We truly are superior to those disgusting squid, Tashto thought. They would rely on indentured servants and slaves to do their work for them! We utilize only our own race to labor for our betterment!
The narrator’s voice took on a tone of disgust. “Things continued in this manner for roughly 50 Earth years. The Garanian population, initially sparse, dramatically increased as more mining operations began and more military installations were built. The planet became far more crowded and polluted than the Vloogs were prepared for, but the concerns of the Vloogs were eased by the knowledge that the hated Song Pai would claim the planet in a heartbeat if not for Garanian military might. To quell the Vloogs’ unrest, the Garanians offered them a great honor—a place in their glorious war against the Song Pai!”
Tashto’s vision was floating through space again. He was surrounded by a squadron of Garanian fighters flying in formation. As he looked at the surrounding fighters, he could see that all the pilots were Vloogs, and there were no Garanians to be found. He watched as they advanced towards a heavily armed space station and a Song Pai battle fleet. The engines flashed as the squadron rocketed towards its target…
Song Pai interceptors attacked with terrifying precision, swooping and evading with blinding speed. The lasers and missiles came in from severe angles, forcing him to constantly adjust his vision to even comprehend the speed of the destruction. The Song Pai fought with a three-dimensional precision that only an aquatic race could master, reducing the entire squadron to smoking ruins in a matter of minutes.
The narrator’s voice had now acquired an arrogant swagger. “Of course, the hastily trained Vloog force could not hope to defeat the Song Pai, masters of interstellar combat. But that was not the reason they had been deployed. During this attack, the Garanians had also committed a fleet to attack the Estran Space Station. We had split our forces between Estran and Zelphor, thinking that the Garanians would attack both at the same time with fleets of the same size. The Garanian-piloted fleet attacked and occupied Estran while half of our split defensive fleet was busy with the Vloogs. Thus we were forever reminded of the treachery and cowardice of the lizard race. The Vloogs, who learned of it for the first time, were considerably more disturbed.”
Tashto then saw images of a terrible war flash through his vision at the speed of lightning. He saw primitive metal cannons desperately trying to shoot quicksilver Garanian vessels out of the sky. He saw a nuclear weapon rip through an archaic Vloog city, turning its wooden buildings and ships into a blazing inferno. He could see a regiment of Vloogs wielding their bayonets and flintlocks as they charged the Garanians reduced to smoldering meat by a salvo of rockets. Finally the visual field panned over a charred battlefield, offering Tashto a view of the terrain littered with Vloog corpses and craters left by Garanian heavy ordinance.
The narrator ended the holovid, his voice seething with brutal contempt. “We do not know what happened to the remaining Vloogs after the Vloog Uprising, and the subsequent Thirty Years Extermination. Perhaps some still exist, hidden deep in a Vlooghai cavern or shuttled off to some space station or moon to live out their lives in squalor and misery. But we have no current contact with the Vloogs, and can only assume the race has been entirely exterminated. It is because of this that we can never trust the vile, murderous, treacherous Garanians. It is because of this that the Song Pai must fight until they are eradicated from the universe. FOR THE ETERNAL GLORY OF THE SONG PAI RACE—MAY OUR VALOR LIVE FOREVER!”
Tashto could hear Vahon talking to him as the holovid feed went dark. “Tashto, what are you watching on that machine?” he asked. Tashto slowly removed the headset, taking extra care to steady his hands after the disturbing scenes he had witnessed, and put it down on his desk.
“A historical document. One that, no doubt, none of our Ministries would ever approve for public consumption.”
“Who produced it? Is it some manner of alien propaganda? Why would a loyal Garanian like you watch such a poisonous thing?”
“Because I wish to learn about our past,” Tashto answered. “The Ministry has told me – us, that is – so little. The longer I stay on this station and interact with these foreign species, the more I have come to doubt the good intentions of the Unity government. And know I am not the only one among us who does so.”
“Y-yes, I have also come to question the official historical records,” Vahon stammered nervously. “You’re lucky that it was I who discovered you, rather than the others in the delegation. Unlike me, they still support our government without question!”
Tashto flashed a menacing smile. “Indeed. And because of this, I trust that you will not be tempted to make any official report of this discovery? Since we have both committed the same indiscretion, we should be judicious on what we choose to report.”
Vahon gave a nervous cough and then asked Tashto, “What will you do now?”
“I realize this holovid’s propaganda was most likely exaggerated. However, it has made me curious about the events it described. I will seek out a third party to verify or deny the claims this holovid has made. You may watch it as well, if you have a strong stomach and a desire for knowledge.”
“I will,” Tashto said. “And I’ll make sure the others don’t find out, either. May I ask whom you will ask?”
“The Blynthians,” Tashto said.
Macdougal almost ran toward Anthony Wilson's little suite on the human ship to share the news. He had grown more and more wary of Wilson, almost apprehensive, and longed to one-up him with the latest details of Quatilla's abduction, as gleaned from the human intelligence chief in the delegation. He had never before been in the position of leading a diplomatic mission in which some other person always seemed to know more than he did. It felt awkward, perhaps dangerous. He paused anxiously as he waited at Wilson's door, which seemed to have some unfamiliar security scanner that didn't want to let him in right away as all doors were supposed to. Finally the panel slid back.
Wilson was seated where he could watch his visitor approach. Macdougal realized that these quarters were a special kind of little fortress for Wilson. He probably always surrounded himself with a little fortress. Wilson eyed the ambassador skeptically as he twirled the ice cubes around in his glass of whiskey.
“Have you heard the news about what happened to the Forlani delegate’s child? Incredible, isn't it?” Macdougal blurted out.
Wilson almost yawned. “Chester, I reviewed those facts before they gave them to you.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“What a botched, shit-ass job! Leave it to those damn boy-girl Phiddians to foul up something so plain and simple.”
Macdougal gaped at Wilson for a few seconds. “You mean you're not in the least surprised?”
“Don't be a sap! It was an obvious opportunity from the get-go. I'm only surprised nobody did it till now.”
“So, then,” stammered the ambassador, “I mean, such things are certainly not supposed to happen at diplomatic conferences.”
“Such things happen in my world all the time, chum, and a lot, lot worse.” Wilson paused for a sip of liquor. When Macdougal failed to respond, he went on, “Of course, you do realize, Mister Ambassador, that things would have gotten worse very quickly if the kidnappers hadn't been stopped. The little brat would have come back gradually, in pieces.”
“Good God! What would have been the point of such barbarism? What could have been the quid pro quo?”
“The point, my good friend,” said Wilson, tipping a bottle towards Macdougal, who nervously shook his head. “The point is that there would have been no quid pro quo. It was a pure exercise of power and terror designed to break up the conference immediately.” He frowned as he added, “Now, blast it, it has to drag on for a while.”
“Who knows what will happen now. Without Doctor Torghh, the baby might not stand much of a chance to recover. The Forlani would not have used such force to get her back.”
“They didn't,” mused Wilson. “From
what I hear of the child's condition, it's unlikely it was caused by a Forlani weapon. Somebody else must have done it. Wonder who they were working for?”
“You're suggesting maybe the Song Pai helped recover Entara's infant. After all, they are allies.”
“Damn are you slow on the uptake sometimes, Chester,” laughed Wilson. “You think the squids would use electricity? They would never pass up a chance to flail their razor hooks around and splash blood all over the place. No, and don't bother to bring up the Rokol or the Robotic Guild or the Kael or the Newts. I have a feeling that little chore was performed by someone else in deep cover.”
“You seem awfully smug about this whole thing. Chaos breaks out and war threatens and you're making a joke of the carnage.”
“Carnage lends itself to humor better than anything else. Besides, I see no reason to get weepy and tragic. Things are going our way. There's no guarantee that any of the slap-dash medicine around here will work on the little creature. The conference is for shit, the purple bitches and the squid will soon be headed home to face who knows what godawful hell from those worms, and as soon as the firefight starts to heat up, we'll slip right through a nice, unguarded stretch of space and grab the Tau Ceti Anchorage while no one is watching. Medals and toys all around!”
“Really, this is too much! How can you sit there and spout out all these unpredictable forecasts?”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” Wilson spun around in his chair, tapped a couple of keys on his control panel, and came around full circle to face Macdougal. “'Cause I knows it's so, sir. Yes I do. You see, with the help of some clever boys back on Eridani late last night, I broke the Song Pai code. Enough of it, anyway, to understand that they are mobilizing their attack forces and getting ready to invade Blynthian space in just a few days. Just station hours after their delegation leaves Varess, which they have already been ordered to do. “
“So, if you're right,” mulled Macdougal, “That means the fate of Entara's child is more or less meaningless. Likewise with the purloined robot. I suppose this means for all intents and purposes, this chapter in history is over.”
“Don't wrap up so fast, professor!” Wilson's voice had assumed a mocking, light-hearted, and most inappropriate tone. “I bet my bottom dollar there are still a few little surprises to come. Frosting on the cake, my fellow!” In less than a second, Wilson's entire demeanor changed to menacing seriousness. “You see, I have an ace in the hole. Or rather, I've put a little ace in a certain hole. Keep damn quiet and keep your eyes open and you'll see I can pull a few strings. I haven't really tipped my hand at all yet. Because I don't want this to be just a five minute war. I want some real lasting grudges to come out of this Varess clam bake so we'll have plenty of time to sweep up some assets without hindrance. I assure you I wasn't kidding about occupying Forlan. Should have been done ages ago. We can make up for that. I can, anyway,” he concluded as he downed the last of his whiskey.
During the preparations for Quatilla’s operation, Rack began to sense a heightened awareness in his AI systems that he had never experienced before. It was partly the high speed of his calculating functions combined with the concentration on only the most necessary surgical data fields, as he temporarily shut down access to all but the most necessary arrays and prioritized everything for instant judgment. Yet there was also something hard to define that might have been the robotic equivalent of organic excitement. Rack did not even notice that the Emm consciousness he had acquired from his interaction with the mangled machine had faded away for the time being. He would examine all of that later as he revised his circuits, Soon he was ready: stripped down to the three arms needed for the procedure, his traction functions deactivated after stabilizing in perfect balance, his visual sensors focused on micro-detection so that he wouldn’t have noticed an elephant barging into the operating theatre.
Along with his two robomed assistants and the Coriolan doctor, he ran through a dozen simulations before the live operation. Guild personnel had put at their disposal a holographic projector that allowed for life=size real-time action. The robomeds simply supplied the most rudimentary physical backup. The Coriolan took charge of anesthesia, a specialty of his race. He had shaved a small area of Quatilla’s thigh and would apply his tongue there to monitor her vital functions. Exquisitely sensitive to changes in temperature, galvanic reflexes, and the salinity of the infant’s perspiration, that organ was more reliable than any configuration of machines available. The Coriolan could thus administer just the right doses of sedatives to relax the patient, without impairing the electrical stimulation Rack would deliver to the oblate glands.
Rack had totally reviewed his data on the Forlani nervous system, quite different from that of humans and placental mammals. As quasi-marsupials, the Forlani possessed much less bone structure in their bodies, especially the skull, than their earthly counterparts. Instead they had an elaborate design of cartilage in their bodies and a brain that effectively extended down the spinal column all the way to the base of the tail. The oblate glands Rack would concentrate on stretched down the neck to the upper shoulder area, where the surgeon would insert his wire probes and move the tips to just the right point of contact. The whole simulation period lasted just a few minutes, and would have been even shorter if the robots had not had to slow down to allow for the input of the Coriolan. However, Rack was more than happy with this rhythm, since he would depend on the Coriolan’s organicity to make contact with biological reactions that were merely electronic abstractions to an AI unit, no matter how perfectly programmed.
He conducted the operation without a hitch. It involved two eight-second series of pulses separated by a three-second interval. This “rebooted” the glands to their normal function, eliminating the seizures that had shaken Quatilla ever since she was hit by the shock I-35 had intended only for her Phiddian abductor. Rack rapidly verified the results before sending Quatilla off to the waiting arms of her mother, then in a flash began to reconfigure with the help of the medrobos, because he couldn’t wait to resume his analysis of the particles Isshel had found, the only real clue to where his master Torghh might be hidden – if Torghh still existed at all.
6
E ntara was taking advantage of every minute available with her revived child Quatilla. The conference had adjourned for a station day to celebrate Quatilla’s recovery. A steady stream of dignitaries from all fifteen races dropped by to share their joy and offer little presents or treats for the child. Quatilla had not known what to make of most of them, staring at the lumpy Rokol as though they were rocks and flapping her arms in imitation of the Keels’ wings. Entara was especially glad that she had not screeched in fear when a couple of Song Pai glided in on their slimy tentacles and bubbled some congratulations. Fortunately, she just bubbled back at them, which they seemed to take as a mark of intelligence.
Strangest of all the visits had been that of the human named Erica Duquesne. It was as close as she had ever been able to get to the executive from Hyperion Corporation. Entara felt on the one hand that she should be happy to open up a channel to the enigmatic Earth woman, but at the same time there seemed to be a weird and chilly undercurrent to the conversation.
“I am sure Delegate, that you are delighted that you child has been returned and that Rack was able to perform the revival operation successfully,” Erica had commented with her formal, politically correct smile.
“Certainly, thank you. I am flattered that an Earth woman would follow this drama so closely.”
“We're not completely without feelings, Delegate, whatever you may think of our less than clinging approach to motherhood.”
“I didn't mean any offense. Please forgive my awkward expressions. I only meant to say that it is unusual for most species to have much concern for the uneducated infants of another race.”
“That is definitely true. But somewhat more so for males.”
“In that I suppose we are alike. Forlani males seldom get involved with their offspring,
especially past the first few that are born, and even more especially if the babies are female.”
“Ours have been known to forget how many children they actually have.”
“And among our kind, the fathers can rarely remember the names of all their children.”
“That would surely be impossible for human husbands if they have as many of them as you do. Aren't you Forlani likely to have thirty or so?”
“Thirty! That would be a small family. Usually closer to fifty. I have had fifty-nine and Quatilla is to be the last.”
“You mean you will give up sexual intercourse?”
“I did that a long time ago. Only one mating is necessary because the zygotes created are kept in our sex organs for our entire lives and simply develop at intervals.”
“You mean you only do it with your husband once?”
“For the most part. My mate, like some males, preferred to post-mate several times.”
“You sound like you didn't enjoy it.”
“We never enjoy the feeling of mating. It is extremely painful and agonizing. Fortunately, we usually go into a semi-conscious state at the start – a kind of trance – or it would be a lot worse.”
“So you get no pleasure from sex at all?”
“The pleasure comes later, in the birth. But at mating the birth canal is not even fully developed. The organ of an unmated female is not even really considered a sexual organ.”
“Ah, I see. So that is why your females have no objection to prostitution.”
“I think the word has a different context on your world. We do not consider contract pleasure services to be sexual encounters. More like a form of compensated exercise. Sports entertainment, if you will.”
Spy Station Page 17
