A Fighting Chance by William C. Dietz Page A

such as ours. Just imagine if all our FSO-3’s and 2’s were running about cutting deals on their own! Say what you will about our bureaucracy—but it exists for a reason.”
    Vanderveen felt there had been extenuating circumstances associated with all of the situations that Yatsu had mentioned, but knew the secretary was correct where the need for a disciplined approach was concerned. She nodded contritely. “I know. I’m sorry.”
    “Good,” Yatsu replied. “So with all of that in mind, we are faced with a very difficult decision. And, given what we do for a living, you won’t be surprised to learn that we settled on a compromise.” It was a joke, and Vanderveen managed to produce a weak smile.
    “The president wants to reward you for bringing the Hegemony into the Confederacy,” Yatsu added. “So, effective today, I’m promoting you to FS-1. But Richard feels that it would be inappropriate to reward your behavior by posting you to one of the core worlds. And I agree.”
    “As do I,” Nankool added sternly.
    “So we’re sending you to Trevia,” Yatsu announced. “It’s a rim world, which is located outside the boundaries of the bug empire but has a significant population of Ramanthian expatriates. Eccentrics mostly, plus a scattering of political exiles and members of other races.”
    Vanderveen felt a crushing sense of disappointment. They were sending her to prison. A place far from civilization, where she could be left to rot for who knew how long.
    Nankool saw the look in her eyes. “It’s more than a holding cell,” he assured her. “We need eyes and ears out there. So make a lot of contacts. And who knows? Once the war begins to go our way, one or more of your new friends might prove to be useful where negotiations are concerned.”
    “Or, depending on how things go, you may find yourself living inside the Ramanthian Empire,” Holson said unsympathetically. “But I’m sure you’ll manage given your well-known capacity to take care of yourself.”
    That earned Holson a dirty look from Nankool. But if the diplomat regretted his comment, there was no sign of it on his face.
    “I guess that handles it,” Yatsu said blithely. “Congratulations on your promotion—and have a nice trip.”

5
The measure of an officer is not in victory but in defeat.
—Grand Marshal Nimu Wurla-Ka (ret.)
Instructor, Hudathan War College
Standard year 1958
    PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
    There was a violent jerk as his half of the rope bridge struck something solid. Santana lost his grip, fell backwards, and crashed through multiple layers of branches. When he hit the ground, the impact drove all of the air out of his lungs. But thanks to his helmet and the foliage that slowed his fall, he was uninjured.
    As the Ramanthian transport rose, Santana could see the platform where Temo had been standing. She had somehow been able to establish contact with the bugs and cut a deal. The bitch. The lights were extinguished, and Santana knew the renegade had escaped.
    A spectral form appeared above him. “No offense, sir,” Dietrich said. “But you’re lying down on the job. An officer should set a good example for the troops.”
    Santana accepted the proffered hand, allowed himself to be pulled up onto his feet, and was pleased to discover that he could stand unassisted. No broken bones, then. That was good. “Thank you, Sergeant Major. I’m glad to see that you survived the fall—and are keeping a sharp eye out for slackers. Have you seen my weapon by any chance? I lost it.”
    “It was barrel down in the ground,” Dietrich replied as he gave the carbine over. “So don’t try to fire it. Orders, sir?”
    “Pass the word . . . There’s no point in blundering around in the darkness. Tell our people to count heads, collect the wounded, and muster below the lodge. We’ll search it and the clearing at first light. Then we’ll have some field rats and get the hell out of here.”
    “Yes,