“But that isn’t why I’m here. . . . Sergeant Gomez tells me that Lance Corporal Hargo stepped out of line.”
“Yes, he did,” DeCosta replied gravely, as he methodically cracked his knuckles. “I took issue with the nonreg paint job that was being applied to his head. Then, after he told me to take the Legion’s regulations and shove them up my ass, I ordered one of your ruffi?ans to shelve him. There’s nothing like a little time-out to teach these criminals a lesson. And it appears some lessons are in order, because during the short time I spent in the hold, I noticed at least half a dozen infractions. Some of which are quite serious. The possession of unauthorized weapons being an excellent example.”
Santana clenched his fi?sts to prevent his hands from shaking. Watkins was watching by then, and the cavalry offi?cer knew that the cyborg could, and probably would, record the interchange. “Sir,” the cavalry offi?cer began carefully. “Before you assumed command of Team Zebra, I authorized war paint for any cyborg rated completely satisfactory by his noncom, and gave my permission for bio bods to carry nonspec weapons so long as they carry a full load-out for their TO weapons. I neglected to check those exceptions with you, and I won’t make that mistake again. So, given that the fault was mine, I request permission to remove Hargo from the shelf.”
“That was quite a speech,” DeCosta said, as his bare feet slapped the deck. “And you’re right. . . . You were at fault. For fl?outing regulations, contributing to an overall lack of discipline, and ignoring your responsibilities as an offi?cer. All of which will be noted on your fi?tness report.”
“Assuming he lives long enough to receive a fi?tness report,” Watkins put in dryly, as his leg rotated and locked itself into place.
The comment took Santana by surprise—and earned Watkins a nasty look from DeCosta. “This conversation is between the captain and myself,” the major said primly.
“And, as for Hargo, another hour on the shelf will do him a world of good. The fact that you gave him permission to wear war paint is no excuse for gross insubordination.”
“No, it isn’t,” Santana agreed tightly. “But I would remind the major that unlike the use of war paint, or carrying a nonspec weapon, shelving constitutes a crime under the provisions of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. And I refuse to comply with what I believe to be an illegal order.”
DeCosta placed both fi?sts on his hips. His eyes were dark with anger. “I read your P-1 fi?le,” the major responded thickly. “The last time you disobeyed a direct order, you were court-martialed! And, by God, I’ll see that you are again!”
“Those orders were issued by a bug,” Santana responded contemptuously. “A Ramanthian who ordered me to fi?re on innocent civilians. Now, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to remove Hargo from the shelf.”
“But why?” DeCosta demanded, as bluster gave way to genuine befuddlement. “God hates an abomination, which is to say anything unnatural, and what could be more unnatural than a cross between a man and a machine? We need the borgs right now, I realize that, but why coddle the creatures? Eventually, after the bugs have been eradicated, every one of their evil breed should be destroyed!”
Santana looked at Watkins. “Are you recording?”
The civilian made a face. “I am.”
“Good,” the cavalry offi?cer replied. “Save that stuff. . . . Assuming any of us survive, I look forward to playing that footage for General Booly.” And with that Santana turned to go.
“Wait a sec,” the cyborg said. “If it’s all the same to you, Captain, I think I’ll move into the hold.”
“No problem,” Santana answered. “You’ll be welcome there.”
DeCosta fell to his knees after the heretics left and called upon God to strike the evil ones down. But if DeCosta’s God was listening, he, she, or it chose not to respond. THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47) The alien sky was so dark that it was almost black. The rain fell in sheets, and rattled on the top of the chauffeurdriven car, as it carried ex-ambassador Alway Orno along a highway of fused glass toward the dimly seen high-rise spaceport in the distance. Lightning stabbed a nearby hilltop, as if probing the planet for weak spots, but the Ramanthian was happy. No, joyous, because within minutes, an hour at most, he and his sole-surviving mate would be reunited.
Then he would take her home to the rental house in the country, a mostly comfortable place where she could rest while he went to Jericho. Yes, Mutuu could be and generally was a cantankerous old coot. But Orno remained confi?dent that he could successfully manipulate the deluded royal into slaughtering the POWs and for free, too! That would allow Orno to keep Mutuu’s share of the fee. Once that task was complete, it would be time to return to Starfall, take delivery on the second payment, and book passage on a Thraki liner. There were colonies of Ramanthian expatriates out on the rim—some of which were said to be quite pleasant. Places where the residents were much more interested in how much money one had than the vagaries of imperial politics.
In fact, based on what he’d heard, some of the settlements had chosen democratic forms of government. Who knows? Orno thought to himself. Maybe I’ll run for offi?ce, use my experience to good effect, and wind up better off than I was!
Such were the Ramanthian’s thoughts as the car was forced to pause at a rain-drenched checkpoint before being allowed to enter the spaceport.
An air car hovered above, and a multiplicity of eyes watched as the limo snaked its way across the shiny black tarmac toward the hangar beyond. But Orno was oblivious to such matters because his thoughts were focused on the future and the good times that lay ahead.
The nearly empty offi?ce was part of a hangar, and while a bit colder than the Egg Orno might have wished, a lot more private than the main terminal would have been. And the aristocrat took comfort from the fact that her long voyage through space was fi?nally at an end. As soon as the shuttle cleared Hive, and the cargo module had been transferred to the Thraki freighter, the Egg Orno had been released. But it wasn’t until the ship was in hyperspace, where the Queen couldn’t possibly touch her, that the aristocrat had been able to relax.
What the Egg Orno didn’t realize, however, not at fi?rst anyway, was the fact that the merchant vessel was scheduled to make stops in two Ramanthian-held systems prior to the much-anticipated arrival off Starfall. Each stop raised the possibility that government agents would storm aboard and take her into custody. But they didn’t, and the freighter completed its journey without incident. And now, having been brought down to the surface of the planet, the Egg Orno was in an agony of suspense. Had her mate aged? Had she aged? Would they be happy? Could they be happy? Would she have servants? And what if she didn’t?
All of those thoughts and many more swirled through the aristocrat’s mind as she stood in front of the Thrakisized window and stared out across the tarmac at the rainsmeared lights beyond. True happiness was impossible without the War Orno, but at least she still had one mate, and that gave her life purpose.
That was when the door opened, the Egg Orno turned, and felt an explosion of warmth in her chest. Because there, coming through the entranceway, was her beloved Alway! And, judging from the fi?nery that he wore, things were going well indeed.
The female hurried forward to stand inside the circle of intimacy where only mates could linger for more than a few seconds and allowed her antennae to absorb the wonderful cocktail of pheromones produced by her mate. And that’s where they were, wrapped in the chemical equivalent of an embrace, when two Ramanthian agents entered the room. They had been outside, waiting for Orno to enter, and water continued to drain off their poncho-style raincoats as they shuffl?ed into the room. Both held silenced pistols. Alway turned to confront the assassins, but it was too late. “So,” Ifna Bamik said contemptuously. “Look what crawled out from under a rock. . . . All that was required to catch this vermin was the right kind of bait.”