Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) (22 page)

Dura-Da had seen the design used in other strongholds and knew there were probably half a dozen such hallways all radiating out from a central core. That would force invaders to proceed one at a time and make it possible for a handful of warriors to defend the heart of the fortress. Assuming there was a well at the structure’s core, a feudal lord and his retainers could hold out for days or even weeks while they waited for help to arrive.

Ancient though the system was, Dura-Da knew it could still be effective. Something that the officer in charge of security was clearly counting on. Because as Dura-Da and his commandos arrived in the Star Chamber, he saw that Uba-Da was already there, along with members of his family and a small group of warriors. Dura-Da assumed the rest of the triad’s bodyguards were outside, trying to prevent the invaders from entering the compound.

Uba-Da was
huge
, even by Hudathan standards, and armed to the teeth. If he was afraid, there was no sign of it on his craggy face or in the timbre of his voice. “Dura-Da! Just in time it would seem . . . Who’s trying to kill me this time?”

“The Ka clan,” Dura-Da responded, “or so I assume.”

After listening to a brief report regarding Nola-Ba’s stunning accomplishment, Uba-Da nodded his massive head. “That would explain it. The Ka clan hopes to kill me before word gets out, but we’ll have none of that. Blood!”

“BLOOD!” the warriors around him shouted, even as a head flew off, and one of them fell. He had been positioned in front of corridor number five, and as Dura-Da looked in that direction, he saw the air shimmer.

“Ghost cloaks!” he shouted. “They’re wearing ghost cloaks—and they’re in the room!”

And it was true. The Sa had forced their way into the Star Chamber, which became apparent when Uba-Da fired at what looked like a blur and was rewarded with a hit. The assassin’s cloak flared wide as he went down—giving the defenders a glimpse of the warrior within.

That was the beginning of a desperate battle as Dura-Da and his naval commandos formed a protective ring around Uba-Da and his family. Bullets seemed to come out of nowhere. Swords swung through empty air. Bodyguards fell one after another. And it was impossible to tell how many opponents they were up against. “Automatic weapons!” Dura-Da shouted, as he raised his own. “Fire!”

It was a reckless, almost suicidal thing to do. Because as all of the defenders opened up the majority of the bullets they fired struck stone walls and bounced back at them. They buzzed, sang, and made slapping sounds as they struck flesh. One slug struck Ra-Da between the eyes and killed him instantly. Another hit Uba-Da’s seven-year-old son in the shoulder. The impact spun the youngster around and sent him reeling to the floor. A third projectile grazed the triad himself.

But not all of the slugs hit the walls. Some struck assassins and with devastating effect. They fell, and as they did so, additional bullets were fired into their bodies just to make sure. Prisoners were a luxury the defenders couldn’t afford.

Silence descended on the scene as smoke eddied in the air and a file of six bodyguards entered the chamber. They were led by a noncom. His right arm was bloody and hanging limply by his side. When the soldier saw Uba-Da, he came to attention. His expression was bleak. “The grounds have been secured—and reinforcements are on the way. My troops and I request permission to die.”

“Permission denied,” Uba-Da said, as he came forward to throw a huge arm around the noncom’s shoulders. “If you kill yourselves, who will I drink with? Medic! Take care of this warrior’s wounds. Then see to my son . . . He’s leaking.”

The next few hours were spent resecuring the lodge, searching the dead assassins, and running identification checks on them. None of the intruders were carrying IDs. But it didn’t take long to figure out that they belonged to the Sa clan and were members of that family’s Night Stalker battalion.

That was puzzling at first since Dura-Da expected the attackers to be from the Ka clan. But after consulting with the head of Internal Security, Dura-Da learned that there was evidence of a secret pact between the Sa clan and the Ka clan, the exact nature of which was unknown. So while it was likely that the Ka clan was responsible, it looked like the Sa were willing to take the blame, and would do so without admitting to a relationship with the Ka.

Thus, in spite of all the deaths on both sides, the Ka clan was not going to obtain another seat on the triad. And given the explosive nature of the news that would be released first thing in the morning, it was possible that
another
Da would join the ruling triumvirate. The prospect gladdened Dora-Da’s heart as a navy shuttle carried him back to the City of Blades.
War is hell,
he thought to himself,
but politics is far worse.

—

THE HALL OF HEADS IN THE CITY OF BLADES

The Hall of Heads had originally served as a La clan monastery. Then, after the Common Blood Treaty of 1108, it had become the place where clan leaders came to air grievances, get drunk, and occasionally kill each other. Eventually, in 1297, the spot was officially designated as the seat of government for the first Clan Alliance and it had been the empire’s most important government building ever since. The original structure now sat at the center of three wings, each housing a triad and his staff.

In order to attend the hastily called conclave in the Hall of Heads, it was necessary for Uba-Da and his bodyguards to leave his office at the far end of wing two and march all the way to the center of the complex, where only the Triad himself was allowed to enter. The practice had been adopted after a brawl involving all of the triads and their security personnel some 243 years earlier.

Panels of clear duraplast formed a dome through which rays of momentary sunlight streamed down to form a pool of gold on top of the three-sided conference table that occupied the center of the room. The walls were lined with shelves on which hundreds of Hudathan skulls had been arranged. Some heads had been taken in combat, others had been lopped off in retribution for crimes real or imagined, and a few had been harvested after a peaceful death. There were only three of them.

All of the skulls had one thing in common, however—and that was the fact that they had once belonged to triads. And as Uba-Da entered the hall, he knew that his own head would grace the room one day.
But not today,
he told himself,
or anytime soon.

Triad Tu-Ra was already present and came forward to greet Uba-Da. Tu-Ra was a rarity among triads since he was a scholar rather than a warrior, and Uba-Da liked him. Yes, Tu-Ra could be counted upon to advance the interests of his clan and its allies, but usually with an eye to the greater good, a fact that accounted for the many attempts on his life. “Uba-Da! It’s nice to see that your head remains on your shoulders! What did you do to offend the Sa clan?”

“I have no idea,” Uba-Da confessed. “But whatever it was, I hope they will simply send me a message next time. I promise to open and read it.”

Tu-Ra laughed, but both of them knew the truth. It was the Ka clan that stood to benefit from Uba-Da’s death and was somehow behind the attack. It wouldn’t do to say that however. Not without proof.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Triad Isa-Ka. He was significantly smaller than the average Hudathan, and a good deal more vicious, which had a lot to do with how he had risen to prominence. And judging from the expression on Isa-Ka’s face, the events of the night before had done nothing to improve his famously grumpy demeanor. “All right,” Isa-Ka said. “I’m here. Let’s get on with it.”

“It,” was the news that the Human empress was a prisoner and how to best leverage it. There was a loud scraping of chairs as the triads took their seats and, as was often the case, Tu-Ra took it upon himself to lead the discussion. “All of us have read Nola-Ba’s report, so there’s no reason to go over it. If the empress were a Hudathan, she’d be dead by now—since her clan wouldn’t waste money or lives to free a hostage. But the Humans are different in that regard. Though strong in some ways, they are weak in others, and could be willing to negotiate.”

“They have no honor,” Isa-Ka said flatly as he sat slumped in a chair that was much too large for him.

“Of course they don’t,” Uba-Ba agreed. “They’re
Humans
.” The way he spoke made it clear that the aliens were inherently inferior.

“Honorable or not, they still forced us off Orlo II,” Tu-Ra cautioned. “So it would behoove us to take them seriously.”

“Whatever,” Isa-Ka said carelessly. “Get to the point.”

“The point is that we have an opportunity,” Tu-Ra replied. “Or a couple of opportunities. We could trade her for something . . . Orlo II, for example. Or we could enter into protracted negotiations and make use of the time to strengthen the navy.”

“I like option one,” Uba-Da said, knowing Isa-Ka would oppose whatever he put forward.

The Ka clan’s leader was predictable if nothing else. “I favor option two,” he said. “We need new ships.”

Then, just as Uba-Da knew he would, Tu-Ra chimed in. “I agree with Isa-Ka . . . We need time more than we need Orlo II.”

“You see?” Isa-Ka demanded triumphantly. “You need to think more strategically.”

“Point taken,” Uba-Da said. “Now what?”

“Now we send a message to the Humans,” Tu-Ra replied. “We tell them that we have the royal on Hudatha, so they won’t send a battle group to Savas, and we demand that they cede Orlo II to us. But the
real
objective will be to buy time. Then, once we’re ready, we’ll send the Human’s head to Earth in a message torp.”

“Ha!” Isa-Ka responded enthusiastically. “I like it!”

“Sounds good,” Uba-Da agreed. “But we need to bring the Human
here
. And quickly.”

“Of course,” Tu-Ra said. “We’ll send ships to replace those already in orbit, and Nola-Ba can bring her back.”

Isa-Ka knew that would result in a flood of positive publicity for the Da clan and its allies but there was nothing he could do to prevent it. And the decision was, insofar as the surrounding skulls were concerned, just one of thousands they had witnessed. They stared down from their shelves silently.

—

PLANET EARTH, CITY OF LOS ANGELES

Tarch Hanno hated meetings.
All
meetings including staff meetings, budget meetings, and personnel meetings. Worse yet were mysterious meetings. The kind one had to participate in without knowing what the subject was, who would be there, or what was at stake. And that was the sort of meeting he’d been told to attend.

So as his official air car entered a high-priority “lane” and headed north, Hanno was busy considering the possibilities. And most of the possibilities were bad because if the Minister of Defense had good news to share, why would he keep it secret? No, maybe Ophelia was dead . . . Or maybe the Hudathans were going to attack Earth! Or maybe another official had been assassinated.

But such ruminations were a waste of time, and Hanno knew it. All he could do was wait to see what sort of bad news was in the offing and deal with it. So he stared out the window, marveled at how vast LA was, and wondered when it would stop growing.

The car put down fifteen minutes later. And as Hanno stepped out of it, he felt an ocean breeze tug at his clothes. It felt good, and he wished he could be at the beach.

First he had to clear security before entering the main building and making his way through a labyrinth of busy hallways. Then it was necessary to pass through another security checkpoint before entering the heart of the building.

The conference room was the same one Minister of Defense Ono had reserved for previous meetings. And if that official’s expression was any indication, they were in for a grim session indeed. Lady Constance Forbes was present, as were a couple of her staffers, both of whom were dressed in black business suits.

The bodyguards were unusual and, when Forbes looked at him, she smiled. Hanno couldn’t remember her smiling at him before, and that sent a chill down his spine. If Ono was unhappy—why would Forbes be in a good mood?

Hanno offered Forbes a half bow and what he hoped was a cheerful “Good morning,” before choosing a seat two rows behind her. As people continued to filter in, Hanno realized that a large contingent of military personnel were in attendance. That was ominous. Maybe the Hudathans
were
going to invade.

Once everyone was seated, Ono called the meeting to order. “I can’t say, ‘Good morning,’ because it isn’t. We received a message from the Hudathans about seven hours ago. I’ll play it. Then we’ll talk.”

The room was equipped with a theater-quality holo player. Motes of multicolored light swirled, sought each other out, and coalesced into the image of a Hudathan. He was seated behind what looked like a slab of black granite. And when he spoke, there was little or no relationship between the movement of his jaw and the words they heard.

“Greetings. I am Triad Tu-Ra, speaking on behalf of the Hudathan government. As you are aware, Empress Ophelia Ordanus is missing and has been for some time. What you don’t know is that she’s here, on Hudatha, having been captured on the planet Savas. Naturally, you will want proof. Here it is.”

The picture disintegrated and was replaced with a shocking image. Ophelia was wearing filthy clothes and standing in front of what looked like a durasteel bulkhead. There were obvious contusions on her face, her wrists were chained, and Hudathan guards stood on both sides of her. But dire though her circumstances were, her voice was steady. “I am Empress Ophelia Ordanus. My ship was attacked near a jump point and suffered significant damage during the ensuing battle. In order to escape certain defeat, the captain made an emergency hyperspace jump. We emerged near the planet Savas and were forced to make a crash landing. A significant number of the crew were killed on impact. Those who survived fortified the wreck. But when the locals attacked a few days later, we were overwhelmed. I was taken prisoner and transferred to the Hudathans.”

The empress looked as if she was about to say something more, but the holo swirled and flew back together. Tu-Ra reappeared. “Listen, and listen carefully, Humans,” the triad said. “We will free the empress in return for the planet Orlo II. If you refuse, or if you fail to respond within two standard weeks, we will kill Ordanus and ship her head to you in a message torpedo. Then we will attack.”