He was concentrating so hard that he didn’t notice when the door behind him opened.

“Well, for a boy who’s had such a busy night, you sure are chipper this morning.”

Fiben whirled. Water splattered the wall as he brought up the cup to throw it, but the sudden movement seemed to send his brain spinning in his head. The cup clattered to the floor and Fiben clutched at his temples, groaning under a wave of vertigo.

Blearily, he saw a chimmie in a blue sarong. She approached carrying a tray. Fiben fought to remain standing, but his legs folded and he sank to his knees.

“Bloody fool,” he heard her say. Bile in his mouth was only one reason he couldn’t answer.

She set her tray on the table and took hold of his arm. “Only an idiot would try to get up after taking a full stunner jolt at close range!”

Fiben snarled and tried to shake her hands off. Now he remembered! This was the little “pimp” from the Ape’s Grape. The one who had stood in the balcony not far from the Gubru and who had him stunned just as he was about to make his escape.

“Lemme “lone,” he said. “I don’ need any help from a damn traitor!”

At least that was what he had intended to say, but it came out more as a slurred mumble. “Right. Anything you say,” the chimmie answered evenly. She hauled him by one arm back to the bed. In spite of her slight size, she was quite strong.

Fiben groaned as he landed on the lumpy mattress. He kept trying to gather himself together, but rational thought seemed to swell and fade like ocean surf.

“I’m going to give you something. You’ll sleep for at least ten hours. Trjen, maybe, you’ll be ready to answer some questions.”

Fiben couldn’t spare the energy to curse her. All his attention was given over to finding a focus, something to center on. Anglic wasn’t good enough anymore. He tried Galactic Seven.

“Na … Ka … tcha… kresh…” he counted thickly.

“Yes, yes,” he heard her say. “By now we’re all quite aware how well educated you are.”

Fiben opened his eyes as the chimmie leaned over him, a capsule in her hand. With a finger snap she broke it, releasing a cloud of heavy vapor.

He tried to hold his breath against the anesthetic gas, knowing it was useless. At the same time, Fiben. couldn’t help noticing that she was actually fairly pretty — with a small, childlike jaw and smooth skin. Only her wry, bitter smile ruined the picture.

“My, you are an obstinate chen, aren’t you? Be a good boy now, breathe in and rest,” she commanded.

Unable to hold out any longer, Fiben had to inhale at last. A sweet odor filled his nostrils, like overripe forest fruit. Awareness began dissipating in a floating glow.

It was only then Fiben realized that she, too, had spoken in perfect, unaccented Galactic Seven.

28

Government in Hiding

Megan Oneagle blinked away tears. She wanted to turn away, not to look, but she forced herself to watch the carnage one more time.

The large holo-tank depicted a night scene, a rain-driven beach that shone dimly in shades of gray under faintly visible brooding cliffs. There were no moons, no stars, in fact hardly any light at all. The enhancement cameras had been at their very limits taking these pictures.

On the beach she could barely make out five black shapes that crawled ashore, dashed across the sand, and began climbing the low, crumbling bluffs.

“You can tell they followed procedures precisely,” Major Prathachulthorn of the Terragens Marines explained. “First the submarine released the advance divers, who went ahead to scout and set up surveillance. Then, when it seemed the coast was clear, the sabots were released.”

Megan watched as little boats bobbed to the surface — black globes rising amid small clouds of bubbles — which then headed quickly for shore. They landed, covers popped off, and more dark figures emerged.

“They carried the finest equipment available. Their training was the best. These were Terragens Marines.”

So? Megan shook her head. Does that mean they did not have mothers?

She understood what Prathachulthorn was saying, however. If calamity could befall these professionals, who could blame Garth’s colonial militia for the disasters of the last few months?

The black shapes moved toward the cliffs, stoop-shouldered under heavy burdens.

For weeks, now, the remnants still under Megan’s command had sat with her, deep in their underwater refuge, pondering the collapse of all their well-laid plans for an organized resistance. The agents and saboteurs had been ready, the arms caches and cells organized. Then came the cursed Gubru coercion gas, and all their careful schemes collapsed under those roiling clouds of deadly smoke.

What few humans remained on the mainland were certainly dead by now, or as good as dead. What was frustrating was that nobody, not even the enemy in their broadcasts, seemed to know who or how many had made it to the islands in time for antidote treatment and internment.

Megan avoided thinking about her son. With any luck he was now on Cilmar Island, brooding with his friends in some pub, or complaining to a crowd of sympathetic girls how his mother had kept him out of the war. She could only hope and pray that was the case, and that Uthacalthing’s daughter was safe as well.

More of a cause for perplexity was the fate of the Tymbrimi Ambassador himself. Uthacalthing had promised to follow the Planetary Council into hiding, but he had never appeared. There were reports that his ship had tried for deepspace instead, and was destroyed.

So many lives. Lost to what purpose?

Megan watched the display as the sabots began edging back into the water. The main force of men was already climbing the bluffs.

Without humans, of course, any hope of resistance was out of the question. A few of the cleverest chims might strike a blow, here or there, but what could really be expected of them without their patrons?

One purpose of this landing had been to start something going again, to adapt and adjust to new circumstances.

For the third time — even though she knew it was coming — Megan was caught by surprise as lightning suddenly burst upon the beach. In an instant everything was bathed in brilliant colors.

First to explode were the little boats, the sabots.

Next came the men.

“The sub pulled its camera in and dived just in time,” Major Prathachulthorn said.

The display went blank. The woman marine lieutenant who had operated the projector turned on the lights. The other members of the Council blinked, adjusting to the light. Several dabbed their eyes.

Major Prathachulthorn’s South Asian features were darkly serious as he spoke again. “It’s the same thing as during the space battle, and when they somehow knew to gas every secret base we’d set up on land. Somehow they always find out where we are.”

“Do you have any idea how they’re doing it?” one of the council members asked.

Vaguely, Megan recognized that it was the female Marine officer, Lieutenant Lydia McCue, who answered. The young woman shook her head. “We have all of our technicians working on the problem, of course. But until we have some idea how they’re doing it, we don’t want to waste any more men trying to sneak ashore.”

Megan Oneagle closed her eyes. “I think we are in no condition, now, to discuss matters any further. I declare this meeting adjourned.”

When she retired to her tiny room, Megan thought she would cry. Instead, though, she merely sat on the edge of her bed, in complete darkness, allowing her eyes to look in the direction she knew her hands lay.

After a while, she felt she could almost see them, fingerslike blobs resting tiredly on her knees. She imagined they,were stained — a deep, sanguinary red.