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Twenty-Two

At exactly 0300 Mustapha Pong gave an order and death fell toward the planet Drang. It came in the form of drop modules, assault boats, bombs, missiles, and beams of pure energy.

And as Pong struck, so did the combine, quickly securing generous landing zones for the invading forces.

But the government forces were tough and, thanks to good intelligence, well prepared for the attack. They'd known since Salazar that war was inevitable, and that Pong would side with the combine. So they gave ground, but did so grudgingly. Every LZ was contested, every target defended, and every victory paid for in blood.

The night was full of fire. Assault boats blossomed into flowers of flame, aerospace fighters exploded, and cities glowed reddish orange. Death was everywhere.

As in most wars Drang's civilians came in for a large share of the suffering. There was no way to protect them against a damaged assault boat cartwheeling out of the sky, a pod of misdirected bombs, or a heat-seeking missile that couldn't tell the difference between a residential power grid and a military one.

But thanks to a common need to win popular support, both the government and the combine avoided civilian target as much as possible.

And because both sides wanted to live on the planet when the war was over, they refused to use nuclear weapons. Of course the fact that nuclear war was grounds for intervention by the Emperor might have had an impact on their thinking as well. Neither group wanted to live on a planet governed by Imperial Marines.

So, some five hours after the attack had begun, Pong was quite satisfied with the way things had gone. His forces had suffered casualties, but nothing unexpected, and thanks to the excellent leadership provided by Colonel Surillo, 81.7 percent of the primary objectives had been taken. A high score indeed.

Pong had watched the first hours of the battle from orbit with 47,721 at his side. A special booth made of one-way glass had been set up inside the flagship's situation room to protect the alien's identity.

Just one leak, one whisper of a previously uncontacted race, and Imperial intelligence would be all over the place. That would be inconvenient, and potentially disastrous as well, since Pong's plan depended on surprise.

Forewarned is forearmed, and if the Empire knew about the 56,827, there was a fairly good chance that they could win the ensuing war. Regardless of what the aliens believed, Pong knew his fellow humans were a tough lot and capable of amazing stubbornness. Not only that, they were also a good deal more technologically sophisticated then the 56,827, and mean as hell when threatened.

No, Pong thought to himself, I mustn't let that happen. Victory depends on a surprise attack by an absolutely ruthless race using weapons the Empire hasn't seen before. It would start when the moon-sized alien ship dropped out of hyperspace into near Earth orbit and cut loose with everything it had. A few hours later man's ancestral home would become little more than charred rock.

The Emperor would be killed along with his entire family, the seat of Imperial government entirely eradicated, and the home fleet destroyed. The rest of the Empire would burst like an overripe fava fruit, split into warring factions, and finish the process Pong had started.

And then, with some key victories over the Il Ronn, and a few other space-faring races, a new order would be born. A new order conceived by him.

"By us," the Melcetian put in waspishly.

"Of course," Pong responded impatiently. "That goes without saying."

"It better," the mind slug replied, but thought better of it, and slipped Pong some soothing chemicals.

Completely unaware of Pong's thoughts, or his interchange with the Melcetian, 47,721 shifted in his seat. It was of 56,827 manufacture and served to cradle the alien's backward curving midsection. Both of its outward bulging eyes were swiveled forward in order to follow the action.

The privacy booth included three sophisticated holo tanks, twelve different video monitors, and a sophisticated com set.

Using video supplied by hundreds of spaceships, assault boats, drop modules, combat vehicles, and individual troops, a rather sophisticated computer had woven it all together to provide them with a live blow-by-blow account of the battle.

So skillful was the computer's manipulation of incoming information that it took on the quality of a holo drama, complete with ongoing characters and running subplots.

More than once Pong and 47,721 were watching when a particular video source disappeared from the screen and never returned. Often there was natural sound, explosions, or screams followed by silence.

Each time Pong was conscious of the fact that real men and women had just died, yet because it was little different from watching a well-executed holo drama, it didn't seem to mean much.

Not to Pong anyway, although 47,721 grew somewhat agitated during the scenes of personal combat, and his toe claws had left scratches in the surface of the durasteel deck.

All around the booth there was the quiet murmur of com traffic, an occasional burst of static, and the gentle hiss of air-conditioning. All of it comfortably distant from the battle that raged below.

But not for long. In a few minutes Pong would depart for the surface where he would take personal command of his troops and prove his worthiness to the 56,827. Silly but necessary. He turned to 47,721.

"So, we are well on the way to victory. In a few weeks, a month at the most, our work will be done. In the meantime I must join my troops."

A long rope of saliva drooped out of the alien's mouth parts and plopped to the deck. "Yes, numberless one. You have done well. I shall remain here for a while and monitor the battle before returning to my ship."

Pong delivered a small bow of acknowledgment. He eyed the hood and cape arrangement thrown over the back of 47,721's chair. It would protect the alien's identity between the situation room and the shuttle. The crew was curious, but so what. With the exception of Molly, none of them had seen anything more than the outside of the alien's spaceship. And for all they knew, it was an asteroid transformed into an elaborate habitat and crewed by Lakorian swamp dancers.

Pong cleared his throat. "Do you need anything before I leave?"

The alien was quiet for a moment, as if giving the question his full and undivided attention. "Yes, as you know, our success stems in part from the care with which we prepare for battle."

Sure, Pong thought to himself. If you never take chances you never lose.

Out loud Pong said, "And quite right too."

"So," the alien continued, "I will take the juveniles along with me as I return."

The 56,827 had made their desire for some human children known early on, and Pong had saved some from the slave markets of Lakor specifically for that purpose. And up till now he'd never dared to ask why.

But flushed with the successful attack on Drang, and more confident of his position, Pong decided to indulge his curiosity.

"Of course. I will have the children prepared. May I ask what you'll do with them?"

The alien's reply was matter-of-fact. "Of course. Some of our more sophisticated weapons kill by disrupting the enemy's nervous system. However, due to the fact that neural systems vary from species to species, it is necessary to fine-tune our weapons prior to battle. Some of the juveniles will be used for that purpose. Others will provide an interesting variation to our rather monotonous shipboard diet."

Pong shuddered. Although well aware of the 56,827's preference for dinner on the hoof, it was something he'd tried to ignore. On one occasion they'd invited him for dinner and it had taken weeks to get over it.

Pong thought of the slave girls who'd been captured with Molly. What a horrible way to die. Still, a deal's a deal. He would give the necessary orders.

As for Molly, well, she was safe. Remembering her fear of 47,721, Pong had ordered Molly to remain in his cabin while the alien was aboard, and during his trip dirtside as well. Much as he enjoyed Molly's company, Pong knew it would be dangerous on Drang, and wanted to protect her. He stood to go.

"The juveniles will be ready, 47,721. May your hunts go well."

"And yours," the alien replied politely, before returning his attention to the video screens. A small city was on fire and he didn't want to miss it.

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Framed