Dancers, most of whom were human, writhed within specially designed holograms. The music, much of which was alien, throbbed within carefully engineered “sound cells.”
Legion Colonel Leon Harco had been wearing uniforms for more than thirty years and felt uncomfortable when clad in anything else. Yes, there was some degree of correlation between civilian clothes and the status of the people who wore them, but you couldn’t be sure.
Not uniforms, though. Thanks to badges of rank, service stripes, unit badges, decorations, and yes, the tattoos many chose to wear, a knowledgeable eye could read a legionnaire’s uniform like a book. A single glance was sufficient to establish another person’s place in the chain of command, ascertain the kind of skills they had, figure out where they had served, and guess who they might be acquainted with.
Harco liked the surefire certainty of that, and felt uncomfortable, if not downright silly, wearing a floral shirt, black trousers, and buckled sandals.
The two men who sat opposite Harco looked equally uncomfortable and sported poorly coordinated clothes, short haircuts, and tattoo-covered arms.
Taken together, the soldiers had more than forty-five years of service between them, had been “demobilized” within the last six months, and weren’t too happy about it.
Despite the cover offered by the bar, there was no such thing as a safe place to discuss mutiny, so they were intentionally circumspect.
“So,” Harco began, “how’s it going?”
Ex-Staff Sergeant Cory Jenkins grinned. He had extremely white teeth, and they gleamed in the dark. “We’re green to go,” he replied, almost adding “sir,” but catching himself in time. “Everyone we approached signed aboard and will be ready when the time comes.”
“Not quite
everyone
, ” the other man said darkly. “Three opted out.”
Harco eyed the man. They had never served in the same unit but knew each other by reputation. That’s how it was in the Legion—everyone knew everyone else, or thought they did. His name was Lopa,
Sergeant
Major
Lopa
, since the face went with the rank. A hard man by all accounts—which was just as well. “And?”
Lopa shrugged noncommittally. “And they turned up missing. I sure hope everything’s all right.”
Harco looked into the shiny black eyes and knew all three of the people in question were dead. Another tragedy heaped on all the rest. Lopa was correct, however. There is no place for fence-sitters when it comes to war.
Legio patria nostra.
The Legion is our country. Never had the words rung more true. The officer spoke for the benefit of whatever microphones might be collecting his words. “I hope so, too.... What about tools? Have we got what we need?”
Lopa thought about the warehouses full of stolen arms, some secured with the connivance of Matthew Pardo, and the rest gathered by hundreds of sympathizers.
There were assault rifles, machine guns, missile launchers, and more. Not to mention all the stuff that the serving units would bring with them. “Yes, sir. Enough to get the job done.”
Harco decided to ignore the slip. “Excellent. Be sure to stress the importance of discipline. We wish to change the existing structure—not rip it apart.”
Lopa nodded agreeably but knew the officer was full of shit. Collateral damage is a fact of life. Harco knew that, or
should
have known, and been willing to face the reality of it.
Jenkins sipped his beer. It had a flat, coppery taste. “So, when will the project start?”
“Soon,” Harco answered. “Very soon.”
The Ramanthian ship dropped hyper, broadcast a high-priority diplomatic code, and was slotted into a choice equatorial orbit. One hundred sixty-two freighter captains, some of whom had been waiting for more than a week, jumped on t
heir com sets. The moon-based Orbital Control Authority took most of the heat. What the hell were they thinking, slotting a bug before humans? Had they lost their frigging minds?
But the complaints fell on deaf ears. In spite of the fact that Senator Alway Orno was visiting Earth in connection with a routine trade fair, he was entitled to certain diplomatic prerogatives, and had chosen to exercise them. End of story.
The Ramanthian shuttle fell free of the ship, dove through the atmosphere, and skimmed the North American continent. Orno used his tool legs to preen his parrotlike beak. His eyes contained thousands of facets and would have been useless beyond five feet if it hadn’t been for his computer-assisted contact lenses.
However, thanks to the benefits of Ramanthian science, the senator, not to mention the War Orno who rode behind him, could see the terrain below. It was less than inviting. Hard, serrated ridges connected one mountain to the next, valleys tumbled one over the other, and a thick layer of snow frosted higher elevations. Not the sort of environment for which Ramanthians had evolved.
Yes, there were tracts of lush jungle in the southern hemisphere, but not enough to warrant any sort of real interest in the planet. Not even with the tricentennial birthing up ahead. No, the extra fifty billion Ramanthian souls about to enter the universe would demand better quarters than these. The good news was that the worlds his species needed were readily available. The bad news was that they belonged to someone else.
Who
wasn’t exactly clear. Especially in the aftermath of the last war. The Hudathans had attacked the Confederacy and, having been soundly defeated, were confined to the world on which they had evolved. That left their empire up for grabs—and subject to an endless round of negotiations.
Indigenous species laid claim to some of the planets, but, given the Hudathan tendency toward genocide, often lacked the necessary votes. Fair? No, but what was?
The Hudathans claimed the worlds by right of conquest, an argument that had proven more effective than one might have thought it would be, since many of the Confederacy’s members had taken at least some of their worlds without the permission of the inhabitants. A rather Ramanthian thing to do—
if
they could get away with it.
The shuttle bounced slightly as it hit some turbulent air, and then settled toward the ground. Orno, who had wings of his own, wasn’t the least bit concerned.
The office, paid for by the good people of Earth, was enormous. Carefully tended plants stood just so, each in a matching pot, arranged to complement the cane furniture. The early afternoon sun filtered in through gauzy white curtains, a ceiling fan stirred the slightly scented air, and music, one of the arias for which Dwellers were justifiably famous, wafted from unseen speakers.
The android looked exactly as
she
did, and, over a period of time, Governor Patricia Pardo had come to regard the robot as an extension of her own persona. They wore the same kind of clothes, jewelry, and makeup, walked with the same determined stride, and spoke in the same clipped syntax.
A clone might have offered a more elegant solution but would almost certainly object to the role of professional decoy. No, the robot made more sense, and would provide a much-needed alibi should anything go wrong. Treason can be dangerous, after all-and is best practiced from the shadows.
Pardo checked the day’s agenda, verified that nothing had changed, and gave the android its instructions. Attend the ribbon-cutting ceremony, dispense the usual platitudes, and return home. Once there, the robot would abuse the house staff enough to establish its presence and retire early. The ruse had worked before and would almost certainly work again.
The governor patted the android’s fanny, hoped hers was equally firm, and crossed the office.
She felt for the button, heard a motor whine, and waited while a bookcase slid out of the way. Her heels clicked on waxed duracrete, an elevator carried her downward, and a door opened to a private garage.
Though luxurious, the aircar was no different than thousands of similar vehicles that crisscrossed the skies every day. Anyone who checked the registration would find that it belonged to Mrs. Alfonse Porto.
Pardo nodded to the female bodyguard, slid into the back seat, and signaled the driver. A divider rose, the windows turned dark, and the journey began.
The room was circular, like the Roman Colosseum, and generally referred to as “the pit.” A rather fitting name, since rings of concentric seats surrounded a stage on which executives were required to defend their profit-and-loss statements. All-out attacks were the order of the day, and the so called “creative tension” was supposed to generate a more rigorous corporate culture.
Leshi Qwan, vice president of marketing for Noam Inc., the enormous conglomerate that Eli Noam had built during a life of ruthless acquisition, stood at the center of the bull’s-eye and stared up into the lights. His enemies were up there, all staring down, hoping he’d fail.
Not that there was anything new in that, except that he
had
failed, and failed miserably-a fact that would be all too clear by the end of his presentation. The executive blinked, wondered if the old man was up there, and hoped he wasn’t. “Mr. Qwan? Do you have everything you need?”
The voice belonged to Mary Milan, vice president of sales and one of Noam’s favorites. She had the numbers in front of her and, that being the case, knew the nature of his report. He could imagine the satisfaction she must feel.
Enjoy it while you can, bitch, Qwan thought to himself, because I have a surprise for you, and all the rest of the world for that matter.
But the surprise wasn’t ready yet-and the report must be given. And not just given, but given in the most objective manner possible, lest he be humiliated by the men and women around him.
The executive cleared his throat and flashed his trademark grin. Like most of the corporation’s upper-echelon types, Qwan was something of a face jockey and relied on his looks to ease the way. “Yes, thank you, Mary. In spite of some bright spots, and what I would characterize as excellent prospects, the last quarter was more than a little disappointing.”
The holo tank came to life along with a host of three-dimensional charts, video of company operations, and sound clips to buttress his points. The essence of the report was simplicity itself. Qwan, on behalf of NI, had diversified into lines of business that he didn’t know much about, namely ship-building and off-world mining. That’s why competitors, Chien-Chu Enterprises foremost among them, had eaten the company’s lunch.
Steps, and the executive was careful to enumerate each one of them, had already been taken to put the situation right, and he had confidence in the future. Qwan enumerated his points, killed the holo, and waited for the bashing to begin. It came with predictable speed.
Though unable to score really major points-Qwan had been too honest for that-his enemies had a field day nonetheless. More than an hour had passed before the vultures quit his corpse and ordered fresh meat.
Weary, and angry at the manner in which he’d been treated, Qwan made his way up the thickly carpeted stairs. Lies oozed out of the darkness. “Hey, Les, way to go.” “Good job, bud, you nailed it.” “Nice dance, Qwan, I like your moves.”
The executive hadn’t gone much farther when an arm reached out to grab him. “Mr. Qwan? The chairman would like to see you.”
Qwan felt his stomach lurch. The old man
had
been there. Damn, damn, damn.
Noam maintained a bevy of personal assistants, all cloned from his favorite secretary and decanted at regular five-year intervals. The old fart cla
imed that it was so he could tell them apart-but his staff had other theories, some of which were quite kinky.
Whatever the case, this particular secretary was thirty-something, had red hair, knowing green eyes, and generous red lips. She smiled as she ushered Qwan into the conference room. Her teeth were perfect and appeared unusually sharp.
Noam had extended his life through countless organ transplants and maintained his youthful good looks via ongoing plastic surgery. He rose to greet his visitor.
“Les! Good to see you! Sorry about the beating you took-but it serves you right. Show no mercy and expect none. That’s what I say! Here, take a load off. Comfy? Good. Now tell me why I shouldn’t fire your ass and have your entire family put to death.”
The tone was cheerful—deceptively so—and Qwan responded with that in mind. “I don’t blame you for being angry, sir, but I can put things right,
and
double the company’s revenues within the next twelve months.”
It was an absurd claim, but delivered with such sincerity that Noam was intrigued. He perched on a corner of the conference table. The sarcasm was obvious. “Really? How fascinating! Tell me more.”
So Qwan did, starting with the macro socioeconomic situation, and going on to knit the various pieces of the scheme together. Noam, who didn’t impress easily, found himself growing increasingly excited.
The plan would not only improve the company’s bottom line, but put the screws to Chien-Chu Enterprises, something Noam had long wanted to do.
The industrialist sent Qwan on his way, summoned his secretarial staff, and ordered them to disrobe. The clones complied, which was nice for Noam,
and
for those scheduled for the pit.
Their
presentations went off without a hitch.
Ambassador Harlan Ishimoto-Seven left the hotel, eyed the swiftly moving crowd, and slipped into a gap. The bag was light and hung from his left shoulder. It bumped people until he tucked it under his right arm. New Yorkers walked quickly, as if late for some engagement, and he did likewise.
An ex-legionnaire held out his kepi, said something unintelligible, and was lost in the crowd.
Ishimoto had features that his ancestors would have recognized as Japanese, although he was taller and somewhat heavier. It felt strange to look around, to see so many individual faces, and know nothing about them.