13
We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
PLANET TREVIA, THE POONARA PROTECTORATE
Vanderveen was asleep when the com set began to beep. She fumbled for the handset and swore as it clattered to the floor beside her bed. Having retrieved it, she rolled over onto her back. It was daytime but just barely. Sunlight streamed down through the slats of wood over her head and threw long, narrow shadows across her blanket. “Hello? This is Christine Vanderveen.”
“It’s Missy,” Sayers said. “Sorry to call so early, ma’am, but we need to get to the hospital now.”
Vanderveen sat up and swung her feet over onto the tile floor. Her first thought was for her staff. “Why? What happened?”
“It isn’t one of our people, ma’am. Somebody tortured Hamantha Croth. Then they shot him and left him for dead. Except he isn’t dead. Not yet anyway. A neighbor saw some Ramanthians leave his place in the middle of the night and called the police. They brought Croth to the hospital. And he’s asking for you. I think this is important, ma’am. We need to hurry.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes,” Vanderveen replied. “And bring some sort of recorder.”
The diplomats entered the hospital twenty minutes later. There was a slight delay at the front desk. Shortly thereafter, a Ramanthian doctor arrived to escort them up to the second floor. He spoke standard with a heavy accent but could still be understood. “We must hurry. Citizen Croth is dying. We did everything we could, but it won’t be enough.”
Croth/Hoknar had a room to himself. He was belly down on a Ramanthian-style bolster bed. He was hooked to an IV, and there was machinery all around. His eyes were closed, and a rasping sound could be heard each time he took a breath. A patch of sealant marked the spot where he’d been shot, one of his wings was missing, as was a foot. To say that Croth/Hoknar had been tortured was an understatement. It made Vanderveen feel sick as she knelt next to him. “Citizen Croth? Or should I say Majordomo Hoknar? This is Consul Vanderveen. You wanted to speak with me?”
There was no response at first, and Vanderveen wondered if the Ramanthian was conscious. Then his eyes opened and seemed to roll into focus. Hoknar’s voice was so faint that Vanderveen had to lean forward in order to hear it. “Listen carefully… The Warrior Queen is still alive. And in hiding. But a cabal led by ex-Governor Parth managed to place their own Queen on the throne. Now, because of my weakness, they know where she is. Go to Sensa II, find the rightful Queen, and return her to power. Both sides will have to make concessions. But, if you do as I say, peace is possible.”
Vanderveen felt a rising sense of excitement. If what Croth, AKA Hoknar, said was true, the mere fact that the Warrior Queen was alive represented an important opportunity. Because by publicizing that fact, it might be possible to sow the seeds of dissent within the Ramanthian population. And, if the Warrior Queen would be willing to negotiate a truce in order to regain her throne, that could end the war. She glanced at Sayers and was relieved to see that she was aiming a camcorder at Croth/Hoknar. “Around my neck,” he rasped. “The royal seal. Take it. Tell the Queen what I said. She may not like your proposal, but she will listen.”
“I will try,” Vanderveen promised.
Croth/Hoknar closed his eyes, shuddered as if in pain, and opened them again. “Thank you. And one more thing…”
“Yes?”
“Tell the Queen I’m sorry. So very, very sorry. The pain was too much.”
Vanderveen started to reply but saw the light in the Ramanthian’s eyes start to fade and knew he was gone. A tone sounded and stopped as the doctor pinched a switch. He had been responsible for the Queen’s medical care during her short stay on Trevia and liked her. His eyes made contact with Vanderveen’s. “So you’ll help?”
“If I can.”
He nodded. “Please hurry.”
Two hours after Croth/Hoknar’s death, Vanderveen was seated at her desk staring at the hypercom in front of her. Assuming the device worked, it would allow her to have a real-time conversation with people on Algeron. Interestingly enough, the basic technology had been stolen from the Ramanthians by none other than Major Antonio Santana. And now, a year and a half later, it was revolutionizing interstellar communications. Because prior to the advent of the hypercom, it would have been necessary to send a message torp to Algeron and wait for a reply. A two-week process if everything went well.
Now she could make an FTL call. But would Assistant Secretary Holson take the opportunity seriously? And react to it quickly enough? She feared that he wouldn’t.
There was another way of course. And that was to try for Secretary of State Yatsu. Or the president himself. But if she went over her supervisor’s head, the move could be seen as further evidence of what her superiors perceived as a rebellious nature. Vanderveen sighed. There was no way in hell that she was going to call Holson and run the risk that the bastard would try to block her.
First, she had to enter a five-digit access code into an alphanumeric keypad. Then it was necessary to slip a finger into the ID port. The finger prick hurt. What seemed like a very long ten seconds passed as the device verified her DNA and opened an FTL link. Eventually it would become possible to call discrete locations from the field. But for the moment, all Foreign Service calls were routed through a computer on Algeron. Its female persona had black hair and brown skin. The image shivered, broke up into a thousand motes of light, and came back together again. “Good evening, Consul Vanderveen. Who are you calling?”
“The president.”
A human might have registered surprise, but the simulacrum’s expression remained unchanged. “Priority?”
“One.”
“Please hold.”
The operator, if that was the correct word, disappeared. A Confederacy seal appeared in her place. Vanderveen held and held some more. Fifteen long minutes passed. Finally, with no advance warning, Nankool appeared on the screen. He looked disheveled and had clearly been asleep. “I’m taking this call because of what we went through on Jericho,” he said grumpily. “But it had better be important. Because if you’re calling to whine about conditions on Trevia, this will be a very short conversation. Come to think of it, why call me? You report to Assistant Secretary Holson.”
Vanderveen felt sick to her stomach. Was the Croth/Hoknar thing real? What if he had been lying? But why would he do that? “I’m sorry to wake you, sir,” Vanderveen said, as she battled to keep her voice steady. “But I have evidence that a Ramanthian cabal forced the Warrior Queen into hiding on Sensa II-and replaced her with a monarch of their own choosing. Given how important such a development would be, and the urgent need to protect the Warrior Queen from a team of assassins, I thought it best to call you directly.”
Nankool looked stunned. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. Finally, having regained his composure, he was able to speak. “You mentioned evidence. What evidence?”
“The Ramanthian you are about to see is named Bebo Hoknar. He called himself Hamantha Croth while in hiding. He was the Warrior Queen’s majordomo prior to her supposed death. After being tortured, shot, and left for dead, he sent for me. Here’s what he had to say.”
Vanderveen’s right index finger stabbed a button. Video from Sayer’s camcorder followed the carrier wave through hyperspace to Algeron. She watched as Croth/Hoknar told his story all over again. Once it was over, Nankool reappeared. There was a frown on his face. “How long have you been there? A few weeks?”
It was actually considerably less than that-but Vanderveen could see where things were headed. “Something
