me.”
It took the better part of fifteen minutes to cross the busy flight deck, enter the VIP lock, and cycle through. The Victory’s commanding officer was waiting to greet them. He was tall and thin, and looked like a skeleton brought to life. He was the real thing, meaning an officer who had graduated from the academy, and wore two stars. His hand was hard and bony. “Admiral ChienChu ... Ambassador DomaSa... welcome aboard. Admiral Kagan at your service. Sorry I wasn’t there to greet you ... but one of our shuttles lost power. A tug is bringing her in. I thought we’d give you a chance to stow your gear and gather in my cabin. Sound okay to you?”
The visitors assured him that it did. and little more than thirty minutes later the visitors arrived in Kagan’s cabin. The Victory was considered a hardship post, which meant that extra money had been spent to make the ship more livable. Wood paneling lined the bulkheads, backlit shelving held some of the art objects the naval officer had collected during his years of service, and the furniture was worn but comfortable. The admiral gestured toward some chairs. “Please, have a seat.”
DomaSa chose a chair backed by a bulkhead, knew it had been placed there for his comfort, and felt a little better.
Refreshments were offered, both guests refused, and Kagan looked from one to the other. He was curious and let it show. “So? What can I do for you?”
ChienChu gestured toward the planet that hung beyond the view port. “First we’d like a briefing, you know, surface conditions, intel reports, whatever you’ve got. Then we’ll need some transport.” He looked at DomaSa. ‘That should cover it.”
Kagan felt a rising sense of anger and fought to control it. Here he was, sitting on what amounted to a time bomb, while some half-baked has been thought up ways to waste his resources. But the bastard had pull, the kind of gees that could crush a there two-star, and the officer forced a smile. “Yes, of course. I’ll arrange for the briefing. But that’s as far as I can go. The ambassador isn’t cleared to receive military intelligence. As for the trip, well, Hudathan nationals can return to the surface whenever they choose, but you will have to remain in orbit. Or return with the There—the choice is up to you.”
One of the things ChienChu liked about his status as a cyborg was the fact that when he ordered his face to remain blank it actually did so. “I’m sorry. Admiral. I forgot to present my credentials. Perhaps you would be so kind as to review them.”
The cyborg withdrew a small case from his coat pocket and gave it over. The naval officer inspected the seal, applied his thumb to the print-sensitive pad, and saw the lid pop open. A disk nestled in a plastic holder. Kagan took the disk, excused himself, and entered the neighboring office. He was back three minutes later. His face was pale. The words sounded stiff and formal. “I am to place myself under your command for the duration of your stay, render all possible assistance, and keep the nature of your mission secret.” He looked down into ChienChu’s synthetic eyes. The resentment was clear to see.
“What may I ask is the nature of your mission?”
ChienChu smiled in an effort to put the man at ease. “Ambassador DomaSa and I are here to examine the feasibility of integrating certain branches of the Hudathan military into the Confederacy’s armed forces.”
A look of disbelief came over Admiral Kagan*s face, and he practically fell into his chair. His voice was thick with emotion. This was a joke. It had to be. “Surely, you jest.”
“No,” the cyborg assured him calmly. “Nothing could be more serious.”
The snow, which had been falling throughout the night, stopped, the sun came out, and the temperature soared to eighty. All before noon. Just another day on Hudatha. Legion Captain Augustus North warned the sentries that he was coming out, palmed the hatch, and waited for it to whir up and out of the way. They still had power, something of a miracle after months on the surface, but for how much longer? A week? A month? Maybe, if the tech heads could keep the fusion generator running, and the ridge heads allowed them to live.
The officer squinted into the glare, stepped out into the slush, and returned the cyborg’s salute. What remained of the battalion included four quads, plus thirty-six Trooper IF’s, down from twelve quads and seventy-two Trooper IF’s the day of the crash.
North turned, eyed the mountain of half-slagged metal, and started to climb. There were plenty of sharp edges where a wide variety of munitions had struck so it paid to be careful. Medical supplies were running low—and the doc was hard-pressed to patch people up.
The insanity had originated on the Triumph more than three months before. A cadre of mutineers, led by Major Pinchett, North’s commanding officer, received confirmation that the mutiny was under way, and took control of the ship’s bridge. Then, more than a little full of themselves, they had called on the rest of the battle stations to surrender.
The Victory, under the command of Admiral Kagan, along with the Celebration and the Jubilant had attacked their sister ship with a vengeance. The mutineers put up stiff resistance, and did pretty well for a while, but never stood a chance. Pinchett offered to surrender, but Kagan refused to listen, and the pounding went on.
North would never forget missile after missile slamming into the monitor’s hull, the steady bleat of battle klaxons, the smell of his space armor, people running down corridors, and Hudatha hanging above. The weird thing was that North had never been asked to join the mutiny .. . and wasn’t sure how he would have reacted. Lord knew there was reason, starting with the cutbacks, the way ex-soldiers were left to beg in the streets, and what could only be described as a pathetic state of readiness. But mutiny?
