Santana remembered the photos of Vanderveen being marched through the jungle and nodded. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Besides,” the other offi?cer continued fatalistically, “be it right or wrong, the fact is that we went around the vice president on this, and it’s payback time. It isn’t pretty—
but that’s how the process works. Fortunately, the man Jakov has in mind looks like a good candidate. His name is Major Hal DeCosta, and although I don’t know him personally, he has a good record. DeCosta doesn’t have any cavalry experience, I’m afraid, but he’s known for his nononsense style of leadership and at least one member of my staff swears by him. You’ll serve as Executive Offi?cer. . . . Everything else will remain the same. Questions?”
Santana had questions. . . . Lots of them. Especially where the new CO’s lack of cavalry experience was concerned—but knew the general wouldn’t be able to answer them. He shook his head. “No, sir.”
Booly nodded understandingly. “I know there are all sorts of things that the major will have to come to grips with before he can take over. But I’m counting on both you and Farnsworth to bring him up to speed during the trip out. He’ll arrive in the next fi?fteen minutes or so—
but I wanted you to hear the news from me.”
“Thank you, sir,” Santana said sincerely. “I appreciate that.”
“It was the least I could do,” Booly allowed, as he extended his hand. The grip was warm and fi?rm. “Thank you, Captain, and good luck. Our prayers will be with you.
“Oh, and one more thing,” the general said, as if by way of an afterthought. “I know you’re busy, but a member of President Nankool’s staff is here to see you off, and I would appreciate it if you could spend a couple of minutes with him.”
Booly turned back toward the personnel hatch, and there, standing in a cone of soft buttery light, stood Charles Winther Vanderveen. He was a tall, patrician-looking man, with thick gray hair and eyes the same color as his daughter’s. He was stationed on Algeron and had been ever since the government moved there. And, having completed his business on Earth, the diplomat had returned only to discover that the man he reported to had been captured by the Ramanthians.
The general saw the look of recognition on Santana’s face, and wondered what, if anything, the two men had in common. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, Captain,” Booly said. “Kill some bugs for me.”
The offi?cers exchanged salutes, and Booly nodded to Vanderveen as he reentered the fortress. Snow crunched under his shoes as the diplomat came out to greet Santana.
“Tony, it’s good to see you again.”
“And you, sir,” the offi?cer replied, as they shook hands.
“I heard about DeCosta,” Vanderveen said angrily. “I’m not supposed to take sides—but I can’t help it. The vice president is an idiot.”
Santana grinned broadly. “If you say so, sir.”
“I do,” the other man said fervently. “And I’m not alone. . . . But you know that.”
There was a moment of silence as their eyes met, then drifted away. The diplomat spoke fi?rst. His pain was clear to see. “Christine is on Jericho you know.”
Santana nodded. “Yes, sir. I know.”
Vanderveen searched the younger man’s face. “And that’s why you agreed to go?”
“Partly, yes.”
Vanderveen swallowed. “The mission isn’t very likely to succeed, is it?”
“No,” Santana replied soberly. “It isn’t.”
“Still, there’s a chance,” Vanderveen said hopefully.
“Margaret and I will cling to that hope for as long as we can. But whatever happens, no matter which way it goes, we’ll never forget what you did.”
Or tried to do, Santana thought to himself. What was Christine’s father telling him? That her family would grieve if he died? And accept him if he didn’t? It seemed that way. “Thank you, sir. And please give my best to Margaret. And remind her that Christine is tough. . . . If anyone can survive on Jericho, she will.”
There was a stir as the personnel door opened and a small wiry-looking major stepped out onto the steel platform closely followed by a sturdy-looking civilian. The offi?cer wore jungle kit while his companion was nearly invisible inside a parka. Because Santana and Vanderveen were standing off to one side of the platform, they went unnoticed as the newly arrived legionnaire paused to sniff the cold air. “I like this planet, I really do,” the offi?cer announced to no one in particular. “But then I love all the Lord’s creations. Except for the Ramanthians that is—
because they chose to align themselves with the devil. Well, enough jibber-jabber. Come, Watkins. . . . It’s time to inspect my fl?ock.” And with that, both men made their way up the ramp.
Santana watched the pair disappear with an expression of astonishment on his face. “Who the hell was that?”
“That,” Vanderveen replied disgustedly, “was Major Hal ‘The Preacher’ DeCosta. Plus a civilian media specialist assigned to the mission by Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot. It seems the vice president wants a full multimedia record of your mission.”
“But why?” Santana wondered out loud.
“I don’t know,” the diplomat admitted. “But remember this. Watkins may look harmless, but he’s a specially equipped cyborg, and a lot tougher than he appears to be. All of his news-gathering equipment is built into his body. So be careful what you do or say when he’s around.”
Santana nodded gratefully. “Thanks for the heads-up, sir. I will defi?nitely keep that in mind.”
“And one other thing,” Vanderveen said soberly, as the wind ruffl?ed his hair. “Good luck.”
PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Slowly, reverently, the Egg Orno took one last tour of her home. Looking, touching, and feeling each object so as to lock all of the sensations deep within, where they would forever be safe. Because fi?nally, after weeks of careful planning, the fateful day had arrived. The process had begun with a pincer-written note from her mate that arrived on Hive sealed in a diplomatic pouch. Once on the planet’s surface the message had been delivered by a fur-covered being, who, in addition to his responsibilities as a chauffeur, was also a member of the Thraki intelligence service. The very sight of Alway Orno’s cramped writing had been suffi?cient to lift the Egg Orno’s spirits, but it was what the letter said that fi?lled her heart with joy. “I am alive, my dearest,” the letter began. “Sustained only by my love for you. . . . Memorize what follows, burn this letter, and fl?y to my arms. There is no need to fear because our fi?nancial well-being is assured.”
The rest of the letter had been dedicated to an exacting set of instructions by which the Egg Orno would be able to allay suspicions, escape from Hive without being intercepted by the government, and join her mate on Starfall. And the matron was in the process of following those instructions as she completed the tour of what had been her home. It pained the Egg Orno to leave all of her personal things behind. But the sacrifi?ce was necessary if she was to escape—and material possessions were nothing when compared to being with her mate.
The deception had begun when her remaining servant had been given the day off. It was something the aristocrat had been forced to do more and more of lately as the last of her funds trickled away. Now, with no one present to witness the extent to which the Egg Orno was willing to shame herself, it was time to leave. Not via the front door, as she had thousands of times before, but through the nameless portal that no self-respecting member of her class would mention much less use. Because it was through that narrow opening that urns containing the family’s waste products were passed each morning, so members of the lowly Skrum clan could carry them away, as was their birthright. And it was a good system, because rather than waste the night soil as so many societies did, the nutrientrich waste matter was loaded onto trains and taken to the habitat’s extensive subsurface gardens.