By Blood Alone (47 page)

Six stared into the Ramanthian’s compound eyes. “All three of which belong to the Hudathans.”

“All three of which were
taken
by the Hudathans,” Orno countered,
“after
the slaughter of their indigenous populations.”

Six could almost see the events unfold. Ambassador Doma-Sa would protest, hearings would be scheduled, and the process would last for years. Meanwhile, the Ramanthians would colonize the worlds, and once in place would be nearly impossible to dislodge.

The situation was hopeless. He wondered if the Triad of One knew about these machinations, concluded that they must, and wondered why his instructions remained unchanged. Could there be a schism of some sort? A disagreement at the highest levels? That was the weakness of tripartite leadership—the need for eternal consensus.

Ishimoto-Seven saw the look in his brother’s eyes and smiled. “So, Samuel, what will it be? Will you give the speech? Or take a fall down a ladder? The choice is yours.”

 

The freighter, which was far too large to enter the
Friendship’s
landing bay, lay a hundred miles off her stem, in orbit above Arballa.

The vessel’s skipper, an ex-Navy officer named Ruxton, had spent fifteen frustrating hours talking his way through the fifty-thousand-cubic-m
ile defense zone that surrounded the exbattleship. He might never have succeeded, except for the fact that he had served with the
Friendship’s
XO twelve years before.

Now, with what felt like a cargo of lead riding in the bottom of his gut, the merchant officer stood next to the ship’s main lock and waited for the legendary owner of Chien-Chu Enterprises to come aboard.

Had he made the correct decision? To ignore the itinerary he was supposed to follow and come here? And how much money would the company lose as a result? A quarter million credits? What if Chien-Chu fired him on the spot? His wife would be pissed, the kids would suffer, his creditors would ...

The lock opened, and Sergi Chien-Chu entered the ship. He had never met Ruxton before, or even heard of him for that matter, but if the master of one of his ships had something important to say, and came all the way to Arballa to say it, then the least he could do was listen. Even if the ship was more than a million miles off course.

Chien-Chu looked around, spotted the man in question, and stuck out his hand. “Captain Ruxton, I’m Sergi Chien-Chu. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Ruxton took the hand, shook it, and tried to calculate how old the cyborg was. More than a hundred, that was for sure, not that it mattered. Unless the old fart was senile, that is—which would matter a lot.

“Welcome aboard, sir. Thank you for coming.”

Chien-Chu smiled. “You’re welcome. So, Captain Ruxton, what’s so important that it brought you and
Big Bertha
all the way out to this comer of the Confederacy?”

Ruxton gulped. He was tall and very thin. His Adam’s apple rose and fell. The crew called the freighter
Big Bertha,
but her official name was the
Beratha IV,
which indicated that Chien-Chu had fairly good data, and knew where she was
supposed
to be. Give or take a few light-years. The officer jerked his head toward the stem. “It’ll be easier if I show you. Please follow me.”

The industrialist followed the nearly skeletal officer down a well-maintained corridor, noted that his olfactory receptors had detected the presence of a highly spiced Martian curry, and knew people were peering at him.

Ruxton paused, gestured toward a hatch, and said, “Sick bay.” As if that was all the explanation the industrialist would need.

Chien-Chu stepped through the doorway, eyed the pile of electronics that occupied the single examining table, and raised an eyebrow. “Okay, Captain, I give up. What is this?”

“Not ‘what,’ ” Ruxton said carefully. “
Who
. Her name is Angie Anvik, she’s a communications tech, and she works for Chien-Chu Enterprises. Sh
e has something important to say, something
real
important, which is why she pulled her brain box, loaded it aboard a message torp, and sent herself home.

“We happened across her transponder signal just shy of Transit Point WHOT-7926-7431, used a tractor beam to snag the torp, and listened to what she had to say. That’s when we went looking for your niece. Couldn’t find her ... but latched onto you.” Ruxton shrugged. “I reckon that’s it.”

Chien-Chu took a second look at the pile of equipment, recognized the brain box for what it was, and traced some tubing to the ship’s life-support console.

He imagined what it had been like for Anvik to jerk her own brain box, and then, assuming she had an implant, to view it through the sensors mounted on her disconnected body.

That would be bad enough, but to go for weeks without the ability to see, hear, touch, smell, or feel. That took courage. But why? “Angie? Can you hear me?”

Anvik felt relief mixed with pride. Finally, after the seemingly endless voyage aboard the
Hybrid
, her arrival at CSM-1706, and the decision to send more than just a message home, her moment had finally come. Not just for
her
, but for Nethro, Jones, Ivy, and all the rest.

She looked down from the surveillance camera mounted high in a corner, triggered the footage she had recorded on Two Ball, and told the story.

The industrialist stared into the wall screen until it faded to black, shook his head, and swore a silent oath. Now, just when the Confederacy was at its lowest ebb, when the military had been cut back to practically nothing, a new and clearly dangerous force had emerged. Nankool needed to know—and sooner rather than later.

“Angie, I can imagine how uncomfortable you must be, but I want others to hear your report. May I take you back with me? The company will pay for your next body—the best money can buy.”

Anvik considered the offer, smiled, and wished she had lips. “Sir, you’ve got a deal, providing this one comes equipped with red hair, and I can keep my job.”

“Done,” Chien-Chu said willingly, “with a raise to boot. That goes for you, Ruxton—
and
your crew. Now let’s get going ... we have work to do.”

 

The chamber was packed to overflowing with politicians, all happy to vote on something popular, all primping, preening and posing for the various cameras, eager to show constituents how effective they were.

He was originally slated to speak following eighteen of his more senior colleagues, but Samuel Ishimoto-Six suddenly found him
self in slot number three, right after the representative from Arballa. Orno had influence, a lot of it, and knew how to use it.

Though known for his long and often convoluted oratory, the first speaker seemed unusually brief, as was the senator from Arballa. He participated via holo and extolled the virtues of low taxes, low unemployment, and low tariffs for manufactured goods. Especially
his
.

That’s when Six heard his name, managed the walk to the podium, and looked out onto an ocean of snouts, tentacles, and a considerable number of optical organs—two of which were black and belonged to Senator Orno. Ishimoto-Seven, along with Patricia Pardo, sat nearby. Both looked expectant.

Slowly at first, then with growing confidence, the politician began to speak. Both heads and cameras turned in his direction. “Greetings, gentlebeings. My apologies for ignoring the subject at hand, but a rather urgent matter has come to my attention, and requires action by the senate.

“It seems that a heretofore unknown sentient race has entered Confederate space via our sector, taken up residence on Zynig-47, and fortified the planet.”

There was silence for a moment, followed by complete pandemonium. The majority leader, enraged at the manner in which the session had been hijacked, bellowed in protest.

Other representatives gabbled incoherently and fought to make themselves heard. Six raised his hands for silence.

“Please, hear me out. The newcomers refer to themselves as the Thraki. They have five thousand ships. Some of these vessels are nearly as large as Earth’s moon. I believe Senator Orno has more.”

The Ramanthian had planned for this moment, had looked forward to it for more than two years, and had dressed accordingly. His robes shimmered with reflected light, there was a spring in his step, and he was quick to reach the podium.

Had a properly trained xenoanthropologist been on hand, he, she, or it would have noticed that rather than being concerned regarding the sudden arrival of a possibly hostile species, Orno seemed pleased. But no such expert was present—which meant that no one knew the difference.

“Thank you, Senator Ishimoto-Six. Greetings, friends and colleagues. As you can tell from Senator Ishimoto-Six’s comments. we find ourselves in a difficult situation. What with the military cutbacks, and the troubles on Earth, the Confederacy’s military assets are stretched rather thin.”

It was a clever gambit designed to strike the right tone, yet remind the legislators of how powerless they were. As if by magic, a carefully prepar
ed star map blossomed over the stage. It showed two neighboring systems and the planets that comprised them.

“So, in light of scarce resources, it’s my pleasure to announce that the Ramanthian Navy has moved to secure some of the more tempting planets in systems adjacent to Zynig-47, including Jericho and Halvar, which orbit NS-678-241, and Noka II, which, except for a single ice world, has NS-7621-110 all to itself.

“Those of you who happen to be familiar with this particular sector will remember that these are Trust planets, seized during the Hudathan wars, subjected to unspeakable atrocities, now guarded by orbital picket ships.

“While it’s true that the Ramanthian Navy could not withstand a full-scale attack by the Thraki fleet, initial contact by representatives of the Hegemony leads us to believe that they are satisfied with Zynig-47. For the moment, anyway.”

The Ramanthian scanned the audience and savored his moment of triumph. “That’s all for the moment.... Does anyone have any questions?”

Many of those present had questions, and didn’t hesitate to yell, squawk, click, chirp, and squeak them till a highly amplified voice cut through din.

“Yes,
I
have a question. How can Senator Orno get up in front of such a distinguished audience and tell so many bold-faced lies?”

Most of the beings in the room were masters of indirection, subtlety, and circumlocution. That being the case, attacks, especially face-to-face attacks, were a rarity. Every head or similar organ swiveled toward the back of the chamber as President Marcott Nankool strode down the aisle. The chief executive looked confident as he took the podium.

Senator Orno, who had been shocked into silence, worked his beak. Nothing came out. The human turned toward the senate floor. His expression was grave.

“Anyone who cares to check section three, page five, paragraph two of the charter will find that the President can at his, her, or its discretion declare a state of emergency, and having done so, direct Confederate military forces as he, she, or it deems appropriate, given that the senate is properly informed.”

The human consulted a card that he held in the palm of his hand. “There are three circumstances in which this power can be exercised. Invasion by nonsignatory sentients, treason by member states, or the gross violation of charter provisions.”

Nankool looked up. “Unfortunately for both ourselves and the governments we represent, I’m sorry to announce that all three of these conditions have been met. Data supporting that conclusion will be available in a moment.

“First, however, it is my sad responsibility to instruct the master at arms to place Senator Alway Orno, Governor Patricia Pardo, Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven, and Senator Ishimoto-Six under arrest.”

The President nodded to a thickly built human. “Chief Warrant Officer Aba, you have your orders. Carry them out.”

There was gasp as those equipped to inhale the ship’s atmosphere did so. Then came a roar of outrage as the War Orno produced a weapon he wasn’t supposed to have and charged the stage.

This possibility had been anticipated, however, and the Ramanthian staggered under the combined force of four stunner bolts. He managed two additional steps and fell. His blaster skittered down the aisle. A pair of Aba’s people lifted the warrior and dragged him away.

Orno was not only shocked by the manner in which his alter ego had been neutralized, he was stunned by the sudden reversal of fortune. Surely there was an error, a mistake, a miscommunication ...

A pair of security guards fastened shock cuffs onto the Ramanthian’s pincers and prodded him with their stun guns. Orno had just descended the stairs and started up the aisle when Governor Pardo screamed an obscenity and tried to break free. A baton caught the human on the side of her head. She dropped like a rock.

Ishimoto-Seven yelled, “Long live the Hegemony!” and Six went quietly. Yes, he was innocent, but they would never believe him, and it could be dangerous if they did. How much support did Seven have, anyway? The brig was preferable to a death sentence.

“Please consult your data terminals,” Nankool said as the prisoners were carried or led from the room. “A considerable amount of data has been downloaded to your terminals. I would appreciate your full and undivided attention as we review the facts.”

The presentation lasted the better part of two standard hours. It covered all the information uncovered by Hiween Doma-Sa plus that gathered by Angie Anvik. The senators watched in horror as the Thraki attacked NB-23-11/E and killed every person aboard.

Chien-Chu, with Doma-Sa at his side, stood at the back of the room and watched the presentation.

Though reluctant to act till all the cards had been dealt face up, Nankool was a master orator who knew each being present, including their cultures, personalities, and political agendas. That being the case, he better than nearly anyone else was able to find the words that would build consens
us, avoid offense, and encourage the assemblage to act. “So,” the President concluded, “while I cannot condone the means by which Ambassador Doma-Sa obtained some of his information, his actions were somewhat understandable.