It was a telling point and one that some of the civilians hadn’t considered as yet. There were thousands of differences between the ships built on Hive, Earth, and Alpha001, a factor that would add a great deal of complexity to any effort aimed at using them in a concerted fashion. Some, dismayed by what they heard, felt their hearts begin to sink.
Tyspin scanned their faces. “Sorry, but that’s not the worst of it. Thanks to countless years of unremitting warfare the Thraki have evolved into a race of warriors, which, with the possible exception of the Hudathans, is something none of us can claim to be. That culture—that toughness—is a weapon in and of itself. Questions?”
There was silence for a moment, followed by a voice from the back of the room. The figure who rose wore a black pressure suit, which made him instantly recognizable. The senator from the Drac Axis seemed to grind the words out. ‘”Ships, many have we?”
Tyspin was barely able to recognize the syntax as a question. She didn’t trust the Drac, knew they were among the least dependable members of the Confederacy, but had very little choice. To conceal such information, or seem to conceal the information, could weaken the already flimsy alliance. She could feel Booly, Maylo, and others staring at her, wondering how she would respond.
“We are still in the process of assessing the extent of our assets—but current estimates run to about thirty-five hundred ships of various classes and sizes.”
“Plenty should be,” the Drac gurgled. “Ships too many get in each other’s way.”
“There’s some truth to what you say,” the naval officer conceded. “Large fleets require advanced command and control infrastructures and generate all manner of logistical problems. There is one additional factor, however. . . Besides the ships mentioned earlier, the Thraki possess a number of moon-sized arks—all of which are heavily armed. We on the other hand have nothing that even begins to compare with that sort of throw weight.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the Drac, or at least silence him, because he took his seat. Booly stood.
“Thank you. Admiral. Now, with that information in mind, lei’s examine the alternatives.”
The holo swirled and morphed into text. It dissolved from one language to another. “We have a number of choices,” Booly continued. “We could take no action whatsoever, hoping that the Sheen will ignore us, we can attempt an alliance with the Thraki, remembering their plans to use us, or we can pursue unilateral action. My staff and I recommend option three.”
Booly paused and, not hearing any objections, took the next important step. “So, assuming we opt for unilateral action—some additional choices open up. We could wait to see what the Sheen do and react accordingly . . .”
Senator Omo stood and gave himself permission to speak. “A reactive strategy is best—we fully endorse it.”
Ishimoto Six was well aware of the fact that his clone brother had been a member of the Ramanthian-sponsored cabal and felt the blood rush to his face. He came to his feet. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You’d like to see the machines attack Thraki colonies—some of which are on Hegemony worlds!”
“Established with permission from your government,” the Ramanthian observed mildly. “Or had you forgotten?”
“That’s enough,” Booly said firmly. “We’re here to establish a strategy .. not debate the past. Senator Ishimoto Six is correct about one thing, however, the penalty for adopting a reaction-based strategy is that the Sheen may decide to attack some of our assets, leading to heavy casualties.”
Maylo, who paid close attention to the debate, felt sorry for Six. It wasn’t his fault that the Hegemony had made itself vulnerable.
Oblivious to what Maylo was thinking, the military officer continued. “All of which suggests a second alternative: Root the Thraki out of their bases so the Sheen have no reason to attack, realizing there are no guarantees—and that they may decide to come after us regardless of where the Thraki happen to be.”
DomaSa had been silent up till then—but couldn’t remain so any longer. He lurched to his feet. “With all due respect, General—why be so subtle? The Thraki took Zynig47 and are in the process of colonizing it. Let’s attack, take the planet back, and send them on their way. The chances are good that the Sheen will follow.”
Booty, who was well aware of the Hudathan’s military background, gave a slight bow. “The Intaka, or
‘blow of death,’ mentioned by Grand Marshal Hisep RulaKa in his book Analysis of the Legion, is a proven strategy. And, if it weren’t for the arks that orbit Zynig7, I’d be tempted.
“However. I believe it was none other than the esteemed warrior Mylo NurIonDa who said, ‘Lives are as arrows— fire no more than you can afford.’ “
DomaSa found himself not only neutralized, but honored, and possessed of new respect. Here was a human, one of the few, who deserved Hudathan troops. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, General. You have more than answered my question.”
“So,” Booly concluded. “Here is the strategy that my staff and I recommend. With your permission and support, we intend to attack the Thraki colonies and allow most of the inhabitants to escape.”
“Escape, allow them to?” the senator from Drac growled. “Mind, have you lost?”
“No,” Booly answered patiently. “Why kill more of them than necessary? Or more of our troops for that matter? Once dislodged, the colonists will run for Zynig47.”
“Providing the Sheen with a single target,” Ishimoto Six said gratefully, “and sparing our planets.”
Booly shrugged. “That’s the plan ... but plans can and do go awry. For example, we assume that the machines operate in a logical manner, and are primarily interested in the Thraki. We could be wrong.”
The meeting broke up shortly after that. Booly made eye contact with Maylo but was mobbed by back-patting, hand-shaking politicians. The businesswoman waited for a moment, realized it would take a long time for the room to clear, and made her way into the corridor. Ishimoto Six was waiting. They walked toward the lift. “So, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About General Booly’s plan.”
Maylo shrugged. “I think it will be difficult, but if anyone can pull it off, he can.”
Six glanced sideways. Was the statement what it seemed? A straightforward endorsement of a competent general? Or something more? He decided to take the chance. “Maylo ...”
“Yes”
“There’s a dance tonight, in honor of the President’s birthday, and I wondered if you would come?”
Maylo noted the hesitancy in the clone’s voice and considered her response. The truth was that she would have been there anyway—everybody who was somebody would be—but this was something different. A date or something very similar. If she said “yes,” he would take her answer as permission to proceed, to take the relationship to the next level, and if she said “no,” he would be hurt and wouldn’t ask again.
So, what did she want? To open the door or close it? And what of Booly? Why couldn’t he pursue her with the same ardor that Six did? Because he was so desperately busy? Or just didn’t care? The words formed themselves. “That sounds like fun Samuel—thanks for asking.”
Ishimoto Six followed Maylo into the lift, knew the platform was falling, but felt his spirits soar. In spite of the fact that only the humans, dwellers and a few other races liked to dance, or even had a name for it, nearly everyone wanted to participate in President Nankool’s birthday celebration—some because they truly liked the chief executive, some because it pays to suck up, and some because there was nothing else to do.
That being the case, the corridors were overflowing with revelers, would-be revelers, or reveler watchers all heading for the Starlight Ballroom. They were dressed to the nines, or whatever the nines were in their particular cultures, which made for a nearly overwhelming assault on the senses. Booly stepped out of his sixth meeting of the day, felt the crowd pull him along, and was stunned by the bright shimmering
reds, blues, and greens. Capes, gowns, and robes rustled, swished, and in once case chimed. The smell of perfume, incense and things the officer wasn’t quite sure of filled the air. Add the drone of multilingual conversation to the mix, and it made for a stunning combination. It was the sort of thing that the officer in Booty dismissed as a complete waste of time. Still, odds were that Maylo was somewhere about, raising the distinct possibility that he could talk to her. or better yet, convince her to leave early.
Booly was considered a player by then, a being to be reckoned with, which meant that he was forced to shake all manner of limbs, answer nonsensical questions, and dodge various types of supplicants, the worst of whom were arms dealers, eager to sell him everything from pocket knives to nukes. Finally, after what felt like a swim upstream, the officer heard music, managed to break through a screen of onlookers, and made it to the dance floor. It took less than a second to spot Maylo and recognize the man she was with, Senator Samuel Ishimoto Six.
They were dancing to something slow and stately. Maylo wore a bright red dress and positively glowed. Her teeth flashed when she laughed. They looked happy, as if made for each other, and the spectators thought so too. Comments came from all around. “Aren’t they wonderful together?” “Look at that dress!” “He’s so handsome!” “What a beautiful couple.”
Booly looked down, realized how plain his class two khaki’s were, and felt suddenly out of place. Maybe it stemmed from his upbringing on Algeron, maybe it was the result of too many years on the rim, but the entire atmosphere made him uncomfortable. This was Maylo’s world and one in which he would never be able to compete. Slowly, reluctantly, the soldier turned and forced his way back through the crowd.
Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, Maylo caught a glimpse of khaki. Her eyes followed, she saw his face, and then he was gone. Something, she wasn’t sure what, seemed to squeeze her heart. The music played, her feet moved, but the dance was over.
Chapter 13
Any and all available resources can and should be used while searching for the Thraki. The Hoon
General Directive 00003.0
Standard year 2502
Inside the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The Sheen fleet swept through the Istar Seven system with the slow sureness of an organism that knows where it’s headed but is in no particular hurry to get there. And with good reason. In spite of the fact that the Hoon had completed its inventory and destroyed all remaining vestiges of its other self, the computer intelligence had something new to concern itself with.
Scouts had come across signs that the Thraki armada had not only come that way—but done so within the relatively recent past. There were other portents as well. . . Ships that flashed into existence at the far end of detector range, the presence of computer controlled drones that exploded if tampered with, and hundreds of free-floating relay devices that “squirted” data to each other as the fleet drew near. The occurrences were interesting for any number of reasons, beginning with the fact, that, old though the Hoon was, the computer had never observed such phenomena before. They suggested coordinated activity of some sort and presented a 92.3 percent match with instructions the AI had never been called upon to use before
How had the creators been able to provide instructions regarding events that would transpire hundreds of years in the future? The machine neither knew nor cared.
The essence of the newly revealed directions were actually quite simple: Although the Sheen had pursued the Thraki armada for centuries now, the day would almost certainly come when the hunted would turn and make a stand. And, as part of that effort, they might attempt to lure the Hoon into some sort of trap. The AI would know that day had arrived “when signs start to thicken, when ships harry the fleet, and when mysteries appear.”
The first pair of parameters made sense, but the last didn’t. “Mysteries?” What did that mean? Ah well, what the computer didn’t or couldn’t understand it had been programmed to ignore. So, cautious as to the possibility of a trap, the Hoon doubled the number of units assigned to reconnaissance, ordered the rest of the fleet to the highest possible state of readiness, and stowed the overall rate of advance.
That’s how the Sheen discovered that a Thraki convoy had taken refuge on the eleventh planet out from a rather undistinguished sun and turned to investigate.
Veera was playing with Sam, something she did at least once a day, and Jepp was watching. Their cabins were too small for such activities ... so they had moved out into me long, sterile corridor. Well, mostly sterile, since the human’s quasi-religious graffiti added what he considered to be a much needed touch of color.
The game, which Jepp watched from the comfort of a chair that Henry had fashioned from metal tubing, was as old as man’s relationship with dogs. Veera, her iridescent underfeathers occasionally catching the light, would throw the crudely made ball down the passageway, and Sam, pleased to be the center of attention, would chase it. Not only chase it, but perform tricks while doing so, each calculated to outdo the last. Jepp watched the device scoot along the ceiling, drop from above, and swallow the ball. The robot’s reward for this activity, if “reward” was the right word, were trills of approval from Veera. Trills that Sam answered in kind and made Jepp jealous. He couldn’t “sing” her language, hadn’t even tried, and felt left out.
Still, some company was better than none, and he had vaguely paternal feelings toward the little alien. Though competent in many respects, and almost impossibly bright, she was vulnerable, too. Both her mother and father were dead, she was passing through a stage analogous to human adolescence, and was trapped aboard an alien ship.
Dealing with Veera, which also meant dealing with her moods, had altered Jepp’s life. When she felt good then he felt good—and when she felt bad then he felt bad. The back and forth of which nearly drove the human crazy but beat loneliness. Something he had experienced all to often over the last six months.
Sam did a series of cartwheels, disgorged the ball at Veera’s feet, and dashed away. The Prithian uttered a series of chirps, threw the sphere down corridor, and seemed to stiffen. Her crimson shoulder plumage rose slightly and stuck straight out. Though unable to converse with the alien without the assistance of a translator, Jepp understood some of her nonverbal communications. He sat up straight.
“Veera? What’s wrong?”
The Prithian cocked her head to one side. “The ship changed direction—and picked up speed.”
The human hadn’t felt a thing but believed her nonetheless. The teenager had mentioned such changes shortly after coming aboard, and Jepp, having doubts regarding the veracity of her claims, ordered Alpha to check them out. The results were amazing. The Prithian was right at least 95 percent of the time. Her senses were more acute than his. So, given the fact that the ship had maintained the same course and speed for the last week or so, why change now? He frowned. “Tap into the Hoon and find out why.”
What could have been phrased as a request was expressed as an order. Veera felt mixed emotions. Her father ordered the youngster around all the time. And, as someone who was older than she was, and presumably wiser, Jepp was entitled to the same level of respect due Prithian elders. Or was he? Veera’s father was dead, her companion was eccentric by human standards, and she was alone. It was tempting to say “no,” on principle. To take a stand and maintain some personal space. The problem was her own highly developed sense of curiosity. What was behind the change in course?
Where was the Hoon taking them? The teenager wanted to know.
Veera trilled an order, Sam cartwheeled in her direction, and followed the Prithian down the corridor. Data ports were located at regular intervals along the bulkheads. The Hoon’s mechanical minions used them whenever they had a need to access certain types of information. The Thraki device scuttled up the wall, created the necessary adapter, and plugged itself into the ship’s electronic nervous system.
The way in which Veera communicated with mach
ines was different from the manner in which Jepp accomplished the same thing. Her songs were comprised of individual notes, each one of which could easily be translated into binary code, and manipulated by any device having the intelligence to do so. The resulting transfer was that much more efficient. Just the son of thing that the average machine is likely to appreciate.
More than that was the fact that most soft bodies required a machine interface to communicate with other machines, which marked them as clearly inferior. Al! except for Veera, that is, who, from a machine point of view spoke something very close to unadulterated code. An accomplishment that marked her as superior to the biped with whom she chose to associate herself. That’s why the Hoon had a tendency to indulge her A tiny, nearly insignificant part of the AI’s consciousness listened as the interrogatory arrived. “The ship [I am on] changed course. Why?”
The computer intelligence spent a fraction of a fraction of a second considering the question and formulating a response. “Thraki have been detected. The fleet must respond.”
Jepp had arrived by then, and Veera relayed what she had learned. The human felt a variety of emotions: a sense of excitement born of boredom, feelings of guilt that stemmed from his last encounter with the Thraki, and a sort of spiritual lust. Because if there was anything the human hungered after it was live, honest to goodness converts.
Yes, it was true that the last group of Thraki had gone so far as to deny the existence of a single all-powerful, all-knowing god, and having done so, had paid with their lives, but they were outcasts, and these Thraki might be more amenable to reason. It was worth a try. “Tell the Hoon that I wish to speak with the Thraki in the hope that we might convert them to the cause.”
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