to settle. So as Vanderveen sat down, she could feel the world closing in around her. If her own father would reduce her to file clerk-what would Assistant Secretary Holson do? “No, thank you. I’m fine.” Nanci nodded pleasantly and left the office.
Vanderveen was still mulling her fate when Yatsu and Holson entered the room two minutes later. Yatsu was a tiny birdlike thing, with a mop of black hair and bright, inquisitive eyes. Her teeth were very white and flashed when she smiled. But there was strength lurking behind the girlish charm, which was why Yatsu was referred to as the “Iron Maiden” behind her back.
Holson had brown hair, some of which flopped down over a high forehead. His wide-set eyes were slightly hooded, as if to conceal what he was thinking, and a carefully trimmed mustache served to emphasize a slashlike mouth.
Vanderveen stood and found herself on the receiving end of a warm handshake from Yatsu and a cold stare from Holson, who had chosen to sit across from her. “There will be one more participant,” Yatsu said, “and here he is now.”
Vanderveen turned toward the door and was astonished to see President Marcott Nankool enter the office. Having shed thirty pounds on Jericho and a few more as Earth fell to the Ramanthians, it appeared as though his weight had stabilized. His face still had a gaunt appearance, however, and the smile was in marked contrast to the sadness in his eyes. It was no secret that the never-ending stream of bad news was taking a toll on him. “Christine!” he said warmly. “I heard about this meeting and asked Secretary Yatsu if I could sit in. I hope you don’t mind.”
Vanderveen didn’t mind. Nankool was upset with her. She knew that. But the fact that they had survived the horrors of Jericho together meant there was a bond between them. One that Holson was clearly aware of judging from the way he frowned when Nankool gave her a hug.
But Vanderveen wasn’t out of the woods. She knew that. In spite of the relationship that existed between them, Nankool couldn’t allow his diplomats to do whatever they pleased. So as they took their seats, her future was still in doubt.
All eyes went to Yatsu. She consulted a hand comp before looking up again. Her expression was serious. “I must say that in all my years of Foreign Service experience I haven’t run into anyone quite like you. On the plus side, you more than distinguished yourself while serving on LaNor during the Claw uprising. Then there was the partnership with His Excellency Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, which resulted in an important intelligence coup. That was followed by your imprisonment on Jericho, where the president described your actions as ‘heroic.’ All capped off by the recent one-diplomat effort that culminated in a historic agreement with Clone Hegemony. It’s a very impressive record, and that’s why you’re the youngest FSO-2 in the Foreign Service.”
Yatsu paused at that point, formed a steeple with her fingers, and frowned. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that while you were stationed on Alpha-001, you disobeyed a directive, which, had things gone the other way, could have been disastrous.”
Holson smiled thinly. And there was no mistaking the hostility in his half-shuttered eyes.
“Nor was that the first time,” Yatsu added sternly. “For example, your work with Triad Doma-Sa was unauthorized, and your superior put a letter to that effect in your P-1 file.”
“Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Wilmot was later convicted of treason, Madam Secretary,” Vanderveen put in.
“She has you there,” Nankool said, as he spoke for the first time.
“With all due respect, Wilmot’s conviction came well after the time the letter was written,” Holson commented darkly.
Yatsu nodded. “The point is that discipline is important to an organization such as ours. Just imagine if all our FSO-3’s and 2’s were running about cutting deals on their own! Say what you will about our bureaucracy-but it exists for a reason.”
Vanderveen felt there had been extenuating circumstances associated with all of the situations that Yatsu had mentioned, but knew the secretary was correct where the need for a disciplined approach was concerned. She nodded contritely. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Good,” Yatsu replied. “So with all of that in mind, we are faced with a very difficult decision. And, given what we do for a living, you won’t be surprised to learn that we settled on a compromise.” It was a joke, and Vanderveen managed to produce a weak smile.
“The president wants to reward you for bringing the Hegemony into the Confederacy,” Yatsu added. “So, effective today, I’m promoting you to FS-1. But Richard feels that it would be inappropriate to reward your behavior by posting you to one of the core worlds. And I agree.”
“As do I,” Nankool added sternly.
“So we’re sending you to Trevia,” Yatsu announced. “It’s a rim world, which is located outside the boundaries of the bug empire but has a significant population of Ramanthian expatriates. Eccentrics mostly, plus a scattering of political exiles and members of other races.”
Vanderveen felt a crushing sense of disappointment. They were sending her to prison. A place far from civilization, where she could be left to rot for who knew how long.
Nankool saw the look in her eyes. “It’s more than a holding cell,” he assured her. “We need eyes and ears out there. So make a lot of contacts. And who knows? Once the war begins to go our way, one or more of your new friends might prove to be useful where negotiations are concerned.”
“Or, depending on how things go, you may find yourself living inside the Ramanthian Empire,” Holson said unsympathetically. “But I’m sure you’ll manage given your well-known capacity to take care of yourself.”
That earned Holson a dirty look from Nankool. But if the diplomat regretted his comment, there was no sign of it on his face.
“I guess that handles it,” Yatsu said blithely. “Congratulations on your promotion-and have a nice trip.”
5
The measure of an officer is not in victory but in defeat.
PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
There was a violent jerk as his half of the rope bridge struck something solid. Santana lost his grip, fell backwards, and crashed through multiple layers of branches. When he hit the ground, the impact drove all of the air out of his lungs. But thanks to his helmet and the foliage that slowed his fall, he was uninjured.
As the Ramanthian transport rose, Santana could see the platform where Temo had been standing. She had somehow been able to establish contact with the bugs and cut a deal. The bitch. The lights were extinguished, and Santana knew the renegade had escaped.
A spectral form appeared above him. “No offense, sir,” Dietrich said. “But you’re lying down on the job. An officer should set a good example for the troops.”
Santana accepted the proffered hand, allowed himself to be pulled up onto his feet, and was pleased to discover that he could stand unassisted. No broken bones, then. That was good. “Thank you, Sergeant Major. I’m glad to see that you survived the fall-and are keeping a sharp eye out for slackers. Have you seen my weapon by any chance? I lost it.”
“It was barrel down in the ground,” Dietrich replied as he gave the carbine over. “So don’t try to fire it. Orders, sir?”
“Pass the word… There’s no point in blundering around in the darkness. Tell our people to count heads, collect the wounded, and muster below the lodge. We’ll search it and the clearing at first light. Then we’ll have some field rats and get the hell out of here.”
