By Jim Cleveland
Chapter 1
Bas paused at the top of the stairs that led up to the palace entrance and looked back over the city behind him. It was difficult to reconcile this vista with that of Procyon as it had been before the Mokadi invasion. There wasn't much left now even to suggest the burnt out husk that the savages had reduced it to during their rampage, either. Wonders had been done by the offworlders since their intervention. They had all but eradicated the damage done by the savages and had build anew in their own strange fashion.
Shaking his mane in disapproval, Bas was not at all sure he liked the ordered sameness of the Deneban's architecture. It smacked of a preoccupation with utility, showing little regard for aesthetics. He wondered at the mentality that presented such replicated boxes as living accommodations.
"You there! Beastman! You got business here?" challenged a khaki clad guard from the palace entrance.
Pivoting upon padded feet, Bas turned to face his provocateur. He didn't like the soldier's tone and it didn't improve matters that it came through the artificial mediacy of a Deneban field translator. Glaring down upon the guard from a head's height advantage, his look was not one of cordiality, and yet the offworld soldier was not warned by that. Trusting in the superiority of his weaponry, this representative of an alien power was not to be intimidated by hard looks.
"I'll ask you just one more time," barked the soldier, unslinging his laser rifle. "What's your business here?"
Bas was just considering how much of this he was disposed to take when a second soldier intervened. "He's OK joe. The general sent for him. Let him pass."
Shrugging, the guard reslung his rifle, while the second soldier gestured for the big lionman to follow him. Bas did as he was bidden, but with poor grace. He didn't think much of these offworld interlopers. Their so called intervention had a suspicious stink of occupation to it.
There were more soldiers inside the palace. The vaulted expanse of the massive reception hall echoed to their boot clicks, while in their midst, many of the onetime cronies of Aquinis, the cities disposed despot, were assembled. What their status might be now was not certain, but rumor had it that the offworld general had the taste of satisfaction he had anticipated. It had been upon the offworld Rakshasa'a instigation that Hunter had been pardoned and recommissioned into the Deneban Space Command. The fleet had taken their errant progeny back into the fold, but they had not forgotten what he had done. Treason, desertion, murder, insubordination, his crimes were piled high to heaven and any one of them should have earned him a death sentence had it not been for those meddling catpeople. Klonn was not of so magnanimous a disposition and while he could not countermand the "Board Of Inquiry's," decision, he could make Hunter's life a world of misery as long as he was under his command.
After a few moments the door to his privy swung open to reveal a huge tub of a man who had obviously been listening from within. Squeezing out, he crossed the room and settled his considerable bulk on a divan across from Klonn where he sat mopping his brow with a dirty handkerchief.
"You heard?" asked Klonn.
"It was well done," replied Aquinis. "With those stinking beastmen out of the way everything should proceed as we intend."
Klonn nodded his agreement. "Gerard," he called, leaning over his desk comm. "I'll see Mr. Winfield now."
A few moments later the lanky offworlder who had been waiting in the outer office was ushered in. Saluting his commander, Gerard presented Winfield and then slipping out, closed the door behind him.
"Have a seat," commanded Klonn.
With a quick look toward Aquinis, Winfield settled himself in the offered seat before addressing the general. "You've checked my credentials, I presume?" he asserted.
Spreading his hands before him, Klonn fixed the man with an appraising eye. "That goes without saying," he replied. "You were here before on behalf of the Intergalactic news service. I take it that you worked with my daughter."
"Yes, Terra, smart girl. We worked together on the surrogate story that led to the intervention here. It is primarily on that account that I have come back now."
Klonn leaned forward over his desk and rapped his knuckles on an open dossier before him. "You might as well know," he warned. "I don't approve of the media and I especially don't like reporters poking their noses into places where they have no business looking."
Winfield sat nonplused. "In as much as you have my file before you, I must assume that you know very well that I am no longer with the news service. I am here on behalf of the Fargo office of, "Deneban Reproductive Services," My employers are most interested in acquiring the records of the Fomhoire gene bank which we discovered on the Island of Aetolia, north of here."
Klonn harumphed his disapproval. "That research didn't seem to do the Fomhoire much good. It is my understanding that after two thousand years of endeavor they have managed nothing better than to breed a bunch of misshapen monsters. I am told that there are no more than a dozen or so of the giants themselves left."
"The fault was with the genetic material itself rather than the procedures. Under different circumstances their methods may prove extremely effective. The advantages of gene manipulation combined with in vitro impregnation and a rationalized surrogate program are self evident. The economic and social implications could prove stimulating," argued Winfield.
"So I would imagine," quipped Klonn. It certainly didn't require any great reach of perceptivity to see where that sort of thinking would lead, but what was equally clear to him was that where a major corporation was concerned, there must be money involved. A lot of money. "You must realize that clearances will be required. The region in which you wish to conduct your investigation is beyond our mandated area of operations. There are dangers. We can not just let anyone go barging in," he advised.
Winfield glanced over to where Aquinis had apparently fallen asleep. "I would wish to speak to you in the strictest confidence," he told the general.
"Do not concern yourself about him. I have turned the translator off," assured Klonn.
"Then I will tell you this," continued Winfield. "My employers have extended me considerable discretion toward the financing of this mission. My requirements are straight forward. I need transportation, logistic support and an armed escort along with your authorization. We are prepared to pay whatever it takes to expedite the matter. Your co-operation would be duly compensated."
Klonn sat drumming his finger on the top of his desk. He had no doubts about which way he would come down on this proposition, his only hesitancy was on the question of how hard he could squeeze him. "Very well," he said, at last. "I will have my secretary draw up the necessary documentation this afternoon. Transportation will not be a problem and I will have a squad of men from the ranger division accompany you. You can pay by voucher. We are not linked to the world web yet, but I have a reader. It will verify that you have the funds and I will send the voucher out with the next packet."
It was significant, Klonn decided, that the young man did not flinch when he saw the numbers he punched up on the display of the reader. Inserting the little crystal that conveyed his complete financial history, along with a lot of other things that
he might not have wanted generally known, into the device, Winfield made no comment as it registered the transaction. With a press of a thumb upon the genetic sensor confirming his identity it was done, while Klonn contemplated how many more such hurtles he might put in the way before the expedition was actually launched.
"There is one other matter that I wanted to discuss with you," ventured Winfield.
Annoyed, Klonn shot him a quizzical look.
"I have asked your daughter to accompany me on this expedition," Winfield blurted, trying to get it out before he lost his nerve.
"My daughter? What has she got to do with this?" demanded the general, leveling a look upon the younger man that might have withered a tree.
"She has connections among the giants," explained Winfield. "The Fomhoire are notoriously distrustful of outsiders. She may be able to smooth things over where our overtures would otherwise be rejected."
"Your more of a fool than I thought if you think that my daughter would ever go along with the sort of thing you have in mind," warned Klonn.
"I had not intended to inform her of my true intentions. I have a number of reputable geneticists with me. She is under the impression that we are going to the Fomhoire's biorepository to rehabilitate their contaminated geno," explained Winfield.
Klonn leaned back in his chair glaring menacingly back at the man across his desk. "I do not appreciate being put in the position of having to lie to my own daughter. This is going to cost you more money," he growled.