That was evident as Vasakov parked the truck and half a dozen uniformed guards moved in to surround it. They were human. And as Holby deployed the ramp and Ubatha shuffled down onto the steel deck, one of them took the opportunity to brief the newcomers. “Leave all weapons other than sidearms in your vehicle,” she said in a singsong voice. “And post a guard. If you attempt to interfere with our personnel, or another customer, we will smoke you. Any questions?”
The last was delivered in a cheerful manner, as if to follow up after a string of pleasantries rather than threats. “Yeah, yeah,” Vasakov growled. “You eat steel and shit fire. Give me a fucking break. Katika, lock yourself in and stay on the fifties. Holby, you’re with the bug and me. Okay, Mr. Ubatha… Let’s go.”
Ubatha surrendered the Negar III to Katika and sighed. Vasakov was hopeless. Then, with an animal on either side of him, Ubatha followed a clearly marked path to a lift. The elevator carried them upwards to a small but pleasantly furnished lounge. Huge plastasteel windows enabled them to look out on the blast-scarred landing pad, old town, and the sunlit back dune beyond. If one watched for a while, it was possible to see the occasional avalanche of sand slide down onto the west end of old town. Would the same buildings reemerge someday? There was no way to know.
The landing surface that occupied the foreground wasn’t very large but didn’t need to be given the limited number of ships that came and went. Two were visible at the moment. One was a beat-up shuttle from which cargo modules were being removed. The other was a courier ship with the sleek lines typical of Thraki vessels.
Ubatha watched as a hatch cycled open, stairs unfolded, and a Thraki named Bec Benjii appeared. He was dressed in a summer-weight mesh jacket, three-quarter-length trousers, and sturdy boots. Benjii paused for a second to look around before turning to speak with the person behind him. Then, as he made his way down the stairs, the human appeared. She was a tiny thing. A hood covered her hair, her eyes were invisible behind a pair of sun goggles, and her body was swathed in white fabric that billowed when the early-morning breeze hit it. Ubatha had never seen the animal before but knew he was looking at a renegade geneticist who styled herself as Carolyn Anne Hosokawa 1.3.
Was she really an illegal one-off of the female credited with creating the Clone Hegemony? Or an opportunistic pretender? Ubatha didn’t care so long as she was competent. And Benjii swore that she was.
Doors slid open, admitting not only Benjii and Hosokawa but a wave of heat. Benjii was a diplomat, albeit a shadowy one, whose function had been to provide back-channel communications between the Ramanthian and Thraki governments prior to the Queen’s injury.
So when Ubatha had been forced to evacuate the royal from Hive, he thought it best to contact Benjii rather than risk betrayal by cabal supporters like the War Ubatha. Since then, the Thrakies had been of considerable assistance. Not out of the goodness of their hearts but in order to curry favor with whatever Queen wound up on the throne. That meant they were probably working with the cabal as well. So Ubatha would have to come up with a counterbalance of some sort. “Please allow me to introduce Dr. Hosokawa 1.3,” Benjii said, as his robotic form peeked out of a pocket. “Dr. Hosokawa, this is Chancellor Ubatha.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Ubatha said, and delivered a formal bow.
Hosokawa threw the white hood back to reveal a head of bowl-cut black hair and the solid horizontal mark on her forehead. Ubatha knew it had been a bar code at one time, a standard practice inside the Hegemony prior to the revolution but currently out of favor. Especially for any scientist brave or foolish enough to work for the Confederacy’s enemies. Her voice had a husky quality. “The pleasure is mine, Chancellor. I’m sorry it’s necessary for us to meet under such trying circumstances.”
It was artfully said, and Ubatha allowed himself to relax a little bit. At least Hosokawa came across as civilized as compared to Vasakov.
The trip back to the compound was less eventful than the journey out had been. Benjii had been through the process before. So he looked reasonably composed as bullets pinged against the truck’s armor and a rocket-propelled grenade sailed past to explode against a building.
Not Hosokowa, however, who maintained a grim expression throughout the entire journey. But once the vehicle entered the compound, and the incoming fire stopped, she became more relaxed. “If you would be so kind as to follow me,” Ubatha said, “we will visit the Queen. I know she has been looking forward to your arrival.” The decision to reveal the Queen’s true identity had been Benjii’s. The Thraki felt that nothing less than the prospect of working with the royal would be sufficient to bring the geneticist all the way to Sensa II. And since he was willing to guarantee her silence regardless of how the meeting went, Ubatha had agreed.
The Queen’s apartment was on the second floor, where the royal physician and a retinue of Ramanthian females took care of her daily requirements. The residence was roomy but sparsely furnished because it had been impossible to bring anything more than the bare necessities from Hive. A lady-in-waiting met the party at the door, bent a knee, and welcomed the visitors on the royal’s behalf.
The aristocrat led them through a doorway into a large room. The metal sand shutters were open to the hot, dry air. It was thick with the odors of sewage, rotting garbage, and exhaust fumes from a nearby factory. The Queen was in a horizontal position and supported by a framework designed to immobilize her exoskeleton. Her body was paralyzed, but her mind was clear. “There you are,” she said, as the group approached, and Ubatha bowed. “Pardon me if I don’t get up.”
It was a joke, but none of them laughed. “As you can see, the Queen’s sense of humor remains unimpaired,” Ubatha said dryly.
“But everything else is numb,” the monarch put in.
There was polite laughter this time. “Your Majesty, it is my pleasure to introduce Dr. Carolyn Hosokowa 1.3,” Ubatha said. “As you know, the doctor is here to consult with you regarding the possibility that she and her associates might be able to grow a new body for you.”
The ensuing conversation lasted for more than three standard hours. There were all sorts of issues to discuss, not the least of which was what would become of the clone’s brain were the Queen to commission a copy of herself.
During that time, the sky darkened, the wind began to pick up, and it became necessary to close the sand shutters. A storm was brewing. But what kind? A class one, two, or three? The last being very serious indeed. The discussion continued as Ubatha went to find out.
Cosmo was up on the roof. The air was already brown with blown sand, and Ubatha had to lean into the wind as he shuffled over to where the animal was standing. The grit soon found its way into his clothes and the crevices between the plates of chitin that served to support him. Cosmo was wearing a helmet and full armor. He nodded. “The folks at the spaceport say we’re in for a class-two blow, sir. And we have another problem as well.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Based on video from the gun balls, it looks like people are closing in on the building,” Cosmo replied. “I figure they plan to attack during the height of the storm. That’s when visibility will be at its worst.”
Ubatha felt a sinking sensation. There were sixteen mercs in all. Enough to protect the structure under normal circumstances-but far short of what would be required to repel a massed attack. “We’ve got to protect the Queen, her staff, and both of our visitors. Put two of your best people in her quarters and make sure they have plenty of everything. Then we’ll close the blast doors and seal them inside.”
Cosmo nodded. “Yes, sir. Where will you be if I need you?”
Ubatha could see a distorted image of himself reflected in the visor’s mirrorlike surface. “I’ll be right next to you,” he answered. “If you’re correct, we’ll need every gun we can muster.”