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Thirty-eight

The rainy season had started feebly. After producing two strong rains, it had faltered, issuing only ineffectual showers in a dozen days—thunder and wind with mere spatters of raindrops. At last though, it relented. In three days they'd had three storms and seven inches of rain. Seven going on twelve, thought Colonel Veeri Thoglakaveera.

Veeri had grown up on his family's great landholding on Klestron, and though he'd never taken part in its management, he recognized these rains for what they were: a renewal, a blessing to farms, reservoirs, woodlands, the district water commission. But he'd never liked storms. Typically they rasied in him a black mood with undercurrents of violence.

This time it seemed he'd be spared that. In fact, he was feeling rather pleased with the world. He'd gotten five greatly desired things the past week: Via pod post there'd been money, credits from Klestron—rents from property assigned to him there. He'd also gotten a vehicle permit and this sporty red hovercar. And Rami, a woman, a cute little thing with more skills in bed than either Leolani or Tain. And finally an invitation to another party at Tagurt Meksorli's.

He still had more than a month and a half before he was supposed to "recover from his injury," but he'd grown impatient. And if he used reasonable caution, he'd told himself, no one would know who shouldn't. Rami continued to live in her own apartment, and if anything came up, he'd claim they weren't lovers. How could they be, given "his condition?" He'd avoid embassy parties with her, and away from Embassy Avenue, who knew? Seemingly even there not many, while those who presumably did, didn't seem terribly interested.

This would be the first party he'd taken Rami to. He'd been told there'd be women there this time, a few at least. And Rami was noble and well-raised, even though her family had come on hard times. She'd mix well with the officers' wives and ladies.

Just now his attention was mainly on his driving. Hover vehicles didn't ride on air cushions; they levitated on an AC proximity field, which not only lifted, but slid them quietly and unwaveringly through the planetary G-field. The deluxe model he drove could lift him as high as ten inches above the local surface and carry him sixty-three miles per hour—actually up to seventy-nine as needed for emergencies, though those speed bursts could be detected and watched by the police.

The storm wind couldn't deflect Veeri's course, but it did buffet and shake the small car, while sheets of rain deluged his windshield. Veeri preferred to drive by direct vision, but he couldn't see well enough; the rain was too much for his wipers. He could scarcely see the street signs, let alone read them. So he "drove the system." The hover drive was locked into the gravitic continuum, and in the Imperial District was keyed to the Vartosu system of gravitic coordinates. Thus he steered by the moving map that slid slowly down his screen, a map which showed, among other things, his and other vehicles, in real time.

Actually, within the city's suburban fringe, the speed limit was forty-eight mph, not sixty-three, and monitored by the police, of course, on screens in precinct stations and cruisers, both hovercars and floaters. But given the weather, and the limitations of driving the system, Veeri stayed mostly under forty, and when he reached the hills, with their narrow twisting lanes, their switchbacks and plunging slopes, he slowed further.

By that time the rain was less violent, and he drove by what his headlights showed him, using the map only to find his way. In places the grassy lanes resembled mountain streams, and the neighborhood a forest. When he pulled up to Meksorli's, an off-duty corporal, earning extra cash, hurried out to them with a large umbrella.

Inside, Veeri found a larger group than before—perhaps twenty-five men and a dozen women. Four women sat among the men before the window-wall, where windblown rain beat silently, to sluice down the sound-muffling glass. The rest of the women were talking in an adjacent room, and after he and Rami had drinks in hand, she went to join them. Veeri sat down with the men.

Before he sat, however, Meksorli gestured toward him. "Gentlemen, ladies, this is Colonel Veeri Thoglakaveera, late of the Klestronu marines. Colonel Veeri's probably the only man on Varatos who's actually seen and fought Confederation troops."

Veeri smiled briefly and nodded, then sat, pleased with the introduction and attention.

"D'you plan to go back there, Colonel?" someone asked. "With the invasion force?"

"Certainly, if there is one." Actually he'd given it no thought, nor had any interest in going back.

"There'll be one," someone else said.

"There'd better," said a third, sourly.

"We were just talking about the prospects," Meksorli said. "We're not entirely agreed."

"I haven't paid a lot of attention," Veeri answered. "The subject isn't a major one at the Klestronu Embassy. What do you think?"

Meksorli grinned. "Obviously I hope it comes off. As to the prospects—" He shrugged, still grinning. "Tell him, Alivii."

Alivii Simnasaveesi, the young captain who'd delivered Veeri's invitation both times, had connections in the Diet, and presumably inside information. "Even money that the Kalif gets the funding for it this year," said Alivii. "If he doesn't, then three to one for next. When he gets it, the preliminary plans have it launching twenty months afterward."

"That soon?"

Someone else spoke "The Ministry's already readying the Imperial Shipyard and the Imperial Ordnance Works. They'll be able to start major production within a week of funding. A second shift within two weeks, and a third two weeks after that, or maybe sooner. That's the plan. And the Lamatahasu family's setting up to expand their shipyard; probably others are, too. A lot of people will be surprised at how fast it goes."

"First the Kalif has to get the money," someone objected. "And right now he's got half the House mad at him because he acted like a man. Some of those ass—Excuse me, ladies. Some of the delegates have their heads up their—Shatim! It's hard to talk about them in mixed company."

There was laughter, some of it sour.

"I'm surprised you haven't gotten more interested, Colonel," said Meksorli to Veeri. "A colonel's likely to be a general in no time at all, when they start forming up new divisions. Someone like yourself, with combat experience in the Confederation, I can see wearing two suns in a hurry."

A major generalcy! Suddenly Veeri was interested. That was something he could stand having! "I'd be a lot more interested if I was as confident of it happening as some of you are. If I knew more about it..."

Two more officers came in then, a subcolonel and a major, commenting loudly on the rain. They were from 1st Corps, 2,100 miles north in the semi-desert near Fashtar. 1st Corps was the only Imperial Army corps actually assembled. Others existed only on paper, their units scattered. Meksorli quickly roped them into the conversation. The officer corps at Fashtar, they asserted, generally favored invasion. But the 1st Corps commander, whom one of them referred to as "His Majesty, Iron Jaw the First," had forbidden talking about it, calling it inflammatory. Still, one heard comments.

Another guest broke in, a lieutenant assigned to the Armed Forces Ministry, with the security detail. Discussion had been banned at the ministry, too, he said, then the ban lifted as impractical. After all, the ministry was up to its neck in paper preparations. Including refining SUMBAA's plans for integrating outer world forces into the invasion force.

Invasion was the only subject anyone seemed interested in talking about, and Veeri was surprised at the vehemence of certain officers. Then someone brought up a published article on the granting of fiefs in the Confederation, and Veeri found his own interest intensifying. He was a younger son of a younger son; he could never have a fief of his own on Klestron, only benefices based on his uncle's fief. Actually he'd never hankered for one; a fief had never seemed within the realm of possibility. Now he could visualize himself as ruling a great tract on some Confederation world!—on a richer, far more developed planet than primitive Terfreya had been.

He needed to follow the news and rumors regarding invasion, he decided. Tune in the newscasts regularly and subscribe to a facservice. As soon as the invasion had imperial funding, he'd resign his position here, return to Klestron, and reactivate his marine commission.

* * *

At length the gathering broke up, and he and Rami walked to his car. The rain had virtually stopped, and an umbrella escort wasn't necessary. Veeri had some difficulty inserting his security card into the control panel, and realized then that he'd drunk more than he'd intended. But he was basically sober, he told himself; the subject matter had contributed to that.

Once out of the hills, he speeded up. The clouds had broken, the broad gaps glittering with stars. Out there

somewhere was his world—not just Klestron, but his new world.

I never expected to wish the Kalif well, he thought. Now I have to, in the matter of invasion. And really, what happened to me was my fault as much as his: He wronged me, but I invited it. I let a pretty face, a pretty ass, turn my head, and so did he. I forgot what I could be, and should be, only thought about getting that yellow-haired witch into bed.

Then the warning panel began flashing red on his screen, and he slowed. PULL TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AND STOP. YOU WERE DRIVING 56 MPH IN A 48 MPH ZONE. A POLICE FLOATER WILL LAND BEHIND YOU.

With a disgusted curse, he obeyed. Two minutes later, a policeman stood beside his car. "Sorry, mlord," the man said, seeing the nobility mark on Veeri's forehead. "But I'll have to take a blood sample. Just a drop or two. It won't hurt a bit."

It didn't, but the results did. Veeri and Rami got into the police floater for a ride to the precinct station, while another officer brought in his new car, riding the system. Rami was questioned and released; Veeri gave her money for the cab. Then he was booked, and led to a small, but clean and reasonably comfortable cell.

"Just till tomorrow, m'lord," he was told. "Your alcohol level is illegal, but low enough that a first offence is a misdemeanor. You'll come before a magistrate in the morning, and when you've paid your fine, you'll be released. If it had been a felony—But I'm sure you'll be more careful the next time."

He'd just lain down when the realization struck him, hard enough that he sat up and slammed his fist into his palm. On Klestron, if a government employee was booked by the police for any infraction, even the most minor, a report was faxed to his supervisor. No doubt it was the same here. And if the report mentioned Rami...

Probably it wouldn't though, he told himself. She wasn't relevant to the infraction.

He lay back down, not fully reassured.

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Framed