By Blood Alone (37 page)

The other machine glowed the way the Sheen were supposed to, followed the biological off the shuttle, and showed no signs of aggression.

His fears alleviated by the low-key manner in which his visitors presented themselves, Dantha, closely followed by a delegation of elders, went to greet them. He held his hands palms outward. “Peace.”

Sam transformed itself into communicator mode, made the necessary translation, and passed the reply back. “My master comes with peace in his heart—but with a warning as well. The Sheen wait in the blackness of space and are sworn to kill you.”

Dantha felt his chest constrict and heard the elders start to moan. Hopes dashed, the priest fought to maintain his composure. “We are sorry to hear that... for it was our intention to live here in peace. Is that why you were sent? To tell us that the Sheen are going to kill us?”

“No,” the human replied quickly. “I came because there might be a chance to save you and your colony.
If
we can convince a computer called the Hoon.”

“The Hoon?” Dantha’s ears flicked backward, the Thraki equivalent of a frown. “The Way” included no less than seven demonic figures, each associated with a particular sin, but the worst of the lot was the terrible Hoonara, taker of souls, king of questions, and giver of lies. Coincidence? Or something more?

The priest chose his words with care. “
Why
does the Hoon wish to destroy us?”

The other being gestured with the upper portion of his torso. “I don’t know. But it does tolerate
my
existence, and might tolerate yours,
if
you came to God.”

Dantha listened to the translation, assumed the use of “God” singular was some sort of error, and asked the obvious question. “The gods dwell on a higher plane—how can we go to them?”

“Not ‘them,’ ” Jepp corrected. “
Him
. There is only
one
God. You must go to Him in the spiritual sense, by believing that He exists, and is all-powerful.”

Dantha was incredulous. “A single god? Who is all-powerful? We could never believe in such an aberration.”

“But you
must,
” the human said desperately, “or the Sheen will destroy your colony.”

Dantha felt a great stubbornness rise from deep within his soul. The same stubborness that caused him to follow the non-violent way and to preach that philosophy to others. Even when the hierarchy objected, even when they threatened to expel him, even in the face of death. “Then they will destroy us... for our religion is the very heart of our culture.”

They were strong words,
fateful
words, but the elders murmured their support.

Jepp felt anger mixed with sadness. “Then every single one of you will die.”

Dantha thought of Keeta, of how short her life had been, and felt a terrible sorrow. “Yes, and so will you. Life goes on.”

Jepp swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, returned to the shuttle, and strapped himself in. The ship lifted, circled the tiny moon, and emerged from its shadow. The planet had a thick, gaseous atmosphere that roiled in response to hurricane-force winds, and knew no peace.

Attack ships, only two given the status of the target, awaited their orders. The Hoon projected part of itself into the more powerful of the two. What would the soft body do? The AI wanted to see.

Jepp bit the inside surface of his cheek. There was no choice. None at all. He could give the order, and destroy the colony, or withhold the order, knowing it would make no difference. Except to
him
. He gave the order.

Keeta, unaware of her fate, held her uncle’s hand. The horn boomed, voices came together in song, and she was happy.

Like victory, defeat is but a moment under the stars.

Author unknown
Inscription north side, Building Two,
Temple Complex, Jericho
Standard year circa 30,000 B.C.

 

 

The Starlight Ballroom was an enormous affair, capable of accommodating up to one thousand guests in microhabcontrolled comfort, and protected by a transparent dome. It was like dining among the stars, and while most beings enjoyed the sensation, some found it uncomfortable. They sat within the embrace of specially designed screens.

The
Friendship’
s captain had positioned his vessel so that Arballa filled half the view, and, thanks to the slowly rotating deck, everyone could see.

Guests had started to arrive. Some relied on elaborate life-support systems, while others came under their own power.

The ceremonial meals were well attended in spite of the fact that they were a mostly human concept. Partly because of the status conferred on those who were invited, but largely due to the fact that the get-togethers represented a wonderful opportunity to consummate political deals, especially those that required some nose-to-beak contact.

This particular dinner was being held to honor the newly arrived ambassador from a little-known race called the Aaman-Du. But, for those in the know, which included everyone
except
the newly arrived ambassador, the meal was
actually
centered around Governor Patricia Pardo and “the Earth problem.” Evidence of this could be both seen and heard as Pardo and her companions entered the vast, half-filled expanse.

Pardo was at her well-coifed best. She wore a stunning black evening gown, a matching armband to commemorate those lost during the “revolution,” and some wicked high-heeled shoes.

The fact that the politician was accompanied by the highly visible Senator Alway Orno, and the less known but still interesting Ambassador Harlan Ishimoto-Seven, made her arrival all the more intriguing.

Pardo’s not-so-subtle presidential campaign had started the day after she was sworn into office and included frequent appearances before the senate. That being the case, many of the politicos knew the human, and some even liked her.

Barely noticed during Pardo’s entrance was the
actual
guest of honor’s arrival and passage between well-set tables.

The alien was a comic figure by human standards. His small head boasted a birdlike beak. His saucerlike eyes seemed to bulge with pent-up emotion, the large, well-rounded tummy suggested a balloon about to pop, and his enormous three-toed feet looked like something a clown might wear. His oversized clothes, so loose that the fabric flapped all around, added to that impression.

But XTs can be and usually are deceiving. The Aaman-Du were no exception. Though provincial by Confederate standards, they had colonized three planets, and were said to be fierce warriors.

Moments later, while the ambassador from Aaman-Du was still settling onto his specially made roost, Sergi Chien-Chu and Maylo Chien-Chu entered the room and were escorted to their table.

The very sight of them raised the volume of conversation a notch, especially in light of Chien-Chu’s status as a past President, and his vocal opposition to Pardo’s interim government.

Maylo attracted a certain amount of attention as well, partly because of her relationship to Sergi Chien-Chu, partly because everyone on the ship knew she’d been imprisoned by Pardo’s government, and partly because she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Ambassador Ishimoto
-Seven,
his clone brother Senator Ishimoto
-Six,
and nearly every other human male turned to look.

She wore a high-collared, almost oriental red sheath dress decorated with just a touch of fantastically expensive stardust. She was beautiful and
powerful
—a combination that terrified some men and attracted others.

One such male was Samuel Ishimoto-Six, who had not only managed to keep his assistant Svetlana Gorgin-Three
off
the guest list, but had contrived to sit at Maylo’s table in the chair to her right. He rose as she approached. “Good evening, Miss Chien-Chu. My name is Samuel Ishimoto-Six, senator for the Hegemony. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Maylo liked what she saw and felt an intangible
something
as he took her hand. “The pleasure is mine. Have you met my uncle? No? Please allow me. Uncle Sergi, it’s my honor to introduce Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six.”

Chien-Chu had an excellent understanding of the Hegemony mind-set, as well as their on-again, off-again flirtation with the Hudathans during the previous war, and wondered where they stood now. The senator was attracted to his niece, that much was clear, which meant she would learn the truth. And what about the replica seated next to Governor Pardo? How did
he
fit in? Time would tell.

A party of exoskeleton-assisted Dwellers whirred into the room and approached the table. They were handsome by humanoid standards, having well-shaped heads, large, ovoid eyes, and long, sleek limbs.

It had been a member of their species, the now-famous Moolu Rasha Anguar, who had dragged Chien-Chu out of retirement during the second Hudathan war.

Now, at a time when every vote was critical, the industrialist hoped to solicit Dweller support. Though not fluent in their native tongue, Chien-Chu spoke enough to make himself understood: “I greet you with hands that are empty and a heart that is full.”

Flattered by the unaided use of their language, the senior member of the party, Ambassador Tula Nogo Mypop, made the appropriate response: “Our people acknowledge and greet an old friend . . . the elder Anguar sends his regards.”

“He lives, then?”

Mypop was a master of nuance and produced a human-style smile. “Lives
and
loves.... His vices remain intact.”

Chien-Chu laughed. “I am pleased to hear it. Please send him my best wishes. May I introduce my niece?”

There was round after round of introductions, followed by predinner drinks for those who wanted them, and the usual small talk. Ishimoto-Six took advantage of the opportunity to begin a conversation with Maylo.

The meal began fifteen minutes later when President Nankool appeared at the room’s center and a holographic duplicate popped into existence at each one of the tables. He “sat” in a chair reserved for that purpose.

The President’s words were translated into a dozen languages, scanned for double entendres, racial slurs, or religious taboos, and edited accordingly. While something less than poetic, the results were nonoffensive.

“Good evening, honored guests. We gather to officially welcome the Aaman-Du to the Confederacy—and Ambassador Urulux-Green to our large and mostly functional family.”

Many, though not all, of those assembled in the room were equipped with a sense of humor and made a cacophony of noises ranging from laughter to clicks, pops, whistles, and in one case a sort of honking sound.

Maylo thought the laughter was funny... and struggled to wipe the smile off her face.

The President’s remarks were followed by a speech from the evening’s official host, the senator from Arballa, who, though too large to attend in person, was visible via the centrally projected holo.

The speech was a long, rambling affair, which lasted through the first two courses and well into the entree. All the guests were served something typical of their native cuisines, and, that being the case, some rather strange odors permeated the air.

Maylo, who had worn nostril filters rather than run the risk of embarrassment, strove to ignore some of the more disturbing sights and sounds. Ishimoto-Six was pleasant to look at, so it was easy to do.

 

The
Deceiver
was one of the few Hudathan vessels not quarantined in the home system. Built in secrecy beyond the rim, and crewed by the offspring of veterans from the last war, the ship was loaded with long-range sensors, highly specialized laboratory equipment, and the latest in stealth technology.

That being the case, Doma-Sa couldn’t be sure the warship was even there, hidden among the slowly tumbling asteroids, until the identity of his shuttle was electronically confirmed and the
Deceiver
chose to reveal itself.

A proximity alarm sounded as the stealth ship suddenly appeared on the control screens, grabbed the shuttle with a pair of tractor beams, and pulled it in.

Pleased by the no-nonsense competency of the maneuver, the Hudathan placed the vessel’s systems on stand-by, entered the somewhat spartan sleeping cabin, and assumed what he considered to be his
true
identity:
War Commander Hiween Doma-Sa.

The title would have surprised those having dinner in the Starlight Room, but shouldn’t have, since even the most superficial study of Hudathan culture would have revealed that there was no equivalent for the word “diplomacy” in their language, and that until their defeat at the hands, claws, and pincers of the Confederacy, their society had never included a class of individuals known as “diplomats.”

After all, why maintain a staff of professional negotiators when you have no intention of negotiating? Victory included the right to annihilate the enemy, and by doing so, to protect the Hudathan race.

Defeat, unthinkable though it was, meant the Hudathans would suffer the same fate.
Unless
their enemies allowed them to live—a mercy they were likely to regret.

Such were the Hudathan’s thoughts as he buckled the belt and pulled the cross strap down across his massive chest. The strap bore a large green gemstone. It glowed with internal light. He wore the sidearm more for comfort than any particular need.

There was a noticeable thump as the shuttle’s skids hit the
Deceiver’s
heavily scarred deck. Doma-Sa eyed himself in the full-length metal mirror, approved of what he saw, and headed for the lock. Had the mission been successful? He would know soon.

 

Senator Orno rather enjoyed the dinners, both as an opportunity to practice the fine art of politics, and as the means to enjoy a really fine meal. The ship boasted the best chefs in the Confederacy, one of whom was Ramanthian.