By Blood Alone (33 page)

The industrialist recognized the rifle salute for what it was, nodded by way of reply, and knew the word was out: Ex-President Chien-Chu was back from the grave.

Good
. Though jealous of his privacy under normal circumstances, the industrialist knew that perceptions were important, especially where politics was concerned.

After all, no one had
elected
him to represent the free forces, which rendered his credentials questionable at best. No, he needed every edge he could get,
and was glad of Nankool’s courtesy. A man born
after
he left office—and whom he had never met.

The lock swallowed the twosome whole. Some human administrators, all returning from leave, filed in behind. They eyed the man, assumed Maylo was his mistress, and resumed their conversation.

The hatch closed, air entered the lock, and they were forced to wait.

The art display had changed many times since Chien-Chu’s last visit, but provided something to look at and helped pass the time. Not just anyone could appreciate the highly minimalistic soil sculpture favored by the Pooonara.

One well-known wag had likened the typical display to a sandbox in which nothing ever seemed to happen.

Still, the artists could rhapsodize about their creations for hours, which served to remind the industrialist of just how diverse the membership was.

The inner hatch opened. Chien-Chu motioned for the bureaucrats to go first and followed them out. Islands of luggage dotted the lobby. Maylo extracted herself from the space armor, allowed a rating to carry it away, and smoothed her pantsuit.

An android stepped off a lift, scanned the crowd, and made his way over. A suit of clothes had been painted onto his body.

“Citizens Chien-Chu? My name is Harold. President Nankool sends his apologies for not being here in person, but wonders if you would join him for dinner. Yes? Excellent.... The President will be most pleased.

“Now, if you will be so kind as to follow, I will escort you to your quarters.”

The robot led, the humans followed, and the autocart brought up the rear. Eyes watched, and plans were modified. Like the complex organism that it was, the onboard subculture had a nearly infinite capacity to adapt. New players had arrived. The game continued.

 

In spite of the fact that the Clone Hegemony had managed to corral prime real estate located only steps from the senatorial chambers, the interior decor was plain verging on sterile.

For reasons Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six wasn’t entirely sure of, the Ramanthian delegation was in the habit of passing tidbits of intelligence his way, the latest of which focused on ex-President Chien-Chu.

Six watched the footage, thumbed the remote, and watched again. The
Friendship
was literally crawling with every sort of surveillance device, some of which were
his
, or, more accurately, the Hegemony’s.

The pictures had little if any political value, other than to confirm what he already knew—namely, that the ex-President was aboard, accompanied by his niece. She was a rather comely free-breeder to whom he was instantly attracted—a weakness he couldn’t seem to purge.

Yes, the union between the Alpha Clone Marcus-Six and Legion General Marianne Mosby had legitimized such relationships, for liberals in any case, but not for Six, who came from a more traditional background in which unmediated breeding was subject to a range of sanctions that included expulsion, condemnation, and shunning.

All of which should have reduced his ardor, but seemed only to fuel it, adding to the politician’s misery.

The clone froze the video on a tight shot of Maylo’s face, studied the symmetry of her features, and felt the first signs of arousal. The voice was both harsh and unexpected.

“And what have we here? Lust for a free-breeding slut? I’m surprised, Samuel. I thought better of you.”

Ishimoto-Six gave an involuntary twitch and felt the blood rush to his face. Though of lesser rank, Svetlana Gorgin-Three often acted as if she outranked
him
, and had a talent for getting under his skin. The politico affected the disapproving demeanor of a grandbrother, turned, and hoped the bulge wouldn’t show.

“You jump to conclusions, Three—a rather serious flaw where diplomacy is concerned, and something you must work on. The image belongs to one Maylo Chien-Chu, chief executive officer for Chien-Chu Enterprises, and niece to the recently arrived ex-President. You would do well to memorize her face. We must
know
those in power—and be ready to interact with them.”

Gorgin-Three, who derived a strange and not altogether healthy pleasure from being put in her place, lowered her head. “Yes, sir. My comments were ill-considered and inappropriate. Please forgive me.”

The politician would have been more pleased with her response had he not known how meaningless it was. Arrogant one moment and subservient the next, his assistant was a study in contrasts. He nodded, killed the holo, and took control of the conversation. “So? What, if anything, did the spooks send today?”

Though not entirely comfortable with the term “spooks” as a synonym for the Hegemony’s intelligence service, the staffer knew whom Six was referring to and answered accordingly. “Yes, Senator. In addition to the usual summary, we received notice that Governor Patricia Pardo departed Earth. She will arrive soon.”

It was an interesting piece of news, and the clone took a moment to consider the implication. The governor had timed her visit to coincide with the new session, that much was obvious, but why? To forestall the sort of military action for which the Turr had lobbied? To buy time for her illegitimate government? Both possiblities seemed reasonable.

His government remained neutral where the “Earth problem” was concerned, and so was he. Six nodded. “Thank you.”

The female smiled. He
knew
what that meant and waited for the axe to fall. “One more thing,” Three said sweetly. “Ishimoto-Seven is on the way—to meet with Governor Pardo.”

Six detested Seven, something his assistant was well aware of, and struggled to hide his reaction.

“Thank you. Please see to the ambassador’s quarters ... and add him to the official roster.”

Gorgin took pleasure from her superior’s reaction and left the room. Yes, there was no doubt about it, her job was fun.

 

Hiween Doma-Sa marched down the main corridor, took a sharp right-hand turn, and entered the Ramanthian sector.

As with embassies of old, the quarters assigned to accredited representatives were considered to be an extension of their sovereign soil, and as such, were immune from all rules and laws except those that dealt with communal safety, such as the prohibitions against the release of toxic gases, drilling holes through the ship’s hull, or hunting game in the passageways. This last restriction was passed after a rather nasty incident involving the senator from Turr.

That being the case, most member races chose to supplement the ship’s security forces with troops of their own. The Ramanthians were no exception. Four war drones had been posted outside their hatch. All were heavily armed.

The Hudathan stopped, surrendered his credentials, and submitted to a retinal scan. There was a pause while the Ramanthian file leader checked the results and issued an incomprehensible series of clicks and pops.

The hatch cycled open. Doma-Sa stepped through and was ushered into Orno’s office. The Ramanthian stood and delivered his most courtly bow.

“May your eggs prosper,” Doma-Sa said, using the shortened version of a greeting that ran to more than four thousand phonetic units.

Having dispensed with the appropriate courtesies, both beings assumed their respective seats.

Orno, who rarely ceded his guests any sort of advantage, was true to form. He sat behind his desk, which not only placed a barrier between them, but forced Doma-Sa to accept the freestanding guest chair. That ploy left the Hudathan’s back exposed, which led to a high degree of psychological discomfort.

It was only the latest in a long list of insults, indignities, and embarrassments the Hudathan had suffered since boarding the
Friendship.
Some intentional—some not. Was the other being aware of how he felt? The diplomat hoped not ... and struggled to conceal it.

The Ramanthian watched his visitor’s skin bloom white, realized the heat wouldn’t bother the Hudathan in the least, and knew that particular advantage had been lost.

“So,” the Ramanthian began, “your presence does us honor. What brings the ambassador to my humble hive?”

Was the translation at fault? Or did the alien intend to sound condescending?

Doma-Sa fought the impulse to dive over the desk and rip the bug’s head off—not that he was likely to succeed, since the War Orno was not only present, but heavily armed.

Try as he might, the Hudathan had been unable to master the subtle art of indirection as practiced by so many of his peers. That being the case, he came straight to the point.

“My people have been imprisoned for more than fifty years now. The time has come to set them free.”

The Ramanthian rubbed his tool legs together. They made a rasping sound. “You are frank, Ambassador Doma-Sa ... and I can do no less. A Hudathan fleet bombed the hive world known as Bounty during the last war. Exactly 836,421,716 Ramanthian citizens were killed. Once was enough.”

It was a powerful argument, but Doma-Sa was prepared. “My people were wrong to do what they did ... and many paid with their lives. Our sun is dying, and our home world, the planet Hudatha, has a Trojan relationship with a Jovian binary. The other planets tug on Hudatha, causing it to oscillate around the following Trojan point. That leads to a wildly fluctuating climate. Conditions grow worse with each passing year. All we want is the right to venture forth, to trade with others, and find a new home.”

The Ramanthian seemed to consider the proposal and was silent for a moment. “Would your people seek to arm themselves?”

The Hudathan could hardly believe his ears. “Would his people seek to arm themselves?” A thousand times yes! What he said was different, however.

“
No
, we have no need for arms, so long as the Confederacy agrees to protect us.”

“And what of your empire?” the Ramanthian inquired casually. “The planets taken during the war? What would become of them?”

The question was unexpected, and Doma-Sa was taken aback. He reacted without thinking. “They belong to
us
... just as the planets which your race colonized belong to
you
.”

It was a good answer, though not the one Orno wanted to hear. The Hudathan was stubborn, stupid, or both. No matter; there are many ways to tunnel, and obstacles can be bypassed. “Yes, of course. Well, I appreciate the opportunity to hear your views, and will keep them in mind.”

The Ramanthian stood. “Will I see you at the dinner?”

Doma-Sa knew he had been dismissed and was happy to go. The dinner, a formal affair scheduled for end-work the following day, was a diplomatic must. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Excellent,” the senator replied. “I’ll see you then.”

A worker drone escorted Doma-Sa to the hatch. It opened, and he stepped outside. The corridor was crowded, and traffic pulled him along. Nothing had been gained, or had it? Why would the Ramanthians be interested in Hudathan planets? Didn’t they have enough already?

It was an interesting question—and one he would endeavor to answer.

 

The private dining room, which was just right for the intimate dinners that Marcott Nankool liked to host, was paneled in Vorthillian walnut.

The wood gleamed from frequent oilings and matched that of the long, formally set table—most of which was obscured by what seemed like acres of white linen.

The President smiled cordially as he ushered his guests into the room and pointed to their place cards. “Sergi, that spot belongs to you, and Maylo, this chair is yours.”

Though something of an athlete in his younger days, the President had gained some weight over the last few years, and rather than hang it all in one place had discovered a way to distribute the extra flesh over his entire body. Perhaps that explained why his face looked blurred and a little out of focus.

The first hour or so was spent getting acquainted. The President ate with gusto, Maylo picked at her food, and Chien-Chu toyed with a wine glass.

It wasn’t until the plates had been cleared and dessert served that they got down to business. Chien-Chu took the lead. “You are aware of the situation back on Earth.”

Nankool dabbed at his lips and allowed the briefest of frowns to crease his otherwise smooth brow. “Yes, an unpleasant business, and a divisive one.”

Chien-Chu had been called inscrutable, but found the other man even more so. There had been numerous Presidents by then—most of whom were nonhuman. Would Nankool be
more
sympathetic, because of his origins? Or less willing to help, to avoid the appearance of bias? The answer seemed to be yes, since most presidents would have acted by then.

Maylo sipped her coffee. It was weak and barely lukewarm. “The charter is quite specific: ‘Each species will be free to elect planetary governments—based on one being, one vote.’ ”

Nankool didn’t like being lectured to, and felt the blood rush to his face. His light brown skin served to conceal the reaction, and his voice gave no hint of the way he felt.

“Your point is well taken, although there are some who would point to Governor Pardo and the fact that she was elected.”

“True,” Maylo agreed, “if you choose to ignore the fact that she supplanted the legally established government with what amounts to a military dictatorship, and suspended the rights of free speech, assembly, and habeas corpus.”

“In order to counter criminal activity and restore law and order,” the President countered. “Or so I’m told.”