architectural traditions the Thrakies might have had before they left their home system had been forgotten during the race’s long journey through space. And now, as they put down roots on the planet they called Starfall, new cities were rising all around the world. All of which were constructed in a way that forced vehicular traffi?c underground so pedestrians could have the surface to themselves. Lights blipped past as the vehicle sped along an arterial, then slowed as the driver turned off and came to a stop in front of a subsurface lobby. The rear doors were opened, and a ramp was deployed so that the Ramanthian could shuffl?e down onto the pavement, where a Thraki waited to greet him. Not an offi?cial but a low-level fl?unky. Still another sign of how far the Ramanthian’s fortunes had fallen. From the pull-through it was a short journey up an incline to a row of freight elevators. Would the lift carry the ex-diplomat higher? Back to respectability? Or deliver him to a team of assassins? No, Orno reasoned, if assassins were waiting, they would take me right here. Thus reassured, the fugitive allowed himself to be ushered onto an elevator that lifted him up to the twenty-third fl?oor, where it hissed open. Though scaled to accommodate alien visitors, the ceilings remained oppressively low by Ramanthian standards, something Orno sought to ignore as his guide led him into a hallway. From there it was a short walk to a pair of wooden doors and the conference room beyond.
As was Orno’s practice when spending time on alien planets, the Ramanthian was wearing contacts that consolidated what would have otherwise been multiple images into a single view as he entered the rectangular space. There was a table, six chairs, and a curtained window. A single human was waiting to greet him. A repulsive-looking creature who, judging from the way her clothes fi?t, had especially large lumps of fatty tissue hanging from her chest. Orno recognized the female as a low-ranking diplomatic functionary to whom he had once been introduced but had had no reason to contact since. Which explained why he couldn’t remember her name. “This is a pleasure,” Orno lied. “It’s good to see you again.”
It appeared that the Ramanthian diplomat remembered her, and Kay Wilmot felt a rush of pleasure as she hurried to reintroduce herself. “My name is Kay Wilmot. I am assistant undersecretary for foreign affairs reporting to Vice President Jakov. The pleasure is mutual.”
“A promotion!” Orno said heartily. “And well deserved, too.”
“Please have a seat,” Wilmot said, as she gestured toward a Ramanthian-style saddle chair. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you any refreshments, but the Confederacy’s embassy isn’t aware of my presence, and while they have been helpful, the Thrakies feel it’s necessary to maintain a certain distance.”
“I understand,” Orno said. “We live in complicated times.”
Once both of them were seated, Wilmot took the fi?rst step in what promised to be some delicate negotiations by placing a portable scrambler on the surface of the table in front of her. It generated a humming noise, which was accompanied by a green light. Two doors down the hall a pair of Thraki intelligence agents swore as the feed they had been monitoring was reduced to a roar of static. But, effective though the device was, the scrambler had no effect on the photosensitive fabric from which the Ramanthian’s loose-fi?tting robe had been made. Or the storage device woven into the garment’s shimmery fabric. “No offense, Ambassador,” Wilmot said. “But could I inquire as to the general nature of your present assignment?”
Orno couldn’t tell the truth, not if the Wilmot creature was to take him seriously, so he lied. “At the moment I’m serving her majesty as a special envoy to the Thraki people. More than that I’m not allowed to say.”
“Of course,” the human responded understandingly. “I hope you will forgive my directness, but there’s a rather sensitive matter on which we could use your help, although it falls well outside the realm of your normal duties. And, were you to act on our behalf, we would require complete confi?dentiality.”
The fi?rst emotion that Orno experienced was a crushing sense of disappointment. Rather than ask him to broker a peace deal, or something similar to that, the human was clearly paving the way for some sort of illicit business deal. Not what he had hoped for but well worth his consideration. Especially if he could use the funds to smuggle the Egg Orno off Hive. It wouldn’t do to reveal the extent of his need however—so the ex-diplomat took a moment to posture. “My fi?rst loyalty is to the Queen,” Orno said sternly. “Everything else is secondary.”
“Of course,” the human replied soothingly. “I know that. But what if it was possible to serve the Ramanthian empire and bank half a million Thraki credits at the same time? Wouldn’t that be an attractive proposition?”
Orno pretended to consider the matter. “Well, yes,” he said reluctantly. “If both things were possible, then yes, it would.”
“That’s what I thought,” Wilmot said confi?dently. “So, I have your word? Whatever I tell you stays between us?”
“You have my word,” the Ramanthian replied stoutly.
“Good,” the offi?cial said importantly. “Because what I’m about to confi?de in you may change the course of history.”
The Ramanthian was skeptical but careful to keep his doubts to himself. “To use one of your expressions, I’m all ears,” the ex-diplomat said reassuringly.
“The situation is this,” Wilmot explained. “While on his way to visit the Clone Hegemony, President Nankool was captured by Ramanthian military forces and sent to Jericho, where he and his companions will be used as slave labor.”
“That’s absurd!” Orno responded scornfully. “First, because my government would take Nankool to a planet other than Jericho, and second because his capture would have been announced by now.”
“Not if the Ramanthians on Jericho were unaware of the president’s true identity,” Wilmot countered. “And we know they aren’t aware of the fact that he’s there, because we have an intelligence agent on Jericho, and he sent us pictures of Nankool trudging through the jungle. Images that arrived on Algeron fi?ve days ago.”
Orno clicked his right pincer. “You came to the wrong person,” he said sternly. “A rescue would be impossible, even if I were willing to assist such a scheme, which I am not.” The statement wasn’t entirely true, especially if he could raise the ante, and maximize the size of his reward.
“No, you misunderstood,” Wilmot responded gently.
“I’m not here to seek help with a rescue mission—I’m here to make sure that Nankool and his companions are buried on Jericho.”
It took a moment for Orno to process what the human was saying. But then, as the full import of Wilmot’s statement started to dawn on him, the fugitive’s antennae tilted forward. “You report to Vice President Jakov?”
“Yes,” Wilmot agreed soberly. “I do.”
