The reference to the metal cage that supported her body was an attempt to put her visitor at ease, but Ubatha had seen the contraption before, and was in no mood for levity. “No, Majesty,” the offi?cial replied, as the usual cloud of pheromones wafted around him. “But there are those who would take advantage of your disability if they could.”
So saying, Ubatha launched into a forthright account of the trip to Parth’s estate, the ensuing dialogue, and the shocking discovery that one of his own mates was part of the plot to depose her. It was a lot to take in, but the Queen was no stranger to political plots, and, having rid herself of the individuals in question, could understand their motives. Or their alleged motives. But what if Ubatha was lying? That was unlikely, of course, given that the offi?cial was accusing one of his own mates of treason, and remained subject to her pheromones. But every possibility had to be considered. Especially given her condition. “No offense, Chancellor,” she said. “But why should I believe you?”
“Because the coup is already under way,” Ubatha replied grimly. “Go ahead, request that a shuttle be sent to pick you up, and see what happens.”
The royal had access to a voice-operated com system, so she made the call herself. Less than thirty seconds passed before the Queen was piped through to an admiral and a well-known member of the Nira cult. He listened to the request, apologized for the fact that all of the Queen’s shuttles were currently undergoing maintenance, and promised to contact the royal the moment one of them became available.
The Queen felt a rising sense of rage, but managed to control it, as she broke the connection. The eyes that sought Ubatha’s were black as space. “You were right. . . . I won’t forget—and I’m sorry about your mate. You have a plan?”
“Yes, Majesty,” Chancellor Ubatha answered. “There are some individuals that we can trust. . . . And insofar as I can tell, the Thrakies are completely unaware of the plot. One of their shuttles will pick us up in roughly thirty minutes. Once we’re on board, the conspirators won’t be able to strike without attacking a very important ally.”
The Queen tried to move her body. Any part of her body—
but there was no response. “And then?”
“And then we’ll be taken aboard a Thraki ship,” Ubatha replied.
“But won’t that make it easy for them?” the Queen wanted to know. “Once I leave Hive, they’ll be free to put their own Queen on the throne.”
“No, they won’t,” Ubatha answered fi?rmly. “Not so long as you are off-planet running the government—and communicating with the population. But it’s going to take time to identify all of the conspirators and weed them out. There’s reason to believe that the rot runs a lot deeper than the individuals I met with.”
What Ubatha said made sense, so the Queen accepted it.
“So, where will we go?” the royal wanted to know.
“To a place where you can rest, and no one will think to look,” Ubatha said secretively. “Not at fi?rst anyway.” And the two of them were gone thirty minutes later. PLANET EARTH, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
The slaves had been taken prisoner in places like Petaluma, Fairfi?eld, and Concord before being marched through an urban wasteland to that part of the sprawling metroplex still referred to as San Jose, and what had once been the local convention center. But the huge building had another purpose now, and as Commander Leo Foley watched from a distant rooftop, he knew the long column of raggedly dressed people were about to enter a slave market where men, women, and children were sold to work in underground factories, toil on remote farms, and staff the brothels that had begun to pop up all over the area.
All of which was part of the criminal subculture that had grown up to replace the government structures the Ramanthians had systematically destroyed. It was a feudal system in which gang bosses lived like lords, competing armies fought for turf, and the rest of the population were slaves. The situation was not only barbaric, but helpful to the Ramanthians, who could simply sit back and watch the animals destroy each other.
And that was why Foley and the government-sponsored Earth Liberation Brigade was about to disrupt the illicit economy by taking the slave market down. Assuming the resistance fi?ghters could overcome the mercenary army that Otto Tovar had assembled to protect his business interests. That was very much in doubt, because Tovar was a retired general, who theoretically knew more about ground combat than Foley did. It was important to study the complex before attacking it, because unless the guerrillas were extremely careful, their fi?rst major battle would be their last. Strangely, as she and the rest of the slaves were led into the convention center, Margaret Vanderveen was glad to be there. Even if the fl?oor of the main auditorium was covered with fi?lth, a woman continued to utter a series of yelps as a guard whipped her, and the Mozart Requiem’s Dies Irae was playing full blast over the PA system. Because Margaret was tired. Very tired, and looking forward to a rest, even if that was within the confi?nes of a slave market. The whole thing had begun shortly after a badly damaged Ramanthian scout ship passed over the old mine where she and her companions had been staying and crashed off to the west. Once a badly injured aviator wandered into Deer Valley and collapsed, Margaret and her friends tried to save the Ramanthian, but were unable to do so. Shortly after the warrior’s death, Margaret realized that the alien’s chitin was abnormally thin. At her insistence, samples were taken and preserved in vials fi?lled with alcohol, drinkable alcohol that Benson had been reluctant to part with.
The whole thing could have ended there, should have ended there, given the way things turned out. But that was water under the bridge. Having convinced herself that the dead Ramanthian’s medical condition might be of interest to the Confederacy’s intelligence people, Margaret left Benson in charge of the mine, and set out to fi?nd someone who could convey the tissue samples to the right people. There were six tiny containers, all of which had been sewn into a specially modifi?ed bra, where they would be safe from all but the most intrusive searches. That meant she could travel light, carrying nothing more than a small pack, pistol, and knife.
And things went well at fi?rst. Because Margaret was pretty savvy by then—and knew how to move cross-country without attracting attention. Unfortunately, the only way to fi?nd some sort of resistance group, and what she hoped would be a link with the authorities on Algeron, was to interact with people. And that was her downfall. Margaret had covered a lot of ground, and was just outside Dixon, when she stumbled across one of the open-air, country-style markets that were springing up across the land—places where foodstuffs could be purchased, one item could be traded for another, and the latest bits of news could be had. Unreliable information for the most part, but all Margaret needed was a name, and an approximate location. Then, assuming that all went well, she would hand over the samples and return to Deer Valley. So that’s where she was, talking to a voluble salt merchant, when the slavers attacked. It wasn’t clear what was happening at fi?rst because, even though the pop, pop, pop of gunfi?re could be heard, most of the market goers assumed someone had purchased a gun and was shooting at a target. But then as a woman screamed, and people fl?ed toward the north, Margaret realized something more was taking place. A Ramanthian raid perhaps, which wouldn’t have been all that surprising, given the circumstances. Stalls went over, livestock escaped, and people ran away from the gunfi?re.
So Margaret ran, too, her pack bouncing on her back, only to discover that she and all the rest of the market goers were being driven into a carefully laid trap! Because two converging lines of heavily armed men and women were waiting up ahead and, as the fugitives surged into the open end of the V, they were soon forced to stop. Margaret was no exception. The society matron was armed with a pistol, and tempted to use it, but knew what the outcome would be. Not only would she be killed by return fi?re, but so would many of the people crammed in around her. That was a decision she had no right to make for them. Seconds later, slavers armed with clubs were in among their victims, beating anyone who tried to resist and taking their possessions. Margaret’s pack was ripped off her back, her pistol was confi?scated, and a man with bad breath ran greedy hands up and down her body. Even going so far as to grab her crotch and squeeze her breasts. But the little vials escaped his notice, and with younger victims to abuse, the man made no attempt to follow up.