The Queen, who had once been the same size as her female subjects, was huge. It was a transformation that continued to bother the monarch, because her body was so large that a special cradle was required to support her swollen abdomen, and she could no longer move around on her own. Which, when combined with the nonstop production of eggs, made her feel like a factory. A cranky, increasingly paranoid factory, that was very hard to please. Especially in the wake of the Confederacy’s suicidal attack on the subsurface city of First Birth, in which 1.7 million Ramanthian lives had summarily been snuffed out of existence. The disaster was referred to as “a tragic seismic event” on Hive but was heralded as a tremendous victory within the Confederacy.
But, while not equal in magnitude, the recent annihilation of an enemy battle group in the Nebor system had done a great deal to restore the Queen’s previously fl?agging spirits. This meant the monarch was in a relatively good mood as Chief Chancellor Itnor Ubatha arrived on the platform in front of and directly below her normalsized head. For his part, the bureaucrat was well aware of not only the Queen’s hard-eyed scrutiny, but the colorful drape intended to hide most of her swollen body, and the rich pungent odor of recently laid eggs that wafted up from the chamber below. The smell caused certain chemicals to be secreted into the Ubatha’s bloodstream and fl?ow to his brain. As a result, the offi?cial suddenly felt simultaneously protective, receptive, and subservient. Just one of the many reasons why the monarch’s clan was still in power after thousands of years. “So,” the Queen said, without preamble, “how did the meeting with the Egg Orno go?”
Ubatha bent a leg as his mind raced. It seemed that the Queen had him under surveillance. A perfectly logical move from her perspective. But why signal that fact to him? Because the Queen wanted him to know that even though she had been immobilized, very little escaped her notice. And to seize control of the conversation—a technique she was famous for. None of what Ubatha was thinking could be seen in the movement of his antennae or the set of his narrow wings, however. One of many skills the bureaucrat had mastered over the years. “I failed, Majesty. Of which I am greatly ashamed.”
Ubatha hadn’t failed, not really, but his willingness to portray himself in a negative light amounted to an oblique compliment. Because by opening himself to the possibility of punishment, the Chancellor was demonstrating complete faith in the Queen’s judgment. It was the sort of political fi?nesse for which the offi?cial was known. “Come now,” the Queen said indulgently. “I fear you are too hard on yourself. Especially since the failure, if any, should accrue to the head of my so-called intelligence service.”
Ubatha knew, as the monarch did, that the offi?cial in question was standing not fi?fty feet away, talking to a group of royal advisors. And, because the Queen’s voice was amplifi?ed, there was little doubt that he was intended to hear the comment. “Your Majesty is too kind,” the Chancellor replied. “When asked about her mate’s whereabouts, the Egg Orno continues to maintain that Ambassador Orno is dead.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
“No, Majesty. I do not.”
“Nor do I,” the monarch replied thoughtfully. “I have my reasons. What are yours?”
Rather than address the fact that there was no body, or other physical evidence of Orno’s death, Ubatha chose to pursue another strategy instead. “As I entered the Egg Orno’s home,” the Chancellor said, “I noticed that a single pair of sandals had been left in the vestibule.”
There was a moment of silence while the Queen absorbed the news. Ramanthian culture was rich in traditions. One of which compelled females to leave clean sandals by the front door to welcome her mates home. But when a male died, the sandals were ceremoniously burned. So if both of the Egg Orno’s mates were dead, as she steadfastly maintained, then there wouldn’t be any sandals in the vestibule.
Yes, the whole thing could be explained away, and no doubt would be had the Egg Orno been given a chance to do so. But above all else the Queen was female, and possessed of female instincts, which meant that the presence of sandals next to the door carried a great deal of weight where she was concerned. “You have a keen eye,” the Queen said quietly. “And a keen mind as well. . . . I know you’re busy Chancellor, very busy, but please lend your intelligence to the hunt for citizen Orno. He made a promise. It was broken. And he must pay.”
Ubatha bent a knee. “Yes, Majesty. Your wish is my command.”
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
It was raining, and had been for hours, as Oliver Batkin continued to fl?y just below the treetops. Having seen the Ramanthian shuttles a day earlier, he’d been looking for the ships ever since. No small task because even though the spy ball knew where the interim spaceport was, he’d been hundreds of miles away when the contrails appeared, and the cyborg’s top speed was about thirty miles per hour. So as water cascaded off the leaves above, Batkin followed a trail of dead bodies from the spaceport toward the future site of Jericho Prime. The corpses had already been victimized by jungle scavengers and were starting to decay. It was a shocking sight, or would have been, except that Batkin had seen it before. Because slave labor had been put to use elsewhere on the planet as well. What made these dead bodies different, however, was the fact that all of them wore identical blue uniforms and were clearly military. The fi?rst such POWs the cyborg had seen on Jericho given that the Ramanthians routinely killed any member of the Confederacy’s armed forces unfortunate enough to fall into their pincers. However, judging from appearances, this particular group had been spared. For a particular purpose? That was possible, although the bugs were notoriously unpredictable, and the whole thing could be the result of a whim by some high-ranking offi?cial.
Still, Batkin’s job was to investigate such anomalies, so the cyborg was determined to follow the trail of corpses wherever it led. Which was why the spy ball topped a ridge and followed the opposite slope down to the point where a vast marsh gave way to a lake. Thousands of interlocking circles radiated outwards as the rain continued to fall, and the alien sphere followed a row of vertical poles out to the island beyond.
The prisoners were gone by the time Batkin arrived, but tendrils of smoke marked the still-smoldering fi?res. The cyborg had given the ruins a quick once-over, and was about to depart, when he heard a strange keening sound. Which, after further investigation, originated from a fi?reblackened lump that was wired to a metal spit. Batkin looked on in horror as two eyes appeared in what he now realized was a badly burned face. The raspy words were almost too faint to hear. “P-l-e-a-s-e,” Private Cassidy said.
“Kill me.”
It was a reasonable request given the circumstances, but the cyborg knew that his main source of protection lay in the fact that the bugs were unaware of his presence. So if he put the poor wretch out of his misery, there was the possibility that one or more Ramanthians would happen along and realize what had taken place. Especially since Batkin lacked the means to dispose of the body. But the chances of that seemed remote, so the cyborg activated his energy cannon, and there was a whir as the barrel appeared. “I will,” Batkin promised solemnly. “But fi?rst . . . Can you tell me where you were captured?”
Both of Cassidy’s startlingly blue eyes had disappeared by then, and there was a long pause, before the pain- fi?lled orbs opened again. The long, drawn-out answer came as a sigh. “G-l-a-d-i-a-t-o-r.”
