A Fighting Chance (18 page)

“Good morning, sir,” the guard said. Ubatha returned the greeting before making his way over to the spot where he liked to drink his morning Ta. The hot drink was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself.

His vantage point gave Ubatha a commanding view of the surrounding buildings, none of which was more than four stories tall. The city was very old, having been constructed hundreds of thousands of years earlier by the mysterious Forerunner race, then abandoned for reasons unknown. It was cradled in a valley between two gigantic sand dunes. According to the locals, the wind-driven mountains were traveling from west to east at a rate of about one mile per year. It was a phenomenon that forced residents of Heferi to constantly move east and led to never-ending violence.

Most of the residents made their livings as tomb raiders or by guarding tomb raiders or by stealing from tomb raiders. And the chaos meant that Heferi was a place where fugitives, even a
royal
fugitive, could hide. Not forever, but long enough to find someone who could either repair the Warrior Queen’s broken body or provide her with a new one. And, after negative reports from more than a dozen highly qualified doctors, the second possibility was looking like the best one.

That was why Ubatha had to leave the fortresslike compound and make the dangerous trip to the spaceport, where he was scheduled to pick up a human geneticist. Unfortunately, that would make it necessary to take at least three bodyguards with him—thereby reducing the number of individuals available to defend the Queen. Of course, those who remained behind would have the benefit of four extremely expensive gun balls to help defend the complex, along with computer-controlled weapons positioned to fire on the most likely points of attack. As Ubatha sucked the last few drops of Ta through a straw, he heard the
pop
,
pop
,
pop
of distant gunfire and knew the day had truly begun.

It took the better part of an hour to ready what the animals referred to as “the gun truck.” It was a thirdhand all-terrain vehicle that had been brought to Sensa II for some long-forgotten purpose years earlier. Since that time, a larger engine had been installed, along with a stiffer suspension and armor thick enough to stop anything short of an antitank round. The roof turret could traverse 360 degrees and the twin fifties could be depressed far enough to kill anyone more than ten feet away. All of which made for a very formidable vehicle indeed.

Even so, Chancellor Ubatha thought it wise to wear armor and carry a Negar III rifle himself. That was partly because the gun truck could attract trouble as well as deal with it, and there was always the chance that his mercs would turn on him. There hadn’t been any signs of that. But there hadn’t been any advance warning that a cabal including one of his mates was about to supplant the Queen either. The thought reminded him of the Egg Ubatha, and he felt a pang of regret. It had been a mistake to leave her on Hive. He prayed that she was safe but feared she wasn’t.

“We’re ready,” Vasakov said, and gestured to the plank that led up into the gun truck. The animal had a prominent brow, a flat nose, and the rubbery lips typical of his race. Like most senior officials, Ubatha spoke excellent standard. “Thank you. And remember . . . Be careful.”

Vasakov made a face. “Let’s go.”

Ubatha had spoken to Kai Cosmo, the animal in charge, regarding Vasakov’s disrespectful manner the day before. The conversation had been far from satisfactory. After listening to Ubatha’s complaints, Cosmo looked away, aimed a stream of black ju-ju juice at an iridescent beetle, and scored a direct hit. “Sorry about that, sir. But Vasakov was a Confederacy marine before he punched that lieutenant in the face. And he don’t like bugs. Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

So with no recourse except to fire the mercs and hire another band of equally dubious animals, all Ubatha could do was shuffle up the ramp and sit on the saddle chair that had been installed for his benefit. The lower half of Katika’s body was visible below the turret. The mount made a whining noise as she stomped on a foot pedal, and the guns began to rotate.

Ubatha heard doors slam, felt the truck jerk into motion, and took the opportunity to peer out through the gun port immediately to his right. He caught a glimpse of the open gate, felt a jolt as the big tires rolled through a pothole, and heard Katika give a whoop of pure joy. According to Cosmo, she
liked
to shoot people. A desire Ubatha found hard to fathom. While he understood the need to kill for reasons of political expediency, he took no joy in it.

Given how restricted his view was, Ubatha couldn’t see much other than sand-smoothed stone walls, the occasional glimpse of a barred doorway, and blips of color as the truck passed some laundry that had been hung out to dry. Then the shooting began. Nothing serious. Just target practice really, as guards stationed on rooftops took the opportunity to test their skills and break the monotony.

Thanks to the fact that most of them were pretty good shots, there was a series of loud clangs as bullets flattened themselves on armor plating. Large-caliber ammo was hard to come by, so Katika was supposed to hold back unless the truck came under a serious attack.

Holby shouted, “Roadblock!” from the front passenger seat as the vehicle screeched to a halt.

Vasakov was behind the wheel. He swore and put the truck into reverse.

The roadblock gave Katika the excuse she’d been looking for. As the fifties began to chug, empty casings cascaded down from above and clattered on the floor.

Roadblocks were common and shifted from day to day, making it impossible to choose a safe route in advance. The idea was to stop the vehicle and take possession of it and everything inside. That included passengers, who were typically held for the ransom. A very unpleasant prospect indeed. “Hold on!” Vasakov shouted, and Ubatha barely had time to obey before the massive back bumper crashed into a barrier. An old wreck, probably, that had been pushed out into the street to bar their escape and might serve the same purpose the next day.

There was a
screech
of tortured metal as the obstacle was pushed out of the way—followed by a fusillade of bullets as the would-be bandits made a last-ditch attempt to trap their prey.

The gun truck jerked to a halt, surged forward again, and shell casings rolled to the right as they turned a corner. The first battle was over. There were others. But none that was quite so harrowing as Vasakov threaded his way through Heferi’s deadly streets.

Fifteen minutes later, the gun truck left the sand-strewn streets of old town and sped up a ramp that channeled them into the heavily guarded parking area under the city’s only spaceport. The component parts had been brought to Sensa II by a mining company more than half a century before. That operation had been forced to fold in the face of the planet’s difficult environment. But because the self-propelled spaceport was large enough to crush whatever ruins lay in front of it, the facility was still in service.

The entrepreneur who owned the spaceport was said to be a Drac. No one knew much about the reclusive business being other than the fact that he made it a point to keep the spaceport open to anyone who had the ability to pay his exorbitant fees, and he could be quite violent when threatened.

That was evident as Vasakov parked the truck and half a dozen uniformed guards moved in to surround it. They were human. And as Holby deployed the ramp and Ubatha shuffled down onto the steel deck, one of them took the opportunity to brief the newcomers. “Leave all weapons other than sidearms in your vehicle,” she said in a singsong voice. “And post a guard. If you attempt to interfere with our personnel, or another customer, we will smoke you. Any questions?”

The last was delivered in a cheerful manner, as if to follow up after a string of pleasantries rather than threats. “Yeah, yeah,” Vasakov growled. “You eat steel and shit fire. Give me a fucking break. Katika, lock yourself in and stay on the fifties. Holby, you’re with the bug and me. Okay, Mr. Ubatha . . . Let’s go.”

Ubatha surrendered the Negar III to Katika and sighed. Vasakov was hopeless. Then, with an animal on either side of him, Ubatha followed a clearly marked path to a lift. The elevator carried them upwards to a small but pleasantly furnished lounge. Huge plastasteel windows enabled them to look out on the blast-scarred landing pad, old town, and the sunlit back dune beyond. If one watched for a while, it was possible to see the occasional avalanche of sand slide down onto the west end of old town. Would the same buildings reemerge someday? There was no way to know.

The landing surface that occupied the foreground wasn’t very large but didn’t need to be given the limited number of ships that came and went. Two were visible at the moment. One was a beat-up shuttle from which cargo modules were being removed. The other was a courier ship with the sleek lines typical of Thraki vessels.

Ubatha watched as a hatch cycled open, stairs unfolded, and a Thraki named Bec Benjii appeared. He was dressed in a summer-weight mesh jacket, three-quarter-length trousers, and sturdy boots. Benjii paused for a second to look around before turning to speak with the person behind him. Then, as he made his way down the stairs, the human appeared. She was a tiny thing. A hood covered her hair, her eyes were invisible behind a pair of sun goggles, and her body was swathed in white fabric that billowed when the early-morning breeze hit it. Ubatha had never seen the animal before but knew he was looking at a renegade geneticist who styled herself as Carolyn Anne Hosokawa 1.3.

Was she really an illegal one-off of the female credited with creating the Clone Hegemony? Or an opportunistic pretender? Ubatha didn’t care so long as she was competent. And Benjii swore that she was.

Doors slid open, admitting not only Benjii and Hosokawa but a wave of heat. Benjii was a diplomat, albeit a shadowy one, whose function had been to provide back-channel communications between the Ramanthian and Thraki governments prior to the Queen’s injury.

So when Ubatha had been forced to evacuate the royal from Hive, he thought it best to contact Benjii rather than risk betrayal by cabal supporters like the War Ubatha. Since then, the Thrakies had been of considerable assistance. Not out of the goodness of their hearts but in order to curry favor with whatever Queen wound up on the throne. That meant they were probably working with the cabal as well. So Ubatha would have to come up with a counterbalance of some sort. “Please allow me to introduce Dr. Hosokawa 1.3,” Benjii said, as his robotic form peeked out of a pocket. “Dr. Hosokawa, this is Chancellor Ubatha.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Ubatha said, and delivered a formal bow.

Hosokawa threw the white hood back to reveal a head of bowl-cut black hair and the solid horizontal mark on her forehead. Ubatha knew it had been a bar code at one time, a standard practice inside the Hegemony prior to the revolution but currently out of favor. Especially for any scientist brave or foolish enough to work for the Confederacy’s enemies. Her voice had a husky quality. “The pleasure is mine, Chancellor. I’m sorry it’s necessary for us to meet under such trying circumstances.”

It was artfully said, and Ubatha allowed himself to relax a little bit. At least Hosokawa came across as civilized as compared to Vasakov.

The trip back to the compound was less eventful than the journey out had been. Benjii had been through the process before. So he looked reasonably composed as bullets pinged against the truck’s armor and a rocket-propelled grenade sailed past to explode against a building.

Not Hosokowa, however, who maintained a grim expression throughout the entire journey. But once the vehicle entered the compound, and the incoming fire stopped, she became more relaxed. “If you would be so kind as to follow me,” Ubatha said, “we will visit the Queen. I know she has been looking forward to your arrival.” The decision to reveal the Queen’s true identity had been Benjii’s. The Thraki felt that nothing less than the prospect of working with the royal would be sufficient to bring the geneticist all the way to Sensa II. And since he was willing to guarantee her silence regardless of how the meeting went, Ubatha had agreed.

The Queen’s apartment was on the second floor, where the royal physician and a retinue of Ramanthian females took care of her daily requirements. The residence was roomy but sparsely furnished because it had been impossible to bring anything more than the bare necessities from Hive. A lady-in-waiting met the party at the door, bent a knee, and welcomed the visitors on the royal’s behalf.

The aristocrat led them through a doorway into a large room. The metal sand shutters were open to the hot, dry air. It was thick with the odors of sewage, rotting garbage, and exhaust fumes from a nearby factory. The Queen was in a horizontal position and supported by a framework designed to immobilize her exoskeleton. Her body was paralyzed, but her mind was clear. “There you are,” she said, as the group approached, and Ubatha bowed. “Pardon me if I don’t get up.”

It was a joke, but none of them laughed. “As you can see, the Queen’s sense of humor remains unimpaired,” Ubatha said dryly.

“But everything else is numb,” the monarch put in.

There was polite laughter this time. “Your Majesty, it is my pleasure to introduce Dr. Carolyn Hosokowa 1.3,” Ubatha said. “As you know, the doctor is here to consult with you regarding the possibility that she and her associates might be able to grow a new body for you.”

The ensuing conversation lasted for more than three standard hours. There were all sorts of issues to discuss, not the least of which was what would become of the clone’s brain were the Queen to commission a copy of herself.

During that time, the sky darkened, the wind began to pick up, and it became necessary to close the sand shutters. A storm was brewing. But what kind? A class one, two, or three? The last being very serious indeed. The discussion continued as Ubatha went to find out.

Cosmo was up on the roof. The air was already brown with blown sand, and Ubatha had to lean into the wind as he shuffled over to where the animal was standing. The grit soon found its way into his clothes and the crevices between the plates of chitin that served to support him. Cosmo was wearing a helmet and full armor. He nodded. “The folks at the spaceport say we’re in for a class-two blow, sir. And we have another problem as well.”