soon to be lost, as had thousands of others over the years. Santana offered the legionnaires a salute as he passed, wondered where Vanderveen was buried, and gave thanks for the face shield that hid his tears.
14.
Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
The Queen was dying. She knew it, her courtiers knew it, and all but the most ignorant of Ramanthian citizens knew it. Because, ironically enough, death was the price each tricentennial queen had to pay for the creation of so many new lives. It was a bittersweet process that systematically destroyed their much-abused bodies and a reality the current monarch had accepted years earlier. Not only accepted, but planned for, by doing everything possible to prepare her successor for the throne.
And now, being only weeks away from the day when the last egg would be ceremoniously laid, the Queen was still in the process of imparting all of the knowledge gained during an active lifetime to the female generally known as “the chosen,” a seemingly low-ranking servant who had been brought in from off-planet and integrated into the royal staff many months earlier. A position that provided the chosen with an intimate knowledge of the way the royal household worked and gave her access to the lies, plots, and counterplots that continuously swirled around the Queen. Something that was going to come as a shock to individuals who had been rude to the chosen.
“So,” the monarch said solicitously, as she looked down at her successor. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Highness,” the chosen replied humbly. And she was ready. Unlike her fi?ve billion newborn cousins, the Queen-to-be had come into the world twenty years earlier the same way most Ramanthians did. Then, having been selected at the age of fi?ve, she and six other candidates had been raised to fi?ll a position only one of them could actually hold.
“Good,” the monarch said soberly. “Give me your opinion of Chief Chancellor Itnor Ubatha.”
The younger female looked up. Her eyes were like obsidian. “He’s very proactive,” the chosen observed thoughtfully. “Which is good. But he’s extremely ambitious as well, and would turn the monarch into little more than a megaphone through which to speak, if allowed to do so.”
“I can see that I chose well,” the Queen replied contentedly. “So, knowing Ubatha as you do, make use of him but be careful. Because when a tool works, and works well, there is a natural tendency to reach for it fi?rst regardless of the circumstances. And that is Ubatha’s strategy. So identify other advisors, place them in powerful positions, and thereby balance him out. Am I clear?”
“You are, Majesty,” the younger female replied as her eyes returned to the fl?oor.
“Then enter the cloister and continue to learn.”
The chosen bent a knee, backed away, and shuffl?ed over to a corner where a curtained enclosure allowed her to observe all that took place without revealing her identity. It was a tradition that went back thousands of years and signaled the upcoming transition.
Meanwhile, in a waiting room normally reserved for those of lesser rank, Ubatha shuffl?ed back and forth across the chamber while deep in thought. Because while any royal audience was stressful, he knew this one would be even more so, due to the fact that the chosen would be present. There was no way to know which of the seven eligible females had been selected, but the Chancellor hoped that the Queen had chosen well. Not only for his wellbeing but that of the Ramanthian people as well. Because even though the war was going well, it would take a strong pincer to guide the empire through the next few years. The Ramanthian’s contemplations were interrupted as a midlevel functionary entered the room. “Chancellor Ubatha? The Queen will receive you now.”
The offi?cial clacked his right pincer by way of an acknowledgment, checked to ensure that both his antenna and wings were positioned just so, and left the waiting area for the ramp that led up to the royal platform. All manner of courtiers, offi?cials, and military offi?cers had emerged from their various lairs to take up positions on the platforms adjacent to the walkway. Ubatha exchanged greetings with the more-senior members of the royal entourage as the rich amalgamation of odors associated with the Queen and the egg-laying process came into contact with his olfactory antennae and triggered the usual chemical changes.
Having gained the top level, Ubatha saw the brandnew enclosure off to his right, and decided to risk the Queen’s displeasure by nodding in that direction. A gesture intended to convey acceptance and respect. Then, having turned toward the monarch, he bent a knee. “I’m not dead yet,” the Queen said tartly.
“Nor will you ever be,” Ubatha replied smoothly. “Since you live within our hearts.”
That elicited the Ramanthian equivalent of laughter, since the royal didn’t believe a word of it, but admired the way it had been done. “You are absolutely shameless,” the Queen observed indulgently. “But useful nevertheless.”
Ubatha bowed. “Majesty.”
“So,” the monarch said, “it seems that congratulations are in order. . . . I understand you located ex- ambassador Orno and put him to death.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” Ubatha replied humbly. “But the credit for the execution belongs to your chief of intelligence rather than myself.”
Meanwhile, still hidden within her fabric-draped enclosure, the chosen took note. Another one of the things that made Ubatha different from so many of the empire’s offi?cials was his willingness to form alliances and then honor them. It was a strategy cunningly devised to make him more effective and reduce the amount of blame that would otherwise come his way when an initiative went awry. All of which would be taken into consideration when the Chancellor went to work for her.
“Yes,” the Queen replied. “My intelligence service deserves both credit for terminating the ambassador—and some of the blame for allowing the Egg Orno to live. The agent responsible for that failure has been assigned to a research station on an ice planet.”
“As he should be,” Ubatha replied sanctimoniously. What was the chosen thinking, he wondered? And would she be as challenging to deal with as her predecessor? Yes, he decided. The royal clan breeds true.
