Vanderveen saw Nankool’s expression brighten as it became clear that Booly wasn’t going to challenge his authority.
“Why, yes,” the politician answered cheerfully. “The offi?cer the Hegemony put forward is General Seebo-785,453. Do you know him?”
Booly winced, and the staff offi?cers seated around him were heard to groan. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” Nankool responded grimly. “And I’m sorry you don’t approve. But that’s how it is—so we’ll have to make do. Besides, once you and your staff put your minds to it, I’m sure you’ll fi?nd ways to manage him the same way that you manage me!”
That got a laugh from the civilian staff, but Vanderveen could tell that the offi?cers were disappointed, and felt sorry for them. Because now that she knew a soldier the way she knew Santana, the diplomat had a much deeper appreciation of the way in which the military was often squeezed between the vagaries of political necessity, and the realities of war.
With the alliance in place and the question of command having been settled, it was time to address logistics. The Confederacy was already hard-pressed, and the need to dedicate scarce resources to Gamma-014 meant military assets would have to be withdrawn from some other location. But which one? Each possibility entailed risk. Eventually, all of the arguments and counterarguments began to blur, and Vanderveen’s attention began to wander. Her eyes were inevitably drawn to the window at the far end of the conference room and the cityscape beyond. That was when the diplomat noticed the people on the roof across the street. And as she watched, they muscled a long cylindrical object up onto the waist-high wall in front of them. Then, having secured both sides of whatever the object was to the building, they pushed it over the side. As the roll of plastic fell free, a blue banner was revealed. The white letters were at least six feet high, and spelled out the words “FREEDOM
NOW!”
Given its location, there was no doubt about whom the protesters were trying to communicate with, and since no one else seemed to be paying any attention to the sign, Vanderveen raised a hand. “Excuse me, Mr. President,” the diplomat said. “But it appears as though someone is trying to send you a message.”
The entire group followed Vanderveen’s pointing fi?nger over to the opposite building and not a moment too soon. Clone security agents were already on the roof by that point. It took less than fi?ve minutes for the secret police to arrest the protesters, pull the banner back up, and disappear from sight. All of which was both interesting and disturbing. Because as the Confederacy sought to prop the Hegemony up— there was the very real possibility that it had already started to crumble.
PLANET ADOBE, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The Legion’s base on Adobe had been constructed after the fi?rst Hudathan war, and was laid out in concentric circles, with the spaceport, which was designated A-1, located at the very center of the sprawling facility. Santana was supposed to meet General Kobbi on C-2, Sector 3, which was dedicated to supply, a simple word that embraced everything from mess kits to the state-of-the-art NAVCOMPS
that naval vessels required to fi?nd their way through hyperspace. Rather than hike all the way in from F-3, where the 1st REC was quartered, or try to requisition a vehicle, Santana had chosen to ride Sergeant Omi Deker instead. It was a very good decision since the T-2 knew his way around the base.
So as the cyborg jogged along one of the main roads that radiated out from A-1, the helmeted offi?cer was free to look around. It was not only hellishly hot, but eternally dusty, despite the water the big tanker trucks laid down four times a day. Infl?atable habs lined the streets. They looked like half cylinders laid on their sides, and in spite of the fact that they weren’t intended for permanent use, some of them had been there for ten or even fi?fteen years.
And, if there were plenty of things to see, there were plenty of things to hear as well. As the two legionnaires passed through territory that belonged to a variety of different commands, they were exposed to a cacophony of sound as power wrenches chattered, servos whined, engines rumbled, and a series of sonic booms rolled across the land. Discordant and chaotic though the base seemed to be, Santana could feel the underlying sense of purpose that bound everything together. Because even the lowliest private knew that one of the Hegemony’s planets had been taken by the Ramanthians, and that the clones had agreed to an alliance, which meant many of them would wind up as part of the task force being assembled to take Gamma-014 back.
The announcement received mixed reviews in the O club, because, in spite of the fact that most offi?cers understood the importance of the alliance, many of them had doubts about the Hegemony’s military prowess. Except for Santana, that is, who had been sent to one of the clone worlds immediately after graduating from the academy, and fought side by side with the Seebos on LaNor years later. The cavalry offi?cer’s train of thought was interrupted as Deker took a right onto C-2. “We’re almost there,” the noncom announced over the intercom. “That’s the hab up ahead.”
The Supply Command structure wasn’t much to look at, and was far too small to house much more than a few desks, but a quick check confi?rmed that they were in the right place. Once the T-2 came to a halt, Santana removed his helmet, left it on a hook intended for that purpose, and jumped to the ground. A cloud of fi?ne red dust billowed up around his boots as he pulled a garrison-style cloth “piss cutter”
onto his head in lieu of the bulky blue kepi Legion offi?cers normally wore. “Take a break, Sergeant. I’ll contact you via my pocket com when it’s time to leave.”
“Roger that, sir,” the T-2 replied. Deker had friends everywhere—and Supply was no exception. And maybe, just maybe, the cyborg could beg, borrow, or steal a pair of knee couplers. Because even though it was against regs to hoard parts, some items were harder to get than others, and couplers were in short supply. And Deker had no intention of trying to fi?ght the Ramanthians with one or both of his knees locked in place.
Once inside the hab, Santana discovered that the interior was not only blessedly cool, but reasonably free of dust, which was something of a miracle. A corporal showed the cavalry offi?cer into an offi?ce where both General Kobbi and a middle-aged colonel were seated. The supply offi?cer had bushy eyebrows, fl?inty eyes, and a horizontal slash for a mouth. Kobbi made the introductions as the staff offi?cer stood. “Colonel Hamby, this is Captain Santana. He was one of my platoon leaders on Savas.”
Everyone knew about the raid on Savas, and Hamby’s respect for the tall, dark-haired offi?cer went up a notch at the mere mention of it. “Glad to meet you, Captain,” the supply offi?cer said gruffl?y as the two men shook hands. “Welcome to Regimental SupCom.”
Santana said, “Thank you, sir,” and waited to hear why he had been summoned.
But no explanation was forthcoming as Kobbi stood, and said, “Come on. There’s something we want to show you.”
So Santana had little choice but to follow the other offi?cers down a short hallway to a bank of elevators. Suddenly the cavalry offi?cer understood why the surface hab was so small. The supplies were underground, an arrangement that reminded the offi?cer of Oron IV, as the elevator lowered them down into the interconnected caverns that lay below the C-Ring. When the platform came to a stop, and the door slid open, they entered the subterranean equivalent of a gigantic warehouse. Or that portion of the ring-shaped underground storage facility assigned to the Legion—since both the navy and Marine Corps controlled portions of the facility as well. Lights marked off regular intervals above them, a small army of specially equipped androids whirred about, and the air temperature verged on frigid.