was called upon to check paragraph 3 of page 372, to see if Doma-Sa’s assertion was correct. It soon turned out that the paragraph in question was a rather obscure section of verbiage originally intended to allow last-minute posturing by senators who were trolling for publicity. But it was rarely invoked because voice votes were rare. So after considerable grumbling from the vice president’s supporters, it was agreed that Doma-Sa could speak, although it immediately became apparent that a pro-Jakov politician would rise to counter whatever the triad put forward. The Hudathan’s voice rolled like thunder as he spoke. “As many of you know, I have been off-planet for the last month or so, having returned only hours ago. And it was while on Starfall, attending a diplomatic function, that I met the Egg Orno, mate to the late Senator Orno, and Ambassador Orno, who was known to many of you.”
That statement was punctuated by a loud clatter, as Runwa Molo-Sa opened the same side door through which Doma-Sa had previously entered, thereby enabling the Egg Orno to enter the room. Because of the war, the female was the only Ramanthian present. That, plus the shimmering robe she wore, caused everyone to stare at the aristocrat as she shuffl?ed up a ramp and onto the stage.
“What’s going on here?” one of Jakov’s supporters demanded angrily as he came to his feet. “Triad Doma-Sa has the right to speak—not stage a parade!”
That stimulated a chorus of comments both pro and con, as Booly looked at Maylo, and both of them wondered what the Hudathan was up to.
“The rules place no limitations on how I choose to speak,”
Doma-Sa rumbled. “So, shut up and listen. The robe that the Egg Orno is wearing once belonged to Ambassador Orno, who wore it when he met with Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot, on the planet Starfall. However, unbeknownst to her the garment you’re looking at consists of a photosensitive fabric which recorded everything that passed between them. Let’s watch and listen.”
There was a loud rustling noise as at least half the people in the room turned to look at Wilmot, and the fl?ying cameras jockeyed for position. The foreign service offi?cer felt a sinking sensation at that point and turned to look at Jakov. It appeared as though all of the blood had drained out of the politician’s face, and his jaw tightened as Molo-Sa connected the robe the Egg Orno was wearing to the room’s AV system. Seconds later a life-sized holo of Wilmot appeared behind Doma-Sa and began to speak.
“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 both he and his companions are going to be used as slave labor.”
“That’s absurd!” Orno was heard to say. “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.”
“You came to the wrong person,” Orno replied sternly.
“A rescue would be impossible, even if I were willing to assist such a scheme, which I am not.”
“No, you misunderstood,” Wilmot responded. “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.”
There was a pause followed by a question. “You report to Vice President Jakov?”
“Yes,” Wilmot agreed soberly. “I do.”
“Soon to be President Jakov?”
“With your help. . . . Yes.”
There was more, but the sudden uproar made it impossible to hear, as outraged senators from both camps vied with each other to condemn Wilmot and distance themselves from Jakov. Meanwhile, conscious of the fact that the spotlight would soon shift to him, Jakov turned to leave via the back door. But Booly was waiting for the politician —as were a full squad of armed legionnaires.
“None of it’s true,” Jakov said stoutly. “The holo was faked. . . . As you well know!”
“Save it for your trial,” the legionnaire replied unsympathetically. “And while you’re sitting in prison think about this. . . . The penalty for treason is death.”
PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Captain Antonio Santana lay on his back and stared up at the sky. It was light blue, crisscrossed here and there by contrails, but entirely empty until a hawk arrived to turn graceful circles above him. More than a month had passed since the much-abused Imperator had dropped into orbit around Algeron, and Nankool had been restored to the presidency. But it seemed longer, since both the offi?cer and every other person aboard the old dreadnaught had been subjected to seemingly endless debriefi?ngs as prosecutors worked to amass evidence against Vice President Jakov and his codefendants, even as defense teams sought to counter it, and the news networks fought over scraps of confl?icting information. So viewed from the perspective of Earth, the confl?ict raging out beyond the local solar system seemed to be more about political skullduggery than a battle for survival. Meanwhile, based on what little information was available, the Confederacy was losing what the legionnaire considered to be the real war. The Ramanthians hadn’t overrun any major systems as yet, but a number of planets out along the edge of the Confederacy’s territory had fallen to the bugs, and the aliens were more aggressive of late. Some analysts attributed that development to a new and more energetic queen. Others pointed to the enormous number of Sheen ships that had been added to the Ramanthian fl?eet. But the result was the same. The bugs were coming, but the citizens of Napa Valley were oblivious to the fact as they continued to enjoy their privileged lives. But then the sky was gone as Christine Vanderveen stepped in to straddle the legionnaire and sit on his abdomen. Her hair hung like a blonde curtain around her face, and her skin looked healthy again, as did the rest of her. She was dressed in formal riding clothes. The long-sleeved white blouse served to hide the scars on her wrists. “It’s time for lunch,” the diplomat announced. “So mount up.”
Santana groaned. “Can we walk instead?”
Vanderveen laughed. It was a lovely sound—and one he couldn’t get enough of. “Walk?” she inquired. “Why would we want to do that? Especially when we have two perfectly good horses waiting not ten feet away.”
“Because it would be less painful,” the legionnaire said, as he reached up to pull her down.
“I thought you were a cavalry offi?cer,” Vanderveen replied. “A proud member of the 1st REC . . . A man of . . .”
