“Well, I would gladly share all the information I have with you, as long as you do something for me in return.”
He said he didn’t want to have sex with me, but I’m positive I’m about to get screwed.
“And what might that be?” she asked him, playing along and hating every second of it. The premonition of danger grew stronger.
“You will need to perform a task for me. It might be dangerous.”
“I would have to ask my superiors first. And I can’t endanger this mission by playing some sort of game with you, buddy.”
He laughed at that. “I can assure you, Major, that you will not be adversely affecting your mission at all. If you agree to come with me, you can send a message to your superiors indicating you’ve accepted a personal invitation from me and will be unavailable for a day or two. Three or four at most.”
“Three or four days is a long time. What if I refuse?”
“I will be very unhappy. And you will learn nothing about the dangers your entire species is facing.”
“In that case, how can I refuse?” she said, wishing she could think of a way to do just that. She sent a secure email to General Gage, spare on details and downright insubordinate, as she didn’t ask for permission to go off with some unknown alien.
There was no response. She looked around for the general, but couldn’t see him amidst the dancing, talking and screwing aliens and their guests.
“Do not worry. Your superior will receive your message in due time,” the fake Marine said. “Now, if you will come with me?”
She did.
* * *
Fromm found Heather pretending to listen to a couple of Tah-Leen and clearly not having a good time of it.
“If you will excuse us,” he told the alien. “I need to borrow Ms. McClintock for a while.”
The ETs set off to bother someone else.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Safety in numbers. I think I can get away with being a little rude to them, being a ‘barbarian warrior’ and such. One of them actually called me that.”
“Yeah,” Heather agreed. “They aren’t being exactly subtle about their contempt for us.”
Before Fromm could answer, he received a priority call from General Gage.
“Sir?”
“One of the aliens has taken Major Zhang away and now I can’t locate her anywhere. Her implant transponder appears to be blocked. And the AIC just notified me a dozen civilians are also missing. Including that asshole, Llewellyn.”
One didn’t exclaim ‘Shit!’ in front of a brigadier general, so Fromm contented himself with, “Did they go along willingly?”
“Apparently. They all sent messages to the effect they were leaving of their own free will, including Zhang. It doesn’t matter in her case, though. She disobeyed my direct orders when she left. Warp pilots know too much classified information to be allowed to wander off on their own. I’ve half a mind to send out a search party for her, or to demand our hosts return her to us.”
Heather was frantically shaking her head, which meant she was eavesdropping on the military channel. Not something she was supposed to do, although he wasn’t surprised she had. Her silent warning made sense, though.
“If you think that’s wise, sir. What are your orders?” Fromm asked. Telling the general it wasn’t a good idea was an even worse idea. His tone managed to convey his doubts without breaching protocol.
“None, for now. Sec-State is in charge, and she wants us to wait and see. I suppose it makes sense. Llewellyn’s disappearance could spell trouble, though. For all I care, the aliens can have his worthless ass, but he’s probably spilled everything he knows to them, and he’s the kind of bastard who’d happily play Lord Haw-Haw for the enemy if given a chance. Big mistake letting him come along. The other disappearances bother me a lot more. Civvies have forgotten how to follow orders, but they’d been told not to go off on their own. The Tah-Leen must be very persuasive.”
“Are you thinking they were coerced, sir?”
“Anything is possible. All I know is I don’t like any of this. Tell your people to watch their six. I don’t want anybody else getting picked off. We’re leaving in five minutes, by the way. Pass the word.”
“Will do, sir.” The call ended.
Fromm checked everyone’s status, which he’d been doing every fifteen minutes or so. His officers were all nearby, all engaged in conversation with one or more Tah-Leen. Lieutenant Berry seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself while discussing nineteenth century tactics with an alien wearing a Confederate uniform. The others were behaving themselves, while clearly wishing they could partake in all the high-quality booze being consumed around them.
Zhang’s icon was grayed out and marked as unavailable, just like the general had said. That meant she was behind some communication barrier or her imp had been disabled. Not a good sign. She could be dead and they wouldn’t know about it.
“We have thirteen missing civilians, including Llewellyn,” Heather said; she must have done a headcount on the civilian side. “Everyone has been warned to stay in groups and stay put until we can make our exit.”
“They’re toying with us.”
“Yes,” Heather agreed, and Fromm could tell she wanted to say more but couldn’t. Something about her eyes as she spoke gave it away, at least to someone who knew her.
“This was too good to be true,” he said.
“Yes, and there’s a lot more going on than we expected. Be ready for anything,” she told him. “Things are only going to get worse.”
* * *
“They’re coming back,” Sergeant Fuller said. “Most of them.”
“Someone didn’t make it?”
“Llewellyn, a bunch of civvies, and the Marine pilot.”
“Major Zhang? Shit.”
Warp fighters had literally saved Russell’s ass back on Parthenon-Three, and Zhang had been in on the action. For all he knew, she’d been the one who’d cleared a Viper-filled pass with her graviton cannon before the tangos could finish off Charlie Company. They all owed her.
“We going to get her?” Gonzo asked, always ready to rumble, even if it meant going into a station the size of the goddamn Moon.
“Word is she ain’t a prisoner, so no,” Fuller said. “Maybe she picked up some alien and is spending the night with him. Or her. Or it.”
“No accounting for taste. Hope it’s worth the court-martial.”
They stood at attention as the VIPs came through. Nobody looked drunk, so apparently they had stayed off the booze. And they weren’t smiling, either. They hadn’t had a good time. The ETs had been fucking with them, that much was clear. The whole party had been a fancy way to fuck with the US.
That much was obvious to Russell, who’d grown up in a place where you learned to spot disrespect a mile away. Learned not to let it go, either. Once people thought they could fuck with you without getting called on it, you were done. You’d think the VIPs would know that. Of course, sometimes whoever was dissing you could curb-stomp you and you had to choose between taking their shit or getting stomped. Option three was to let things slide until you had a chance to extract some payback, with interest. These aliens thought they were invincible inside their economy-size starbase. Maybe they were, but Russell figured a bunch of people aboard the Brunhild and the destroyer squadron were already thinking of ways to fuck with them.
Above his pay grade, though. He had his own problems, like what to do with two liters of two-hundred bucks-a-shot booze. The stuff was currently safely stored inside his and Gonzo’s suit hydration units, securely sealed inside flexible containers that looked like fancy water balloons or sausage casings. They’d poured the liquor into the two balloons, and then pushed them into their camelback water reservoirs. That meant they were carrying only nine liters of water instead of the regulation ten, but it wasn’t like they were going to be humping it through some desert. Their suits automatically sucked their sweat, cleaned it up and pumped it bac
k into the container anyway, so they wouldn’t go thirsty anytime soon.
His main issue was how to translate those water balloons into cash. There was no way that medical officer was paying three grand apiece for his brandy; that was why Eggo had been willing to part with the stuff to pay off his debts. Russell figured he could get half of retail if he held on to the stuff until they were back in New Parris. He had connections at some officers’ clubs. It wasn’t get-rich money, but it would keep him in cheap booze and cheaper women for a while. He might even keep a couple of shots of brandy for himself, just to see how much better the good stuff was.
All of which assumed he was going to walk out of this cruise in one piece. But you had to think positive.
* * *
“These assholes are trying to piss us off,” Mario Rockwell told Heather via imp as the much smaller formal delegation entered the audience chamber.
“Yes. Yesterday’s party was bad enough, but the Snowflakes are clearly taunting us with this display,” she replied.
Not the most politic thing to say, given that the Tah-Leen were likely to be listening in, but at this point neither of them cared.
The corridors on the way there had consisted of plain alloy with a transparent varnish that let the material’s true colors shine through. Nothing like the mosaics that had decorated their path towards their first meeting with the Special Snowflakes. And the room on the other side of the sliding door was nothing like the caveman’s dwelling they’d encountered the night before.
It looks just like the Kirosha Queen’s Lesser Courtroom. Make that exactly like it. A perfect replica.
The real chamber hadn’t been particularly impressive, except for what it represented. It was a surprisingly small square room dominated by a skylight in the ceiling designed to focus sunlight on an ornate throne in the center. There was no other furniture; courtiers and visitors didn’t rate chairs of their own. The walls had been decorated with woven tapestries depicting assorted scenes from Kirosha’s history, in a style reminiscent of Earth’s medieval Bayeux histories. The only difference was that the ones in this chamber depicted Marines shooting down crowds of helpless-looking natives, including women and children.
I’m glad Peter isn’t here. He wouldn’t take this well. The only military officer present, General Gage, had turned beet-red with barely-contained rage as soon as he recognized the scene.
To complete the tableau, the Courtroom was filled with courtiers and guards wearing the clothes and bodies of the natives of Jasper-Five. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn she was back on that planet, facing the absolute monarch who had eventually decided to make war on America. Only the Hierophant retained the shape he’d had for the party; the laughing Buddha looked conspicuously out of place sitting on the queen’s throne.
“Brings back some memories,” Rockwell added. “Pity none of them are any good.”
Heather nodded. The last time they’d been in the real chamber, they’d been forced to watch half a dozen people be tortured and then slaughtered, all the while knowing that they could share their fate at any moment. It had been one of the worst times of her life.
It’d also been the end of Javier Llewellyn’s career. The former ambassador was nowhere to be seen, which was probably for the best, since being in this room might have triggered a panic attack. Sec-State had decided not to make an issue of his disappearance or the other missing Americans, at least for the time being. A polite inquiry about their whereabouts had been met with vague assurances they were all ‘in good hands.’
“My American friends!” the Hierophant said once the delegation was in the chamber. “We are gathered here today to negotiate in good faith. I thought you might find these surroundings amusing, since they commemorate one of your recent victories over those weaker than yourselves.”
Secretary Goftalu was clearly none too happy to be there but she got down to business, even if it was becoming clear the Tah-Leen weren’t going to play ball.
“The United Stars of America is highly interested in maintaining friendly and mutually beneficial relations with the Tah-Leen Celebration of Special Uniqueness,” she began. “It is our sincerest hope that we will resolve the unfortunate situation that has led to the curtailment of trade through Xanadu System.”
“We said we would consider making changes to our policies if we found you worthy of our favor,” the Hierophant said. “You are going to have to work for that honor.”
The Tah-Leen leader wasn’t using the traditional phrases of Starfarer diplomacy, which were unsurprisingly similar to those used by pre-Contact Earth. Diplomacy was always about avoiding the appearance of hostility. You didn’t want to sound overtly threatening unless the time for talking was coming to an end. Those rules had existed for millions of years, and the fact the Tah-Leen were disregarding them was an ominous sign.
“The Celebration shall decide if you deserve our special attention. I must warn you: it will not be easy to sway us. We find a deplorable level of sameness among most Starfarers, I’m afraid. The True Individuals find it hard to tell you apart, to be frank. But maybe you can persuade us to view you in a more favorable light.”
“My country wishes to hear what terms you would find agreeable to facilitate that outcome,” Sec-State replied. Heather could see the diplomat was growing impatient.
“And there, as you say, lies the rub. Words are empty. The Unique Multitude wants to see what you Americans are made of. Also, since our decision would affect many species, we decided to invite another interested party to this gathering.”
One of the walls in the chamber slid up into the ceiling, revealing a room on the other side.
Well, we knew they were here, Heather thought. We just didn’t expect them to be this close.
They were looking at another replica of the Kirosha Lesser Courtroom. There were a few key differences, however. First, it was slightly darker, most likely because it was calibrated for the guests inside, who were more sensitive to bright light than humans. There was also the telltale shimmering of an atmosphere static field, keeping the mutually-poisonous air mixtures in each section separate from one another. The Priestess, still looking like Helena but wearing the Kirosha Queen’s robes of office, sat at the other throne instead of the Hierophant. And, most importantly, the second room held a couple dozen Lhan Arkh aliens, better known in the US as the Lampreys.
Lampreys had six limbs: a set of long arms ending in three clawed fingers, good for gripping and climbing, a second much smaller pair of appendages, usually held closely to the torso and terminating in six fine manipulator digits, and two stubby legs capable of short bursts of speed. Thick leathery skin in slick shades ranging from dark brown to light purple completed the ensemble. All of which was vile-looking enough to humanoid sensibilities, but it was their ‘heads’ that earned them their nickname as well as the near-universal revulsion of even other Class One species.
There was no visible brain-case; their cerebrum equivalent was somewhere inside the torso; instead, a feeding tube extended up from between its shoulders. The tube was some eight to ten inches thick and two feet long, ending in a sphincter-like mouth, a jawless puckered circle. When it was open, it revealed multiple concentric rows of serrated teeth lining its interior. The Lhan Arkh subsisted mostly by draining animals and plants of their fluids and eating solids more rarely. Flesh and pulp was bitten into small chunks which were ground into paste as they made their way down their gullets. Two eye-stalks protruded from the sides of the tubular ‘head,’ each able to focus on a different place; there were no visible ear equivalents, although their hearing was only slightly below the human range.
The species had many unflattering nicknames – Fang-Faces, Ass-Talkers, and dozens of equivalents in most Starfarer languages. On Jasper-Five, a lone Lamprey agent had incited the native Kirosha against the US. They’d found the alien so repulsive they couldn’t be in the same room with it unless its body was hidden under voluminous robes and hoods. When they
locals finally turned against it, they’d sent its ‘head’ to the US Embassy, the sphincter-mouth locked in an open ‘O’ that looked terminally surprised. That was usually how you could tell a dead Lamprey from a live one; its mouth only froze in that position upon death. The Lhan Arkh’s maws were always in motion, their constant distending and puckering serving as a form of communication similar to gesturing with one’s hands. Most species found the expressions nauseating.
They could have been the nicest guys in the galaxy, and we’d probably have despised them anyway, Heather thought. There was too much otherness there, too many things that triggered instinctual revulsion.
In any case. the Lampreys were many things, but nobody would ever accuse them of being nice or kind. They were leeches in every sense of the world. Their entire system was predicated on the exploitation of the weak, although they dressed it up with such terms as ‘communal justice’ and the ‘people’s dictatorship.’ Except the people dictated precious little and a small ruling caste – the so-called Syndics, the ‘People’s Representatives and Advocates’ – made most of the decisions for everyone in the community. All for their own good, of course. Most Lampreys lived out their lives in a highly-regulated state of serfdom, their status determined from birth by assorted Committees. From each according to their rank, to each according to their rank, and wasn’t it nice to be on top?.
The Syndics had devolved into a hereditary aristocracy long ago, disguised under a thin patina of meritocracy. Sure, one could advance beyond its allotted rank, if one could attend certain schools, gather enough certifications, and impress one’s superiors, but those schools, certifications and superiors’ reports were set up so that the spawn of the Syndics had every advantage.
As harshly as they treated each other, the Lhan Arkh’s dealings with other species were even worse. The Lampreys were biological supremacists that considered the other three classes in the galaxy to be anathema and fit only for destruction. The few client species they hadn’t destroyed outright (all Class One, naturally) had been exploited ruthlessly. Only the Snakes had managed to thrive under their rule, at least until they struck out on their own and began their disastrous war against humanity. The genocidal revenge America had exacted on the Snakes was something the Lampreys would never forgive or forget. The Tripartite Galactic Alliance had been organized by the Lhan Arkh, although a faction of quasi-religious fanatics within the Imperium had been eager accomplices.
Advance to Contact (Warp Marine Corps Book 3) Page 13
