There was a long pause, as if the legionnaires hadn’t heard him, or were busy deciding how to respond. Then, after about twenty seconds, there was a challenge. “This is Zebra Six. . . . We read you, Jericho One. Please authenticate.”
So Batkin rattled off a nine-digit code, which was soon answered in kind, thereby satisfying both parties that security was intact. With that out of the way, the spy was able to make visual contact with the rescue team within a matter of minutes. And the much-contested battlefi?eld was a sight to see. Due to the effects of sustained gunfi?re, energy weapons, and fl?amethrowers the partially blackened clearing was larger than it originally had been. And there, within the eye of what had obviously been a storm, was a walled enclosure. Which, judging from the way that waves of dead nymphs lapped up against it, had been extremely hard-pressed. Thanks largely to the fact that he didn’t smell or look like food, the spy ball had been able to avoid the roaming packs of tricentennials thus far, but it had seen what they could do to native species. And it wasn’t pretty.
All of the legionnaires who weren’t standing sentry duty around the clearing looked upwards as the cyborg swept in to hover at the center of an excited crowd. There were cheers from the troops, but rather than the warm welcome the cyborg expected to receive, the offi?cer who came forward to meet him was cold and matter-of-fact. The way he always was where cyborgs were concerned.
“So,” DeCosta began, “what can you tell me about President Nankool? Is he alive?”
Though taken aback by the way the bio bod had addressed him, Batkin managed to maintain his composure.
“And you are?”
“DeCosta,” the offi?cer answered impatiently. “Major DeCosta. I’m in command here.”
“And my name is Batkin,” the agent replied calmly.
“Welcome to Jericho. I’m glad you’re here. The answer to your question is yes. President Nankool is alive. Or was when I escaped from Camp Enterprise.”
The next few minutes were spent bringing DeCosta and his offi?cers up to speed regarding Nankool, the POWs generally, and the camp itself. “I have pictures of everything,” Batkin fi?nished proudly. “Plus detailed information regarding defenses, Ramanthian troop strength, and daily work routines.”
“That’s wonderful!” Santana commented enthusiastically. “What you managed to accomplish is nothing short of amazing.”
“Yes. . . . Well done,” DeCosta added tepidly. “Tonight we will go over that material in detail. In the meantime, we have a schedule to keep. . . . So, if Captain Santana, and Lieutenant Farnsworth would be so kind as to pull the pickets in, we’ll get under way. And, if you would be willing to serve as scout, then so much the better. There’s nothing like a bird’s-eye view of the terrain ahead to keep one out of trouble.”
Santana waited until the other offi?cers were out of earshot before addressing the cyborg. “I’m sorry about the reception. Believe me. . . . We are extremely happy to see you! And, should I be fortunate enough to survive this mission, I will do everything in my power to ensure that you are recognized for what you accomplished here.”
Batkin would have shrugged had he been able to. “That isn’t necessary. . . . But thank you.”
“Can I ask a question?” Santana wanted to know.
“About one of the prisoners?”
“Of course,” the spy responded cautiously. “Remembering that I had contact with only a small number of the POWs.”
“Yes, I understand,” Santana agreed. “The person I have in mind is female, about the same age I am, and blond. Her name is Christine Vanderveen—and she’s a diplomat.
She was a member of Nankool’s staff when the Gladiator was captured. So, if the president survived, then she might have as well.”
Santana felt a sense of dread as the cyborg reviewed the faces and the names of the POWs with whom he was familiar. The answer, when it fi?nally came, was more than a little disappointing. “I met a blond,” the cyborg allowed.
“But her last name was Trevane, and she was a naval offi?cer rather than a diplomat. A lieutenant if I remember correctly. I’m sorry.”
Santana nodded mutely and turned away. Only years of military discipline, plus a strong will, were suffi?cient to keep what the offi?cer felt inside as he took his place on Snyder’s back and the march began. As the column made its way out of the body-strewn clearing and topped the rise beyond, they passed three graves. Obvious now, but soon to be lost, as had thousands of others over the years. Santana offered the legionnaires a salute as he passed, wondered where Vanderveen was buried, and gave thanks for the face shield that hid his tears.
14.
Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
—Lord Acton to Bishop Mandell CreightonStandard year 1887
PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
The Queen was dying. She knew it, her courtiers knew it, and all but the most ignorant of Ramanthian citizens knew it. Because, ironically enough, death was the price each tricentennial queen had to pay for the creation of so many new lives. It was a bittersweet process that systematically destroyed their much-abused bodies and a reality the current monarch had accepted years earlier. Not only accepted, but planned for, by doing everything possible to prepare her successor for the throne.
And now, being only weeks away from the day when the last egg would be ceremoniously laid, the Queen was still in the process of imparting all of the knowledge gained during an active lifetime to the female generally known as “the chosen,” a seemingly low-ranking servant who had been brought in from off-planet and integrated into the royal staff many months earlier. A position that provided the chosen with an intimate knowledge of the way the royal household worked and gave her access to the lies, plots, and counterplots that continuously swirled around the Queen. Something that was going to come as a shock to individuals who had been rude to the chosen.
“So,” the monarch said solicitously, as she looked down at her successor. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Highness,” the chosen replied humbly. And she was ready. Unlike her fi?ve billion newborn cousins, the Queen-to-be had come into the world twenty years earlier the same way most Ramanthians did. Then, having been selected at the age of fi?ve, she and six other candidates had been raised to fi?ll a position only one of them could actually hold.
“Good,” the monarch said soberly. “Give me your opinion of Chief Chancellor Itnor Ubatha.”
The younger female looked up. Her eyes were like obsidian. “He’s very proactive,” the chosen observed thoughtfully. “Which is good. But he’s extremely ambitious as well, and would turn the monarch into little more than a megaphone through which to speak, if allowed to do so.”
“I can see that I chose well,” the Queen replied contentedly. “So, knowing Ubatha as you do, make use of him but be careful. Because when a tool works, and works well, there is a natural tendency to reach for it fi?rst regardless of the circumstances. And that is Ubatha’s strategy. So identify other advisors, place them in powerful positions, and thereby balance him out. Am I clear?”
“You are, Majesty,” the younger female replied as her eyes returned to the fl?oor.
“Then enter the cloister and continue to learn.”
The chosen bent a knee, backed away, and shuffl?ed over to a corner where a curtained enclosure allowed her to observe all that took place without revealing her identity. It was a tradition that went back thousands of years and signaled the upcoming transition.