The hatch opened and closed behind him. They were waiting just inside. The thugs, all supplied by the Bureau of Internal Affairs (BIA), understood their assignment. Humble the senator, but leave him unmarked.
That being the case, two identical men grabbed the politician’s arms, a third hit him in the gut, and a fourth used a baton on his kidneys.
Ishimoto-Six went down within seconds, was kicked exactly six times, and then jerked to his feet. The face that waited to greet him was the mirror image of his own.
Harlan Ishimoto-Seven grinned into his brother’s shocked countenance. “Hello, Samuel, nice of you to show up. What? No cute comments? The kind you share with free-breeding sluts? Well, that’s too bad. You have a job to do—and you’ll damned well do it! Take him to room three.”
The BIA agents lifted Ishimoto-Six off his feet and carried the clone down a sterile-looking corridor. His toes touched every third step or so. The politician caught sight of Svetlana Gorgin-Three’s smug expression and started to put the pieces together. She worked for Seven, and he had support from above. But whose? There was no way to know.
They knew about his dalliance with Maylo Chien-Chu, that much was obvious, but didn’t explain the beating. Back in the old days, maybe—but not for the last fifty years or so. An entry in his personnel file, a letter of censure; either would be sufficient. No, they wanted to intimidate him, but why?
Though ostensibly used for meetings, room three had other purposes as well. That being the case, it was equipped with sturdy easy-to-clean furniture.
They carried Six inside, dropped him into a chair, and cuffed his hands—not because they were afraid of what the politician might do, but to emphasize how vulnerable he was. Then, so Ishimoto-Six would have time to worry, they left the room.
A full hour had passed by the time the door opened again. That was more than enough time for Six to imagine all sorts of unpleasant possibilities and sweat into his clothes.
A number of beings entered the room. They included Ishimoto-Seven, Gorgin-Three, Governor Patricia Pardo, Senator Alway Orno, and the BIA thugs. The latter stood with arms folded while everyone else took seats at the table. The Ramanthian used his tool legs to preen his beak. “Senator Ishimoto ... how nice to see you outside of chambers. We should get together more often.”
Ishimoto-Seven chuckled. “Please forgive my brother. His sense of humor is somewhat impaired.”
Pardo, her hair just so, and her legs carefully crossed, glanced at her wrist term. “Can we get on with this? I have a meeting at 1100 hours.”
“Of course,” Seven said smoothly. “Would one of you like to brief my brother? Or shall I?”
“The idiot belongs to you,” Pardo said harshly. “Please continue.”
“As you wish,” the clone replied, clearly relishing his role. “Well, dear brother, here’s the situation. Listen carefully ... because you have a part to play.”
Six listened as Seven described how the cabal had come into being, the manner in which Earth’s government had been usurped, and how the Thraki had appeared from nowhere.
The politician forced himself to ignore the pain caused by the cuffs and concentrate on what his brother was saying. Saying and not saying, since Six knew Seven almost as well as he knew himself and could tell when the bastard was lying. Or, if not actually lying, then withholding critical information.
And that made sense, because the arrangement the diplomat described would provide scant benefit to the Hegemony. That fact hinted at darker motivations—ones Seven didn’t want to discuss in front of the others.
One such motivation was obvious, to Six at least, and that was the desire to reduce the amount of influence that Earth exerted over the Confederacy—a trap into which Pardo had fallen like an overripe plum.
But what about the Thraki? Where did they fit in? And what of Orno and Pardo? Were all their cards on the table? Not very likely. It was a dangerous game that Seven was playing—and one that could pull the Hegemony down.
“So,” Six croaked, “what do you want of me?”
“Very little, actually,” Pardo said, glancing up from her compact. “All you have to do is give a speech.”
“Yes,” Orno agreed. “A speech in which you will reveal that the Thraki entered the Confederacy via Hegemomycontrolled space, that they seized the planet known as Zynig-47, and are well on the way to fortifying it.
“Not something our colleagues are likely to approve of, but will have to accept, since they lack the means to change it. That’s when I will rise to announce that in an effort to shield nearby planets from a similar fate, the Ramanthian Navy has placed Jericho, Halvar, and Noka II under protective custody.”
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-mile 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. She 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 himself 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 prepared 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 responsibi
lity 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.
By Blood Alone Page 35
