most females could lay a maximum of three eggs, thereby replacing one three-person family unit, while a small number, like the Queen herself, were physiologically capable of producing billions of new citizens. Just as her predecessor had. Not frequently, but every three hundred years or so, as the overall population began to level off or decline.
The general effect of that phenomenon was to push the race forward, but at the expense of social turmoil, and terrible famines. But not anymore, the royal thought to herself. Now we can hatch our eggs on planets like this one and protect the citizens of Hive from harm. That was the plan anyway, but owing to a series of unforeseen events, the local maturation process had been compromised.
There was a commotion as the convoy came to a halt, and troopers were deployed to form a protective ring around the Queen and her entourage as the visitors exited their vehicles. It was hot and humid, so the royal removed her green cloak, and threw it into the back of the armored car. That left her wearing light body armor over a sleek bodysuit. Not the sort of outfit the great mother would have approved of.
By that time Ubatha, as well as the rest of the royal party, had become aware of the acrid scent of urine and a low-pitched gibbering sound that emanated from someplace nearby. “Please follow me,” Commander Fobor instructed, and led the Queen’s entourage along a path that wound through the trees. Moments later the group emerged into a clearing in which heavy equipment had been used to dig three enormous pits. Each was about two hundred feet across, roughly fifty feet deep, and covered with wire mesh so the inmates couldn’t escape by using their wings. The ever-present fly cams darted out to capture shots of the facility, but were soon recalled, since it wasn’t the sort of video deemed appropriate for the empire’s citizens to see.
An observation platform had been constructed next to Pit One, and the rest of the party followed as Fobor shuffled up onto the flat surface. Meanwhile, down in the muddy cavity below, a pair of sharp-beaked nymphs were fighting to see which one of them would get to consume a chunk of raw meat. The rest of the prisoners, some twenty in all, made growling sounds and appeared ready to rush in if there was an opportunity to advantage themselves. “We capture them out in the jungle,” Fobor explained helpfully. “Then we bring them here, where our sociologists begin to work with them. Once a particular individual begins to demonstrate the right sort of behaviors, he or she is transferred to Pit Two, where further socialization takes place. Then it’s on to Pit Three, graduation into a crèche, and formal schooling.”
Fobor was obviously very proud of the system, and perhaps rightfully so, but when one of the combatants tore the other’s throat out, that was more than the Queen could take. There was a soft thump as the royal jumped down onto the ground, shuffled over to the gate, and ordered the guard to open it. And, being a foot soldier, the trooper did as he was told. That enabled the monarch to pass through the first checkpoint unimpeded and begin the circular journey down to the second and last gate before anyone could stop her. Fobor was horrified and began to shout orders to his troops. “Don’t let her through! Prepare to fire on the prisoners! If you hit the Queen, I’ll kill you myself!”
But Ubatha, who knew the Queen as well as anyone did, had noticed a change down in the pit. Not only were the juveniles staring at her majesty—they were strangely silent. “Keep your troops on standby,” the Chancellor instructed. “But allow the Queen to enter.”
“But the nymphs will tear her apart!” the soldier objected.
“Do what I say, or you’ll regret it,” Ubatha grated. And suddenly Fobor became conscious of the fact that while some of the royal’s bodyguards were aiming their weapons at the nymphs—others were pointing their assault rifles at him!
Meanwhile, as the sovereign arrived in front of gate two, she was not only unaware of the drama playing itself out up on the surface but completely focused on the young Ramanthians in the pit. She could smell the acrid odor of their urine, see the intelligence in their shiny black eyes, and feel the blood-bond she shared with them.
Fobor gave the only orders he could, the gate swung open, and the Queen entered the pit. The nymphs were motionless at first, and seemingly unaware of the targeting lasers that roamed their bodies as the regent plowed her way through six inches of urine, feces, and mud to reach the very center of the pit. Then, as the juveniles absorbed the rich amalgam of pheromones that surrounded the royal, a seemingly miraculous change came over them. A soft humming sound was heard as heads dropped, wings seemed to sag, and they shuffled inwards. It soon became clear that rather than attack the monarch, as Fobor feared, each juvenile hoped to make physical contact with her. And as the Queen reached out to touch her adopted children, she sang to them in a language as old as the first nest, and filled the air with the chemicals that they needed and wanted.
It was the most amazing thing Fobor had ever seen, and he said as much. “Yes,” Ubatha agreed thoughtfully, as the royal worked her magic. “We are truly blessed.”