by Richard Fox
“The Omega Provision was our promise that if any proccies were made after the treaty, they would be…destroyed. Destroyed by us or any other signatory that encountered them.” Her shoulders slumped.
“Destroyed? You mean killed,” Gideon said. “Every proccie the Ibarras have will be…murdered.”
“Don’t put it that way,” she said. “It’s not diplomatic.”
“Hale negotiated this? The same Hale that refused to give the proccies to the Toth when they came to Earth demanding them and the technology?” Gideon asked.
“No. The Omega Provision came up after he’d transitioned to the Terra Nova colony. Ugh, I bet he’s having a great time right now, far beyond the galaxy’s edge where none of this crap can follow him.”
“Then who agreed to murder every new proccie?” Gideon asked.
“President Garret…a few others.” She unscrewed the cap on her flask and took another sip.
“Do the Ibarras know about this?”
“Given the placement of spies we’ve detected throughout the government, the intelligence types have ‘high confidence’ the Ibarras know about Omega,” she said.
“Then you’ve pushed the Ibarras into a corner. They have the choice to die on their knees or die fighting…but Omega isn’t law yet?”
“Not for us. Given the complexities of other races’ governments, that the provision’s been in limbo for a few years is not much of a concern. But when the Haesh come back and announce that, yes indeed, the Ibarras have illegal proccies, the issue will come to a head.”
“And what do we do with the Ibarras then?”
“I don’t know, Gideon. There’s no easy way out of this mess.”
Chapter 12
Aignar looked at the wide silk sleeves hanging from his raised arms. A Dotari crewman draped a sash over Aignar’s head, fished a bit of white paste from the inside of his beak, and used it to fasten the sash against the fold over his chest.
“You can use a bobby pin, you know?” Aignar asked.
“Must be perfect. Gives good luck to the joined,” the Dotari said as he tugged at the robes and continued to tut-tut the poor fit.
“There any way this ends without anyone being ‘joined’?”
The Dotari froze, his eyes wide.
“If the two pledged die during combat,” he said. “Such a tragedy when that happens. My mother took me to see the play Yush’ura and Cin’mai when I was a boy. I cried for days. But then someone else would pledge to Cha’ril. She’s so beautiful. Like that one human—Orozco—on the videos advertising liquor.”
The Dotari held a spray bottle up to the side of his face and said, “For the good times. For all the times. Standish Liquors.” The Dotari made a phlegmy hiss, which passed for laughter.
“We wouldn’t call Orozco ‘beautiful,’” Aignar said.
“But he has many offspring? Over twenty.” The Dotari stepped back, then retied the wide belt around Aignar’s waist.
“With like twenty different women. That’s not a good thing. You know what? Just finish what you’re doing so I can get this over with before some Dotari decides to make this a shotgun wedding?”
“A what?”
Aignar swatted lazily at the Dotari, who easily swayed out of the way. The alien held the spray bottle directly over Aignar’s head and gave him a quick spritz.
“Good God, what is that? It smells like cat piss and hatred.” Aignar buried his nose into the crook of his arm.
“It’s to negate her pheromones, help the pledged think clearly,” the Dotari said. He sprayed Aignar’s cuffs several times.
“Will it wash out?”
The Dotari looked at the bottle and clicked his beak.
The door to the dressing room opened and another Dotari stuck his head into the room and squawked at them.
“You remember what to do?” the dresser asked.
“Pretty sure.” Aignar pulled one sleeve back and looked over notes taped to the inside of his metal forearm. “No one’s making a video of this, right? I don’t want my son to see me dressed up like-like-like I don’t know what the hell is going on.”
The Dotari at the door motioned for Aignar to hurry.
“‘Have a Dotari lance mate,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said,” Aignar grumbled.
He walked out into a cargo bay with a raised platform and two seats atop of it. Poles with lanterns fixed to the ends—meant to approximate torches, Aignar figured—formed a semicircle around the platform. Dotari crowded beyond the perimeter. There wasn’t another human in sight.
Aignar walked up the stairs and paced around the seats five times (not three, as Cha’ril emphasized several times) then brushed off one of the seats with the edge of his sleeves. He sat down in the other, then rapped against the armrest.
Cha’ril came through a door on the other side of the platform. She wore a blue-gray, formless gown and a veil that covered her face but left her quills exposed.
Aignar bent a metal finger and tapped a button on his wrist. The Dotari language came out of the speaker embedded in his throat and the aliens around the room joined in, repeating segments over and over again as the song spread through the crowd like a wave.
Although Cha’ril sat in the chair beside Aignar and he could see her face through the sheer veil, he couldn’t gauge her expression.
“Now you must act disinterested,” she said.
Man’fred Vo pushed through the crowd on one side of the torch-lined semicircle. He was bare-chested, and chalky-white runes were dabbed against his blue-green skin. He wore leather pants that ended at his knees and he carried a thin staff with a multicolored ribbon tied to one end.
Fal’tir emerged from the other side, similarly dressed and armed, though the runes were markedly different. Aignar leaned forward to gaze at Fal’tir and realized that neither of the Dotari had belly buttons.
“Disinterest,” Cha’ril hissed. “You must recognize the winner. If you show any favoritism, their clans may not accept the outcome.”
Aignar pulled back and looked at her.
“So we just chat while they—” Aignar winced as the two Dotari opened their beaks and bellowed a war cry, which changed to a song that they sang in tune with each other.
“Yes, best to ignore them,” she said.
“They’re done up like island savages about to go on a head hunt and I should ignore them. Sure. Easy.” Aignar leaned toward her. “Which do you want?”
“Man’fred Vo is the son of a hero from the Ember War,” Cha’ril said. “His father flew on the Breitenfeld and went on to train most of our fighter pilots. ‘Vo’ means ‘son of,’ an old-fashioned naming convention. He is ambitious and skilled. Scored nine kills during the fight with the Kesaht.”
“So you want him?”
“Fal’tir is armor. He fought the Naroosha on Togrund.”
“Fal’tir…his lance was human. They all redlined after the Naroosha hit them with some sort of ion pulse. He’s the one that broke through the Naroosha spike drones and killed the aliens in their nerve center.”
“He is brave. The only Dotari to receive our Mark of Valor and your Armor Cross.”
“So…him?”
“You are ushulra. You are to choose.”
The Dotari abruptly ended their song and began twirling their staffs overhead, then striking the deck and hissing at each other.
“If you have a preference…help me help you, Cha’ril. I don’t have to choose at all, do I? I’ll delay, find a better solution for you than this business,” Aignar said.
She reached over and gently put a hand on his.
“What do you mean? This is wonderful. This is how the Dotari survive,” she said. “My parents will be so proud.”
“All of you are—” slaves to your hormones, he didn’t finish. Aignar’s shoulders slumped. The Dotari were determined to play this out. He realized that the more he tried to overlay his own sense of what was right and wrong, the more friction he would cause.
/> “If this is what you want,” he said.
“It’s getting worse.” Cha’ril looked back to the posturing males. Man’fred rammed one end of his staff against the deck and pointed at Fal’tir. Man’fred raised his face to the ceiling and made a choking sound, then he thrust his head at Aignar and spat.
A wad of phlegm hit Aignar in the chest. He froze in place, the feeling of warm goo seeping through his robes.
“Am I supposed to ignore that?” he asked.
Fal’tir raised his head up and made the same gagging noise.
“No!” Aignar held his hands out toward the Dotari armor solider. “No, don’t you—” Fal’tir spat and hit Aignar in the shoulder.
“Son of a bitch,” he fumed as he scraped the spit off his robes.
Fal’tir spun around and struck at Man’fred with his staff. Man’fred swept his weapon around to block and their staffs met with a crack of wood. The pilot turned the sweep into a full turn and whipped the other end around, striking Fal’tir in the ribs with a smack.
The Dotari armor retreated, one elbow clutched against his side.
“Cha’ril, what? What are they doing?” He looked at his cheat sheet on the inside of his arm and didn’t see anything about combat.
“Fuli ma thrish arra,” she said. “‘Until one yields.’”
Man’fred raised his staff overhead and slammed it down at Fal’tir, who dashed aside and snapped a blow at his opponent. Man’fred tried to parry and took the hit on his hand. Man’fred snarled in pain and pulled the hand back, two fingers obviously broken.
“Or lax-i-dive log,” Aignar read from the notes.
“No. This is not a cooking contest.”
“Fore es smog?”
“That’s indecent.”
“Thrak azog?”
“Yes, with a ‘k.’”
Aignar hit his hand against his chair.
“That means I can stop this if there’s an obvious winner? Right?”
“Don’t. One will yield and then you’ll give me to the winner,” she said.
Gripping the end of his staff, Man’fred spun it around into a wide arc and swept it at Fal’tir’s knees. The armor jammed his staff against the deck and stopped Man’fred’s swing. Man’fred moved forward with his momentum and took a jab to the stomach from Fal’tir.
Aignar squirmed in his seat, confused that neither had tried to strike each other with hands or feet, even though both had several openings for a punch or kick that could have ended the fight quickly.
Fal’tir swung the other end of his staff at Man’fred. The pilot yanked his staff back and blocked the strike, then planted his weight on his back foot and spun around, swinging his staff in a backhanded strike.
The blow hit Fal’tir on the side of his head, knocking him off-balance. Man’fred struck the armor soldier on the knee and sent him to the ground. Fal’tir’s staff escaped his grasp and rolled toward Aignar and Cha’ril.
“Dentar!” Man’fred pointed his staff at Fal’tir. Yield!
The armor looked up at Cha’ril and crawled toward his weapon. Purple blood ran down his face and dripped from his beak.
The crowd broke into a chant. Dentar! Dentar!
Man’fred rammed the tip of his staff against Fal’tir’s back, jabbing his already hurt ribs. Fal’tir cried out in pain but kept crawling toward his staff. Man’fred raised his staff over his head and let off a long trill. When he turned around, Aignar saw murder in the alien’s eyes.
Man’fred faced the crowd, beat a hand against his chest, then whirled around and struck at Fal’tir with an overhand strike that would shatter his skull.
The staff hit Aignar’s metal forearm and shattered. Aignar stood between the two fighters, arms bent at his side and ready to fight. The crowd had gone silent.
“Enough!” Aignar’s fingers snapped open and he clamped down on the remnants of the staff still in Man’fred’s grasp. He yanked the staff away and held the other end with Man’fred’s cloth to Cha’ril.
She reached out, hesitated, then undid the knot on the cloth and held it to her chest. She stood and held out a hand to Man’fred. He jumped up on the stage and intertwined the fingers of his unbroken hand with hers.
The crowd began singing, the same tune she had sung in the passageway when Aignar held the two fighters’ totems.
The main doors to the cargo bay slid open and Dotari carried in tables and giant bowls of steaming gar’udda and metal kegs. Cha’ril and Man’fred hurried away to an open side corridor. The crowd’s mood changed immediately and they swarmed around the food and drink.
“You made a mistake,” Fal’tir said. The armor lay on his side, clutching broken ribs and bleeding freely from the cut on his face.
Aignar knelt next to him and looked over the cut.
“Buddy, you lost.”
“No. I am armor, same as you. We cannot fail. We do not surrender.” Fal’tir crawled toward his staff.
Aignar put his hand on the staff and pinned it in place.
“If you go after them, what’ll happen?” Aignar looked the armor in the eye. “He’ll kill you. You want to die for pride? We are armor. Save your fury for the enemy, a real enemy.”
“You don’t know what I’m feeling. Cha’ril is the most beautiful—”
Aignar grabbed the edge of his robe, the part doused with the foul-smelling spray, and rubbed it against Fal’tir’s nose. The Dotari gagged before falling on his back. Fal’tir looked up at the ceiling, then propped himself onto an elbow.
“Did that work?” Aignar asked.
Fal’tir wiped the back of his hand against his cut and looked at the blood coating his fingers.
“Can you…can you get me to sick bay?” the Dotari asked.
“Sure thing. Then we’ll find a bottle of whatever’ll get you drunk and I’ll show you how humans handle a little heartache.”
****
Gideon, still in his dress uniform, walked into the Ardennes’ cemetery where a dozen suits of armor stood in coffin-shaped maintenance enclosures along the edge of the room. Gideon took steps up to the catwalk that ran at waist height to the armor.
Stopping at a suit, he typed in an access code at a small workstation and the breastplate on Gideon’s armor came loose with a thump.
“I don’t blame you, sir,” came from the armor to Gideon’s right. Aignar’s helm turned toward his lance commander.
“Aignar? The ship’s personnel tracker has you in your quarters.” Gideon unsnapped his collar.
“My tracker’s in my wrist.” Aignar’s hand rotated from side to side. “I left it behind. Couple advantages to being part man and part machine. Then I came down here, figured I deserved some quiet time.”
Gideon leaned against the back railing.
“Admiral Lettow sent me a message explaining everything that happened,” Gideon said. “The whole thing was…unexpected.”
“At least it’s over,” Aignar said. “At least I hope it’s over. Fal’tir seemed to chill out after the medics patched him up. I doubt any Dotty will come demanding satisfaction now that Cha’ril and Man’fred are joined. Did the admiral mention I got spit on? Was that in the memo?”
“He left that out.”
“Part of the theme to being an ushulra, sir. Lots they don’t tell you. Good news is that the smell goes away after you burn the clothes and take a couple showers. Why the Dotties can’t just get drunk and do the walk of shame the next morning…”
“But it’s over now that Cha’ril is married.” Gideon rubbed a hand against his cheek.
“Not married married, but joined married. They kept correcting me on that. The two lovebirds are on a special pass. We won’t see them for another twenty-four hours. Which is fine by me.”
“Honestly, what you had to deal with up here was better than what happened on New Bastion,” Gideon said. “The Ibarras got greedy, made proccies that the galaxy can’t accept. There will be a war…”
“That bothers you, sir? You don’t have
any love lost for the Ibarras.”
“I don’t. I’ll tear down their cities brick by brick and smash their ships with my bare hands. But I’d rather this fight be one Earth wants, not one that we’re forced into. Others—not me—will pull their punches, and that will get the entire galaxy against Earth.”
“What about the Kesaht?” Aignar asked.
“They’re more afraid of procedurals than the Kesaht,” Gideon said. “I can’t say I blame them. They all know the Ibarras, what they’re capable of. As far as they can tell, the Kesaht may be nothing but a bunch of raiders.”
“So now what?”
Gideon shrugged off his jacket and folded it neatly.
“We’ve got the location of an Ibarra world,” he said. “We take that back to Earth and then Phoenix decides the next move. Pull up your VR sims and load a firing range. Ibarra targets.”
Chapter 13
A sparkling white disk formed in the center of a Crucible gate and a single Vishrakath ship emerged through the wormhole. This ship was small; all that remained of the asteroid it had been built into was a crust of rock. It zoomed out of the jump gate and hooked around a lime-green moon, the atmosphere swirling with methane.
Kesaht claw ships tracked the Vishrakath ship, motes of glowing light at the apex of the ships’ irregularly sized digits.
The craft sped past the Kesaht defenses, skirting a battleship and accompanying fleet. It came around the moon and shot toward a world made up of brown seas and deserts. Patches of brightness on the dark side marked domed cities. A patchy belt of light stretched around the equator, tracing to a massive construction project in orbit over the day side that would ring the planet once it was complete.
It angled away from the planet toward a star fort made up of the reddish-brown plates the Kesaht preferred for their void craft. Crescent-shaped fighters spilled out of the fort and swarmed the asteroid ship. The Vishrakath continued, barreling toward an open hangar as fighters maneuvered out of the way.
