“Hell, I don’t know,” Lassiter replied lightly. “But then I rarely do! When the general wants something, it’s my job to fi?nd it for him. But he rarely tells me why, and I always forget to ask.”
“So you’re a member of military intelligence,” the line offi?cer concluded.
Lassiter smiled and shook his head. “No, of course not!
I think of myself as a procurement offi?cer. Just like the sign says.”
But there was a lot more to Lassiter’s job than procurement, of that Santana was sure, even if the other offi? cer wasn’t willing to admit it. “So, what about Corporal Gomez?” Santana wanted to know. “Did General Booly send for her as well?”
“Nope,” Lassiter answered. “But given that the order to fi?nd you was highly classifi?ed, it seemed best to bring her along.”
“And you can do that?”
“Of course,” the major replied with a grin. “Procurement offi?cers can accomplish just about anything. So,”
Lassiter continued, “let’s move on to the real purpose of this meeting. And that’s to let you know when you aren’t plodding through virtual-reality scenarios—you’ll be working out with a company of really gung ho marines.”
Santana eyed the major suspiciously. “And that’s all you can tell me?”
“That’s correct,” the other offi?cer confi?rmed mischievously. “I’m afraid I won’t have time to join you—but I hear the marines are looking forward to the opportunity of spending some time with a cavalry offi?cer!”
Both men were well aware of the long-standing animosity between the Legion and the Marine Corps. So when Lassiter said that the jarheads were “looking forward” to the workouts Santana knew he was in trouble. He stood. “Sir, yes sir!”
“One last thought,” Lassiter added, as his expression became more serious. “I don’t know why the general sent for you, or why he wants to make sure that you’ll be in tiptop shape by the time you arrive on Algeron, but there’s bound to be a very good reason. So bust your ass. Understood?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Good. Dismissed.”
And Santana’s leave was over.
THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47) What light there was emanated from a small window set high on the earthen wall and a single battery-powered lamp on the makeshift desk. Thrakies might have been comfortable in the underground chamber, thanks to their thick fur, but the Ramanthian was cold. Very cold. Which explained why ex-ambassador Alway Orno sat swathed in heavy blankets as he brought the pistol up and placed the barrel against the side of his insectoid head. There was a loud click as the fi?ring pin fell on an empty chamber. Satisfi?ed that the fi?rearm was fully functional, the Ramanthian broke the tubular weapon open and dropped a stubby bullet into the shiny fi?ring chamber. Then, having placed the weapon to one side of his desk, the fugitive returned to work. The letter was addressed to the Egg Orno—and would soon be found next to his body.
Rather than record his voice, or compose his message on a computer, Orno had chosen to write an old- fashioned letter. During the manufacturing process the paper had been fl?ooded with a thin layer of colored wax and left to dry in the sun. Now, as small amounts of the surface material were removed with an antique stylus, clusters of white characters appeared.
“The end has come dearest,” the letter began. “And my heart yearns for one last moment with you. But with every pincer turned against me, I cannot return to Hive. So there can be no reunion until we meet in the great beyond. Then, with you between us, the War Orno and I will—”
The fugitive’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang as the trapdoor that led down into the underground chamber was thrown open and Orno felt a sudden stab of fear. His right pincer went to the gun, but rather than the assassins the Ramanthian half expected to see, the intruder was Ula, his host’s youngest daughter. She had large lightgathering eyes, pointy ears, and horizontal slits where a nose might otherwise have been. Ula spoke standard, a language that Orno, as a diplomat, spoke fl?uently as well. “I have a message for you!” the youngster said excitedly as she raced down the ramp and into the underground chamber. Orno was about to chide the youngster for failing to announce herself, but he knew it would be a waste of time, and said “thank you” instead. The message was sealed in a box that immediately popped open, allowing a tiny bipedal robot to climb out. Which wasn’t surprising since the Thrakies loved to make robots and use them for tasks that could have been carried out in other ways. Ula squealed in delight at the sight of the electromechanical form, but the Ramanthian was in no mood for frivolity. “If you have a message for me, then deliver it,” the fugitive said gruffl?y.
Even though the robot was small, the voice that issued forth from it was in no way diminished by its size and belonged to Sector 18—one of a small group of individuals who sat on the Committee that governed the Thraki people. “A representative from the Confederacy of Sentient Beings would like to meet with you regarding subjects of mutual interest,” the voice said. A time and a place followed, but there were no pleasantries as sparks shot out of the robot’s ears, and it toppled off the writing table onto the earthen fl?oor.
“Are you going to go?” Ula wanted to know as she bent to retrieve what remained of the robot.
It was a good question. Because even though the voice sounded like that of Sector 18, it could have been synthesized in an effort to draw the fugitive out of hiding. But so what? While such a death is less dignifi?ed than suicide, dead is dead. Orno thought to himself. “Yes,” the Ramanthian answered. “Please notify your father. I will need some ground transportation. Something discreet.”
Ula was thrilled by the opportunity to carry such an important message to her father and dashed up the ramp. That left Orno to consider what lay ahead. There was no way to know what such a meeting might portend. . . . Was Nankool hoping to establish back-channel negotiations with the Ramanthian government? If so, Orno might be able to parlay such an opportunity into a promise of clemency, or even full restoration of his previous rank! The mere thought of that was enough to make his spirit soar. Thus emboldened, Orno rose, shuffl?ed over to his travel trunk, and opened the lid. Either redemption was at hand or a group of assassins were about to kill him. Either way it was important to look good.
Orno was too large to ride in a Thraki ground car, so the fugitive was forced to hunker down in the back of a delivery vehicle as it approached the city from the south and swerved onto a downward-sloping ramp. Whatever
