herself to be invulnerable on the battlefi?eld as well. There was no pain, just a sense of disbelief, as she collapsed and lay helpless in a large puddle of muddy water. There was a great deal of shouting, pincer clacking, and confusion as the royal’s bodyguards grabbed what they feared was a dead body, and attempted to carry the limp burden toward the assault boat. But they were under fi?re the entire time, and two of them fell, thereby dumping the alreadywounded monarch onto hard ground. So two of the rank-andfi?le soldiers stepped in to help, got hold of the inert body, and helped drag it up the ramp.
Once the royal was on board, the pilot lifted, thereby leaving the rest of the fi?le to be slaughtered, as those on the Reaper subjected the aviator to a nonstop fl?ow of frantic orders. Ten minutes later the assault boat and its special cargo were safe inside the warship’s launch bay, where a team of medical personnel was waiting. They rushed on board and, having made an initial assessment, delivered the good news:
“The Queen lives!”
That was true, but it quickly became apparent that while conscious, the royal was paralyzed from the neck down. The effort to rescue those trapped on the surface continued as a despondent Captain Ji-Jua took the actions necessary to transfer the royal to the battleship Regulus, where a team of medical specialists would be waiting to receive her. Chancellor Ubatha was present as the Queen was brought aboard the battleship some three hours after the injury. He shuffl?ed alongside the high-tech gurney as the monarch was wheeled into a waiting operating room. A consensus had emerged by then. All of the doctors agreed that initial efforts should focus on stabilizing the monarch, so they could evacuate her to Hive, where the empire’s foremost surgeons would be brought in to evaluate her condition. For that reason, the initial operation was mostly exploratory in nature and didn’t last long. It took the Queen half an hour to recover from the effects of the general anesthetic, but once she did, Ubatha was summoned to her side. Although the royal lacked the ability to move her body, she could talk, albeit with some diffi?culty.
Ubatha felt a genuine sense of affection for the warrior queen, and that, plus the chemical cocktail that permeated the air around her, caused a genuine upwelling of sympathetic emotions as the offi?cial looked down on her. “I’m sorry,” the Queen croaked. “But it looks like I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But even that can serve our purposes. . . . Make sure video of what took place is seen throughout the empire. Along with assurances that I’m still alive. I think I can assure you that the Ramanthian people will fi?ght even harder after what happened to their Queen!”
“Yes, Majesty,” Ubatha said gently. “The people love you. . . . And your sacrifi?ce will show them the way.”
“And that brings us to you,” the monarch put in.
“Me, Majesty? How so?”
“Until such time as I regain the full use of my body, you will serve as my surrogate. That will be diffi?cult for both of us—but we have no other choice.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Ubatha said obediently.
“We can discuss all of the procedural diffi?culties during the trip to Hive,” the Queen added. “But, fi?rst I want you to fi?nd Captain Ji-Jua, and check on his mental state. He attempted to dissuade me from participating in the rescue, but I overrode him, and I’m afraid he will blame himself.”
“Yes, Majesty. Right away, Majesty,” Ubatha said, as he backed away. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I knew you would,” the Queen said, as she allowed her eyes to close. “Thank you.”
Ubatha was as good as his word, and immediately went in search of Ji-Jua, who had been thoroughly chastised by then, and summarily relieved of his command. So the Chancellor located the cabin assigned to the visiting offi? cer, announced his presence via the intercom, and waited for a response. When none was forthcoming he pushed a pincer into the access slot and heard servos whir, as the hatch opened. It was dark inside, but there was no mistaking the body that lay on the deck, or the pistol that lay inches from the dead offi?cer’s outstretched pincer. Having failed in his duty to protect the Queen, Ji-Jua had taken his own life. A terrible waste—but useful nevertheless. Because once the news of the Queen’s injury became public, there would be an overwhelming desire to place blame. Knowingly, or unknowingly, Captain Orto Ji-Jua had volunteered to go down in history as the offi?cer responsible for the monarch’s disabling wound. And for that, Chancellor Ubatha was grateful.
METROPLEX, SAN FRANCISCO
The old warehouse stood because no one had gotten around to knocking it down. Shafts of sunlight slanted in from windows high above and threw pools of light onto the muchabused duracrete fl?oor below. And there, seated behind a beat-up metal desk, was a very troubled man. Because one of the many problems associated with heading the Earth Liberation Brigade was the amount of work that the newly created position entailed. It was work that Lieutenant JG Foley found to be especially onerous since much of his life had been dedicated to evading responsibility rather than trying to embrace it. And now, having been transformed from would-be thief to resistance leader, the offi?cer was faced with all the issues natural to any large organization. Which was to say recruiting, stroking, and retaining good people, while simultaneously trying to obtain scarce resources like food, medical supplies, and weapons.
Such problems weighed heavily on Foley, as the woman in front of him rose to leave, and one of his underlings brought a man forward to replace her. There were at least twenty-fi?ve people waiting for an audience, which meant that his socalled offi?ce hours were sure to extend well into the evening, at which point brigade headquarters would be moved to another location.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” the man with the blond hair said, as he sat down opposite Foley. He had a medium build, a woodenly handsome face, and appeared to be about twenty-fi?ve years old. Unlike Foley, whose face was covered with a two-day growth of beard, the visitor was clean-shaven. His clothing was nondescript but sturdy—
perfect for urban warfare. “You’re welcome,” the resistance leader said automatically. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s more like what I can do for you,” the blond man answered with a sardonic grin.
“I really don’t have time for word games,” the offi?cer said dourly, as he examined the list in front of him. “I’m sorry, there must be a mistake. . . . Would you mind giving me your name?”
“Chien-Chu,” the blond man said. “Sergi Chien-Chu. But given that you’re a lieutenant, and I’m an admiral, feel free to call me sir. I don’t pull rank very often—but there are times when it makes sense. And this is one of them.”
Like most humans, Foley was familiar with the name. It was hard not to be, since the real Chien-Chu was not only the billionaire owner of Chien-Chu Enterprises, but the man many called “The Father of the Confederacy,” and
