Thanks to the hors d’oeuvres, and the free-fl?owing drinks from the bar, most of the guests were in a good mood by the time they were instructed to take their places at the carefully arranged tables. Because who sat next to whom, and how close they were to the vice president’s table, was not only an indication of status but a matter of practical importance as well. Since it would never do to put potential antagonists right next to each other—or to unintentionally promote alliances that might prove to be strategically counterproductive later on.
That meant “reliable” people such as Booly and Maylo had been paired with individuals like the recently named Senator Nodoubt Truespeak, who not only lacked some of the social graces expected of top-echelon politicians, but had a tendency to get crosswise with any Hudathan he encountered. Because, while others might have put the horrors of the Hudathan wars aside in the interest of political expediency, both Truespeak and his constituents were slow to forgive.
And as if the sometimes cantankerous Truespeak wasn’t a suffi?cient challenge, Booly and Maylo had been saddled with the treacherous Thraki representative as well. In fact the short, somewhat paunchy Senator Obduro had recently been part of a conspiracy to help the Ramanthians recondition some of the Sheen warships they had stolen. An offense for which he was anything but contrite. The evening’s entertainment had begun by then, which, in keeping with the military nature of the ball, involved various displays of skill by well-practiced legionnaires, sailors, and marines. A group of naval ratings had just begun a spirited stick dance, when Booly noticed that a contingent of noncoms were delivering notes to guests who, having read them, immediately got up to leave. Jakov and Wilmot the fi?rst to do so.
That was not only unusual, but cause for concern, since any news that was so important that the duty offi?cer felt compelled to notify the vice president was probably bad. Maylo had noticed the messengers as well, and the two of them exchanged glances as a staff sergeant approached their table. “For you, sir,” the legionnaire said, as he handed a note to Booly.
The offi?cer thanked the soldier, read the note, and hurried to excuse himself. Though careful to hide her emotions, Maylo felt something heavy settle into the pit of her stomach as her husband walked away, and knew her appetite wasn’t likely to return.
Fort Camerone’s com center was a windowless cluster of rooms buried below ground level, where it would be safe from anything short of a direct hit by multiple nuclear bombs. It had always been important, but now that the government was in residence on Algeron, the complex was at the very center of the vast web of communications that held the Confederacy together.
Most of the intersystem messages that came into the center arrived via FTL courier ships—or hyperdriveequipped message torps. However, thanks to a new technology stolen from the Ramanthians, the old ways would soon be obsolete. Because once all of the Confederacy’s ships had been equipped with hypercoms, it would be possible to communicate with each vessel in real time from any point in space. Of course it would be a while before the big clunky contraptions could be miniaturized and massproduced—but battleships like the Gladiator already had them. Which was why the ship’s commanding offi?cer had been able to notify Algeron of the Ramanthian trap, the loss of her entire battle group, and the resulting surrender. The vice president was reading the message for the second time when Booly arrived in the dimly lit com center. A single glance at the miserable faces all around him was suffi?cient to confi?rm the offi?cer’s worst fears. “Here, General,” the grim-faced duty offi?cer said, as he gave Booly a copy of the decoded text. “This arrived about fi?fteen minutes ago.”
Booly read the short, matter-of-fact sentences, saw Captain Flerko’s long angular face in his mind’s eye, and swore softly. She was good, very good, so it was unlikely that the loss of the battleship and its escorts had been the result of human error. No, it looked like the Ramanthians had come up with a new strategy, and it was one that Confederacy military forces would have to fi?nd a way to counter. In the meantime there was the last part of the message to consider. One that left the offi?cer feeling sick to his stomach. “Have no choice but to surrender . . . The president is alive and will blend with the other prisoners. Do not, repeat do not, announce his capture. Pray for us. . . . Captain Marina Flerko.”
Booly wasn’t the only one who was moved, because when he looked up, it was to see Vice President Jakov comforting a com tech. “There, there,” the offi?cial said, as the woman sobbed on his shoulder. “It’s a tough break, but we’ll get the bastards.”
Many, perhaps most, onlookers would have been impressed by the vice president’s composure and his willingness to provide comfort to a lowly technician. But there was something about the scene that troubled Booly. Was it the look of barely contained avarice in Jakov’s eyes? The cold, somewhat calculating look on Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot’s face? Or a combination of both?
But there was no opportunity to consider the matter, as everyone followed Vice President Jakov into the adjoining conference room, and the group that Nankool liked to refer to as his “brain trust” took their seats. Six people were present besides Jakov and herself, and while Wilmot didn’t know any of the group intimately, she was familiar with their reputations. First there was General Booly, who, had it not been for the fact that he was married to the formidable Maylo Chien-Chu, would have been worth a roll in the hay. He was part Naa, and if the rumors were true, had a strip of fur that ran down his spine.
Also present, and looming large in one of the enormous chairs provided for his kind, was Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, who functioned as both his race’s representative to the Senate and head of state. Which made the craggy hard-eyed alien a very important person indeed. And one that Wilmot wasn’t all that fond of given the manner in which the Hudathan had recently gone around her to form a backchannel relationship with a low-level subordinate named Christine Vanderveen. Still, if Nankool was sitting in a Ramanthian prisoner-of-war camp, then so was Vanderveen!
A bonus if there ever was one.
Not to be taken so lightly, however, was the woman generally referred to in high-level government circles as Madame X. Her real name was Margaret Xanith. She had a head of carefully styled salt-and-pepper hair and a surprisingly youthful face, which wore a seemingly perpetual frown. Perhaps that was a refl?ection of her personality, or the fact that as the head of Confed Intelligence she knew about all of the things that were going wrong and rarely had much to smile about. She whispered something to one of her aides, who nodded, and left the room. Seated next to Xanith was an extremely powerful man who though no longer president of the Confederacy, or head of the huge company that still bore his name, continued to hold the rank of reserve navy admiral and was Maylo Chien-Chu’s uncle. A cyborg who, in spite of the fact that he looked to be about twenty-fi?ve years old, was actually more than a hundred.
The fi?nal participant was a relative newcomer to Nankool’s inner circle. A female Dweller named Yuro Osavi. Her frail sticklike body was protected by a formfi?tting cage controlled by a microcomputer that was connected to the alien’s nervous system through a neural interface. The academic had been living on a Ramanthian planet and studying their culture until the war forced her to fl?ee. Osavi had been drafted by Nankool to provide the president with what he called “. . . an enemy’s-eye view of the confl?ict.” Just one of the many reasons why the wily politician had weathered so many storms and remained in the Confederacy’s top job for so long.