By Blood Alone

by Dietz, William C.

  Jepp felt anger mixed with sadness. “Then every single one of you will die.”

  Dantha thought of Keeta, of how short her life had been, and felt a terrible sorrow. “Yes, and so will you. Life goes on.”

  Jepp swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, returned to the shuttle, and strapped himself in. The ship lifted, circled the tiny moon, and emerged from its shadow. The planet had a thick, gaseous atmosphere that roiled in response to hurricane-force winds, and knew no peace.

  Attack ships, only two given the status of the target, awaited their orders. The Hoon projected part of itself into the more powerful of the two. What would the soft body do? The AI wanted to see.

  Jepp bit the inside surface of his cheek. There was no choice. None at all. He could give the order, and destroy the colony, or withhold the order, knowing it would make no difference. Except to him. He gave the order.

  Keeta, unaware of her fate, held her uncle’s hand. The horn boomed, voices came together in song, and she was happy.

  20

  Like victory, defeat is but a moment under the stars.

  Author unknown

  Inscription north side, Building Two,

  Temple Complex, Jericho

  Standard year circa 30,000 B.C.

  Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  The Starlight Ballroom was an enormous affair, capable of accommodating up to one thousand guests in microhabcontrolled comfort, and protected by a transparent dome. It was like dining among the stars, and while most beings enjoyed the sensation, some found it uncomfortable. They sat within the embrace of specially designed screens.

  The Friendship’s captain had positioned his vessel so that Arballa filled half the view, and, thanks to the slowly rotating deck, everyone could see.

  Guests had started to arrive. Some relied on elaborate life-support systems, while others came under their own power.

  The ceremonial meals were well attended in spite of the fact that they were a mostly human concept. Partly because of the status conferred on those who were invited, but largely due to the fact that the get-togethers represented a wonderful opportunity to consummate political deals, especially those that required some nose-to-beak contact.

  This particular dinner was being held to honor the newly arrived ambassador from a little-known race called the Aaman-Du. But, for those in the know, which included everyone except the newly arrived ambassador, the meal was actually centered around Governor Patricia Pardo and “the Earth problem.” Evidence of this could be both seen and heard as Pardo and her companions entered the vast, half-filled expanse.

  Pardo was at her well-coifed best. She wore a stunning black evening gown, a matching armband to commemorate those lost during the “revolution,” and some wicked high-heeled shoes.

  The fact that the politician was accompanied by the highly visible Senator Alway Orno, and the less known but still interesting Ambassador Harlan Ishimoto-Seven, made her arrival all the more intriguing.

  Pardo’s not-so-subtle presidential campaign had started the day after she was sworn into office and included frequent appearances before the senate. That being the case, many of the politicos knew the human, and some even liked her.

  Barely noticed during Pardo’s entrance was the actual guest of honor’s arrival and passage between well-set tables.

  The alien was a comic figure by human standards. His small head boasted a birdlike beak. His saucerlike eyes seemed to bulge with pent-up emotion, the large, well-rounded tummy suggested a balloon about to pop, and his enormous three-toed feet looked like something a clown might wear. His oversized clothes, so loose that the fabric flapped all around, added to that impression.

  But XTs can be and usually are deceiving. The Aaman-Du were no exception. Though provincial by Confederate standards, they had colonized three planets, and were said to be fierce warriors.

  Moments later, while the ambassador from Aaman-Du was still settling onto his specially made roost, Sergi Chien-Chu and Maylo Chien-Chu entered the room and were escorted to their table.

  The very sight of them raised the volume of conversation a notch, especially in light of Chien-Chu’s status as a past President, and his vocal opposition to Pardo’s interim government.

  Maylo attracted a certain amount of attention as well, partly because of her relationship to Sergi Chien-Chu, partly because everyone on the ship knew she’d been imprisoned by Pardo’s government, and partly because she was breathtakingly beautiful.

  Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven, his clone brother Senator Ishimoto-Six, and nearly every other human male turned to look.

  She wore a high-collared, almost oriental red sheath dress decorated with just a touch of fantastically expensive stardust. She was beautiful and powerful—a combination that terrified some men and attracted others.

  One such male was Samuel Ishimoto-Six, who had not only managed to keep his assistant Svetlana Gorgin-Three off the guest list, but had contrived to sit at Maylo’s table in the chair to her right. He rose as she approached. “Good evening, Miss Chien-Chu. My name is Samuel Ishimoto-Six, senator for the Hegemony. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Maylo liked what she saw and felt an intangible something as he took her hand. “The pleasure is mine. Have you met my uncle? No? Please allow me. Uncle Sergi, it’s my honor to introduce Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six.”

  Chien-Chu had an excellent understanding of the Hegemony mind-set, as well as their on-again, off-again flirtation with the Hudathans during the previous war, and wondered where they stood now. The senator was attracted to his niece, that much was clear, which meant she would learn the truth. And what about the replica seated next to Governor Pardo? How did he fit in? Time would tell.

  A party of exoskeleton-assisted Dwellers whirred into the room and approached the table. They were handsome by humanoid standards, having well-shaped heads, large, ovoid eyes, and long, sleek limbs.

  It had been a member of their species, the now-famous Moolu Rasha Anguar, who had dragged Chien-Chu out of retirement during the second Hudathan war.

  Now, at a time when every vote was critical, the industrialist hoped to solicit Dweller support. Though not fluent in their native tongue, Chien-Chu spoke enough to make himself understood: “I greet you with hands that are empty and a heart that is full.”

  Flattered by the unaided use of their language, the senior member of the party, Ambassador Tula Nogo Mypop, made the appropriate response: “Our people acknowledge and greet an old friend . . . the elder Anguar sends his regards.”

  “He lives, then?”

  Mypop was a master of nuance and produced a human-style smile. “Lives and loves.... His vices remain intact.”

  Chien-Chu laughed. “I am pleased to hear it. Please send him my best wishes. May I introduce my niece?”

  There was round after round of introductions, followed by predinner drinks for those who wanted them, and the usual small talk. Ishimoto-Six took advantage of the opportunity to begin a conversation with Maylo.

  The meal began fifteen minutes later when President Nankool appeared at the room’s center and a holographic duplicate popped into existence at each one of the tables. He “sat” in a chair reserved for that purpose.

  The President’s words were translated into a dozen languages, scanned for double entendres, racial slurs, or religious taboos, and edited accordingly. While something less than poetic, the results were nonoffensive.

  “Good evening, honored guests. We gather to officially welcome the Aaman-Du to the Confederacy—and Ambassador Urulux-Green to our large and mostly functional family.”

  Many, though not all, of those assembled in the room were equipped with a sense of humor and made a cacophony of noises ranging from laughter to clicks, pops, whistles, and in one case a sort of honking sound.

  Maylo thought the laughter was funny... and struggled to wipe the smile off her face.

  The President’s remarks were followed by a speech from the evening’s off
icial host, the senator from Arballa, who, though too large to attend in person, was visible via the centrally projected holo.

  The speech was a long, rambling affair, which lasted through the first two courses and well into the entree. All the guests were served something typical of their native cuisines, and, that being the case, some rather strange odors permeated the air.

  Maylo, who had worn nostril filters rather than run the risk of embarrassment, strove to ignore some of the more disturbing sights and sounds. Ishimoto-Six was pleasant to look at, so it was easy to do.

  The Deceiver was one of the few Hudathan vessels not quarantined in the home system. Built in secrecy beyond the rim, and crewed by the offspring of veterans from the last war, the ship was loaded with long-range sensors, highly specialized laboratory equipment, and the latest in stealth technology.

  That being the case, Doma-Sa couldn’t be sure the warship was even there, hidden among the slowly tumbling asteroids, until the identity of his shuttle was electronically confirmed and the Deceiver chose to reveal itself.

  A proximity alarm sounded as the stealth ship suddenly appeared on the control screens, grabbed the shuttle with a pair of tractor beams, and pulled it in.

  Pleased by the no-nonsense competency of the maneuver, the Hudathan placed the vessel’s systems on stand-by, entered the somewhat spartan sleeping cabin, and assumed what he considered to be his true identity: War Commander Hiween Doma-Sa.

  The title would have surprised those having dinner in the Starlight Room, but shouldn’t have, since even the most superficial study of Hudathan culture would have revealed that there was no equivalent for the word “diplomacy” in their language, and that until their defeat at the hands, claws, and pincers of the Confederacy, their society had never included a class of individuals known as “diplomats.”

  After all, why maintain a staff of professional negotiators when you have no intention of negotiating? Victory included the right to annihilate the enemy, and by doing so, to protect the Hudathan race.

  Defeat, unthinkable though it was, meant the Hudathans would suffer the same fate. Unless their enemies allowed them to live—a mercy they were likely to regret.

  Such were the Hudathan’s thoughts as he buckled the belt and pulled the cross strap down across his massive chest. The strap bore a large green gemstone. It glowed with internal light. He wore the sidearm more for comfort than any particular need.

  There was a noticeable thump as the shuttle’s skids hit the Deceiver’s heavily scarred deck. Doma-Sa eyed himself in the full-length metal mirror, approved of what he saw, and headed for the lock. Had the mission been successful? He would know soon.

  Senator Orno rather enjoyed the dinners, both as an opportunity to practice the fine art of politics, and as the means to enjoy a really fine meal. The ship boasted the best chefs in the Confederacy, one of whom was Ramanthian.

  The politician smelled the platter of live grubs long before they actually arrived, reveled in the aroma of the carefully thickened hot sauce, and found it hard to follow the conversation.

  Though malleable in the extreme, Governor Pardo was incredibly boring, and never stopped talking. Her current diatribe focused on the need for the Ramanthian government to recognize her administration, provide Earth with an interest-free loan, and send fifty thousand “peacekeepers” to deal with the insurgents.

  That was an invitation the Ramanthians might have accepted, had more of Earth’s surface been dominated by lush, green jungle.

  Such was not the case, however, which meant that the Ramanthian government had no intention of granting even a tenth of what the human wanted.

  There was a stir as the main course arrived. The humans, who preferred to eat dead food, tried to ignore the sauce-drenched grubs. The Ramanthian knew they were horrified as he used his single-tined fork to spear one of the large, wormlike creatures and shoved it under his beak. The knowledge pleased him.

  The clean white napkin was large enough to flip over the Ramanthian’s head. Rather than conceal what he was going to do, the action drew attention to the process. The grub, fattened for the occasion, was delectably ripe, which meant that its skin was tight and ready to burst.

  Orno exerted the slightest pressure with his beak, heard the characteristic popping sound, and watched the mixture of blood and intestinal contents spurt outward, explode against the inside surface of the napkin, and form a circular stain. The taste was most memorable indeed.

  There were six grubs in all, followed by a dip in the beak bowl, and a fresh napkin.

  Patricia Pardo managed to last through all six of the grubs, waited for what she hoped was an appropriate interval of time, and excused herself. She was pale and a bit unsteady.

  Orno was glad to see the woman go. Humans had been known to regurgitate in his presence... a truly disgusting sight.

  Ishimoto-Seven looked bored, wished it were he who was seated next to Maylo Chien-Chu rather than his brother, and finished his food. He had consumed the same meat a thousand times before, and knew that like him, the chicken was genetically perfect.

  The Deceiver’s commanding officer, Spear Commander Nolo-Ka, met War Commander Doma-Sa at the main lock. He wore the same uniform that his superior did—except that his gem was red. Though mutually respectful, both officers were wary as well, since no Hudathan truly trusts anyone else. “Greetings, War Commander.... We welcome your presence.”

  This at least was true, since Nolo-Ka had been waiting for two complete ship cycles, two dangerous ship cycles, and looked forward to leaving the sector as soon as he could. The cloaking technology was good, but so were Confederate sensors, and there were plenty of patrols.

  Doma-Sa assumed subordinates would welcome his presence and ignored the greeting. “Did the torpedo arrive on schedule? Were you able to capture it?”

  The questions were logical enough, especially in light of the ship’s mission, but that didn’t prevent Nolo-Ka from resenting the manner in which they were framed.

  What? The War Commander thought nothing of the skill required to penetrate the Confederate defense zone? Of the courage required to wait through endless days? The cunning manner in which the Ramanthian message torp had been snatched out from under its owners’ beaks? The clear answer was yes.

  Careful to conceal his resentment, the Spear Commander gestured toward a corridor. “Yes, the mission was successful. The torpedo was recovered and awaits your inspection.”

  Doma-Sa was pleased, but saw no reason to reveal that fact, and delivered a human-style nod—a bad habit acquired during his time on the Friendship.

  Metal clanged as the Hudathans made their way toward the aft section of the ship, passed no less than four labs packed with equipment, and entered the maintenance areas that adjoined cargo bay 3.

  Three distinct shafts of light descended from above, mixed photons, and illuminated the long, slim missile. Though the torpedo was of Ramanthian manufacture, and marked with their curvilinear script, form follows function, and the torpedo looked the way most such objects did.

  Approximately sixteen units long and two units in diameter, the tube was the logical result of a technological conundrum. In spite of the fact that many races had mastered faster-than-light travel, none had managed to come up with the interstellar equivalent of the nearly instantaneous com call. That forced them to send messages via ship or message torp, something most of the diplomats did on a regular basis—the Hudathan being a notable exception.

  Doma-Sa knew that ninety-nine percent of the missile’s considerable length was devoted to a navcomp, a miniature hyperdrive, a standard in-system propulsion unit, and the fuel required to make things go.

  The other one percent, the part he had an interest in, consisted of a computerized payload. Though small when compared to the vehicle’s overall size, the average torp could transport five hundred gigabytes of digitized information—information more valuable than the rarest mineral.

  A panel had been removed to provide access to t
he electronics within. Multicolored wires squirmed this way and that, coupled with each other, and were connected to the ship’s computers. “So,” Doma-Sa demanded, “what, if anything, have we learned?”

  “Quite a bit,” a voice said, as Dagger Commander Hork Prolo-Ba stepped out into the light. Born into a colony on a world so distant the Confederacy didn’t even know about it, the youngster had never seen the Hudathan home world or enjoyed Ember’s slowly fading warmth.

  Sad in a way, yet all too typical of the younger officers who crewed ships such as the Deceiver.

  Doma-Sa liked the youth’s brash confidence and met his eyes. “I’m relieved to hear it. Please proceed.”

  Thus encouraged, Prolo-Ba fingered a remote. A wall screen swirled into life. Ramanthian script appeared, morphed to Hudathan, and started to scroll. The text was supported by diagrams, photos, and video.

  “It took our computers twelve point three standard units to break the Ramanthian code,” Prolo-Ba said matter-of-factly, “but the task was accomplished. There is a great deal of content, much of which could be described as trivial, but certain items demand our attention.”

  Doma-Sa chose to ignore the rather presumptuous use of the word “our.” “Yes, go on.”

  “You indicated that we should scan for any mention of non-Ramanthian planets,” the intelligence officer said evenly, slowing the text to a virtual crawl, “and you were right. No less than four Hudathan colony worlds were included in this portion of the text. Not only that, but Ramanthian designators had been attached to each of them. The same kind they use to identify planets which they control.”

  Doma-Sa felt his fingers curl into fists. The words emerged as a growl. “Excellent work, Dagger Commander Prolo-Ba. Now, with your discovery in mind, how many of the worlds in question have a sixty-six-percent or better match to bug breeding requirements?”

  “Fully one hundred percent, sir.”