THE CITY OF HEFERI, THE PLANET SENSA II, THE RIM
The first flush of dawn was barely visible in the east, so the air was still cool and relatively untainted by the stench of the city’s open sewers as Chancellor Ubatha shuffled up a ramp onto the building’s flat roof. A human lookout heard the sound and turned. The merc was wearing a sand-blasted helmet with a reflective visor and a one-of-a-kind uniform made out of secondhand body armor. There was no way to tell if the animal was male or female. All he could do was hope that he or she was competent.
“Good morning, sir,” the guard said. Ubatha returned the greeting before making his way over to the spot where he liked to drink his morning Ta. The hot drink was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself.
His vantage point gave Ubatha a commanding view of the surrounding buildings, none of which was more than four stories tall. The city was very old, having been constructed hundreds of thousands of years earlier by the mysterious Forerunner race, then abandoned for reasons unknown. It was cradled in a valley between two gigantic sand dunes. According to the locals, the wind-driven mountains were traveling from west to east at a rate of about one mile per year. It was a phenomenon that forced residents of Heferi to constantly move east and led to never-ending violence.
Most of the residents made their livings as tomb raiders or by guarding tomb raiders or by stealing from tomb raiders. And the chaos meant that Heferi was a place where fugitives, even a royal fugitive, could hide. Not forever, but long enough to find someone who could either repair the Warrior Queen’s broken body or provide her with a new one. And, after negative reports from more than a dozen highly qualified doctors, the second possibility was looking like the best one.
That was why Ubatha had to leave the fortresslike compound and make the dangerous trip to the spaceport, where he was scheduled to pick up a human geneticist. Unfortunately, that would make it necessary to take at least three bodyguards with him-thereby reducing the number of individuals available to defend the Queen. Of course, those who remained behind would have the benefit of four extremely expensive gun balls to help defend the complex, along with computer-controlled weapons positioned to fire on the most likely points of attack. As Ubatha sucked the last few drops of Ta through a straw, he heard the pop, pop, pop of distant gunfire and knew the day had truly begun.
It took the better part of an hour to ready what the animals referred to as “the gun truck.” It was a thirdhand all-terrain vehicle that had been brought to Sensa II for some long-forgotten purpose years earlier. Since that time, a larger engine had been installed, along with a stiffer suspension and armor thick enough to stop anything short of an antitank round. The roof turret could traverse 360 degrees and the twin fifties could be depressed far enough to kill anyone more than ten feet away. All of which made for a very formidable vehicle indeed.
Even so, Chancellor Ubatha thought it wise to wear armor and carry a Negar III rifle himself. That was partly because the gun truck could attract trouble as well as deal with it, and there was always the chance that his mercs would turn on him. There hadn’t been any signs of that. But there hadn’t been any advance warning that a cabal including one of his mates was about to supplant the Queen either. The thought reminded him of the Egg Ubatha, and he felt a pang of regret. It had been a mistake to leave her on Hive. He prayed that she was safe but feared she wasn’t.
“We’re ready,” Vasakov said, and gestured to the plank that led up into the gun truck. The animal had a prominent brow, a flat nose, and the rubbery lips typical of his race. Like most senior officials, Ubatha spoke excellent standard. “Thank you. And remember… Be careful.”
Vasakov made a face. “Let’s go.”
Ubatha had spoken to Kai Cosmo, the animal in charge, regarding Vasakov’s disrespectful manner the day before. The conversation had been far from satisfactory. After listening to Ubatha’s complaints, Cosmo looked away, aimed a stream of black ju-ju juice at an iridescent beetle, and scored a direct hit. “Sorry about that, sir. But Vasakov was a Confederacy marine before he punched that lieutenant in the face. And he don’t like bugs. Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
So with no recourse except to fire the mercs and hire another band of equally dubious animals, all Ubatha could do was shuffle up the ramp and sit on the saddle chair that had been installed for his benefit. The lower half of Katika’s body was visible below the turret. The mount made a whining noise as she stomped on a foot pedal, and the guns began to rotate.
Ubatha heard doors slam, felt the truck jerk into motion, and took the opportunity to peer out through the gun port immediately to his right. He caught a glimpse of the open gate, felt a jolt as the big tires rolled through a pothole, and heard Katika give a whoop of pure joy. According to Cosmo, she liked to shoot people. A desire Ubatha found hard to fathom. While he understood the need to kill for reasons of political expediency, he took no joy in it.
Given how restricted his view was, Ubatha couldn’t see much other than sand-smoothed stone walls, the occasional glimpse of a barred doorway, and blips of color as the truck passed some laundry that had been hung out to dry. Then the shooting began. Nothing serious. Just target practice really, as guards stationed on rooftops took the opportunity to test their skills and break the monotony.
Thanks to the fact that most of them were pretty good shots, there was a series of loud clangs as bullets flattened themselves on armor plating. Large-caliber ammo was hard to come by, so Katika was supposed to hold back unless the truck came under a serious attack.
Holby shouted, “Roadblock!” from the front passenger seat as the vehicle screeched to a halt.
Vasakov was behind the wheel. He swore and put the truck into reverse.
The roadblock gave Katika the excuse she’d been looking for. As the fifties began to chug, empty casings cascaded down from above and clattered on the floor.
Roadblocks were common and shifted from day to day, making it impossible to choose a safe route in advance. The idea was to stop the vehicle and take possession of it and everything inside. That included passengers, who were typically held for the ransom. A very unpleasant prospect indeed. “Hold on!” Vasakov shouted, and Ubatha barely had time to obey before the massive back bumper crashed into a barrier. An old wreck, probably, that had been pushed out into the street to bar their escape and might serve the same purpose the next day.
There was a screech of tortured metal as the obstacle was pushed out of the way-followed by a fusillade of bullets as the would-be bandits made a last-ditch attempt to trap their prey.
The gun truck jerked to a halt, surged forward again, and shell casings rolled to the right as they turned a corner. The first battle was over. There were others. But none that was quite so harrowing as Vasakov threaded his way through Heferi’s deadly streets.
Fifteen minutes later, the gun truck left the sand-strewn streets of old town and sped up a ramp that channeled them into the heavily guarded parking area under the city’s only spaceport. The component parts had been brought to Sensa II by a mining company more than half a century before. That operation had been forced to fold in the face of the planet’s difficult environment. But because the self-propelled spaceport was large enough to crush whatever ruins lay in front of it, the facility was still in service.
The entrepreneur who owned the spaceport was said to be a Drac. No one knew much about the reclusive business being other than the fact that he made it a point to keep the spaceport open to anyone who had the ability to pay his exorbitant fees, and he could be quite violent when threatened.