“Welcome to Algeron,” Booly said, his gaze shifting from the man in civilian clothing back to the naval officer. “I understand you had to dodge some bugs in order to get here.”
“Yes sir,” Posson replied, well aware of the fact that there were two admirals in the room. “I was in command of one of the two transports that took Colonel Kobbi and his battalion to Savas. Unfortunately, both ships were damaged going in. My crew and I managed to land the Spirit of Natu, but the Mothri Sun crashed. Fortunately, all of her crew and passengers survived. Later my ship was destroyed as well.
“Citizen Jackson is a deserter, but he had a good ship, and Colonel Kobbi prevailed upon him to bring me here.”
Booly raised an eyebrow. “‘Prevailed’ on him?”
Posson smiled. “Colonel Kobbi can be quite persuasive when he wants to be. It should be said that while Jackson is a smuggler, he’s also one helluva pilot and deserves a great deal of credit for getting us out. The bugs pretty much own the Savas system.”
It was the first time Posson had ever said anything nice about him, and Jackson was visibly surprised. Now, as Booly looked more closely, he saw that the smuggler wore wrist restraints. “I see . . . Is citizen Jackson dangerous?”
“No,” Posson answered honestly, “I don’t think so . . . But he’s a flight risk.”
“So noted,” Booly replied. “Corporal, remove that man’s restraints, but if he tries to run, shoot him in the leg. That goes for the rest of the people in this room.”
There was laughter as the corporal removed a remote from a holster on his pistol belt and touched a button. The restraints fell away as if by magic.
“All right,” Booly said, “start at the beginning.”
So Posson took those present through the battle in space, the subsequent landings, and Kobbi’s decision to march north, reconstitute his battalion, and continue with the mission. Booly nodded approvingly and looked at Leeger. “I knew a Major Kobbi once. A tough little bastard who was armed with a single swear word that he used all the time. A jacker, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes sir,” Leeger acknowledged. “That’s him.”
“An excellent choice,” Booly said thoughtfully. “If anyone can do the job, he can. But, assuming he does, how are we going to pull him out? Admiral Hykin? Admiral Chien-Chu? Any suggestions?”
Hykin clenched his jaw. He didn’t have any reserves, so there was only one way to go. “Yes sir. We’ll pull the ships out of Task Force Zebra and retask them.”
Leeger frowned. “Task Force Zebra? But that would . . .”
“Excuse me, Colonel,” Posson interrupted, “but I would remind you that Citizen Jackson is in the room.”
“Good point,” Leeger agreed. “Thank you. I’ll rephrase the question. Isn’t there some less critical mission that we could rob?”
Hykin was about to say, “No,” when Chien-Chu chose to clear his nonexistent throat. While Hykin had been talking, the industrialist had been consulting his onboard computer. “Perhaps I could help . . . While most of my company’s ships are occupied transporting raw materials and finished products for the war effort, I believe we still have a couple of hulls that were slated for the scrap yards. They aren’t very economical to run, and they aren’t very pretty, but I doubt that Colonel Kobbi and his legionnaires would care. My niece would have to agree, of course . . . but I have reason to believe that she would honor a request from General Booly.”
Everyone with the exception of Jackson and the two enlisted men laughed. “I have less influence than you might think,” Booly replied, “but I’ll see what I can do. We’re going to need some escorts, though, so find them, and that’s an order.”
Hykin gave a short jerky nod, wondered which task force to steal the warships from and who would die as a result.
PLANET STARFALL, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Triad Hiween Doma-Sa hated parties, especially ones thrown in his honor, like the affair in full swing within the human embassy. A vast affair complete with the sort of decorations Hudathans never used, a band playing music that hurt his ears, and hordes of aliens. Fortunately, the being or beings responsible for organizing the torture seemed to have some knowledge of Hudathan psychology and had been careful to position the receiving line so that the huge head of state could stand with his back to a solid wall rather than out in the open. Some xenoanthropologists claimed that the racial paranoia stemmed from the extremely varied weather conditions on Hudatha, not to mention the feudalism of the recent past, but the fact that both of Doma-Sa’s peers had died violent deaths certainly had something to do with his caution as well.
Still, whatever comfort the Hudathan felt as a result of having a wall at his back was more than balanced out by the roar of conversation, the stench of alien food, and the endless procession of repulsive flesh. However, now that Doma-Sa’s race had been allowed to emerge from isolation, he knew that such rituals were necessary to reassure the diplomatic community as to his people’s intentions.
A Prithian squawked something unintelligible, passed on, and gave way to a human female. Ithnu Buno-Sa, the Hudathan ambassador to the Thraki people, made the necessary announcement. “It is my honor to introduce Ambassador Kay Wilmot.”
The human extended her hand, and Doma-Sa engulfed it with his. There were very few humans that the head of state respected, Sergi Chien-Chu being among them, because most members of the species were weak and insipid. The female who stood before him clearly fit that category as she gushed nonsense about how much she respected Hudathan culture, how she hoped he would find time to meet with her, and the wonderful things they could accomplish together.
Doma-Sa responded with a curt bow and fervently wished that she would drop dead right there in front of him. When that failed to take place, he said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador . . . My calendar is quite full, but I’ll ask my staff to check and see if something is available.”
Wilmot mistook the polite “No,” for a “Yes,” felt Doma-Sa release her hand, and allowed herself to be ushered away from the line.
Christine Vanderveen stepped into the space vacated by her superior and heard her name announced. “Foreign Service Officer Christine Vanderveen.”
Vanderveen knew what she was about to do was wrong, knew it would result in dismissal if Wilmot learned of it, but was willing to take that chance. It was clear that the Thrakies had cut some sort of illicit deal with the Ramanthians, and while Wilmot could be expected to prevent such information from being passed up the line, she couldn’t interfere with Doma-Sa.
That was the idea, at least, but now, as the human looked at the alien’s hard eyes, craggy features, and thin-lipped mouth, she started to have second thoughts. But it was too late by then as her hand continued the journey that it had already begun, Doma-Sa’s sausagelike fingers closed around hers, and the tiny disk pressed against the surface of his palm.
If the Hudathan was surprised, there was no sign of it in his face as he gave a characteristically abbreviated bow. His voice had a deep, gravelly quality. “I am pleased to meet you, Ms. Vanderveen. I am acquainted with another diplomat having the same clan name. Your father perhaps?”
Buno-Sa took note of the fact that his superior had yet to release the human’s hand and was actually taking a moment to speak with her. Although he had never spent any time with the triad before, Doma-Sa had a well-established reputation for strange behavior, and now the diplomat saw why.
“Yes sir,” Vanderveen answered simply. “Charles Vanderveen is my father.”
“To the best of my knowledge he never lied to me,” the Hudathan replied evenly. “A remarkable accomplishment for one of his breed.”
Vanderveen couldn’t tell whether the “breed” that Doma-Sa referred to consisted of diplomats, humans, or both. She nodded. “My father says that truth is the only currency that has real value.”
“And he’s correct,” Doma-Sa agreed as he let go of Vanderveen’s hand. “Please give him my bes
t.”
The diplomat said, “Thank you,” and was so busy thinking about the unexpected interchange, that she was five feet away when she remembered the disk. A quick look at her hand confirmed what she already knew. The coin-sized disk was gone.
It wasn’t just raining as Vanderveen walked to work the next morning, it was pouring, and the streets were filled with Thrakies and their pyramid-shaped umbrellas. The locals didn’t like to get wet, not one little bit, and hurried to get wherever they were going. Vanderveen didn’t mind the rain, but was suffering from severe guilt pangs as she passed through security and entered the embassy. Though motivated by the best of intentions, the effort to contact Doma-Sa had clearly been misguided, and might even cause problems rather than solve them. Thanks to efforts by people like President Nankool, Sergi Chien-Chu, and her father, the Confederacy’s relationship with the once-hostile Hudathans had improved greatly over the last few years. What if the message on the disk did something to alter that? Perhaps she should schedule a meeting with Wilmot, confess her sins, and suffer the consequences.
Such were the FSO’s thoughts as she left the elevator, made her way down the hall, and entered her office. That was when Vanderveen saw that Wilmot was not only there, but sitting at her subordinate’s desk, wearing a scowl. “Well, it’s about damned time.”
Vanderveen glanced at her watch. “I’m half an hour early.”
“You’re a lying, cheating, little bitch,” Wilmot replied. “Explain the meaning of this.”
Vanderveen took a couple of steps forward, accepted the printout, and scanned the words in front of her. The message was from the Hudathan embassy—and dated four hours earlier. What the FSO expected to see was the full text of what she had given Doma-Sa—and she was happy to be wrong. The copy read: “His excellency, Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, requests the pleasure of Foreign Service Officer Christine Vanderveen’s presence at 1000 hours (local) this morning, at the Hudathan embassy.” And it had been signed by none other than the imperious Ambassador Buno-Sa. Wilmot’s peer. Vanderveen felt her fear turn to anger. “You’ve been monitoring my electronic communications.”
“That’s right,” Wilmot replied tersely, “which I have every right to do if I think it’s necessary. Read the regs sometime. . . They spell out what an FSO-4 can do. Playing diplomatic footsie with a head of state isn’t one of them,” Wilmot said grimly. “I repeat . . . What is the meaning of this outrage?”
Vanderveen remembered what Doma-Sa had said regarding her father’s honesty even as the half-truth formed itself on her lips. “Triad Doma-Sa is an old friend of my father’s. This so-called outrage is nothing more than a courtesy call.”
Vanderveen’s response was so smooth, so mundane, that Wilmot was left with little choice but to believe it. And then, having confronted what she believed to be the truth, to realize the extent to which she had embarrassed herself. With nothing to say, and no way in which to save face, the diplomat stood and stormed out of the room.
It took a full minute for Vanderveen’s pulse to slow, but when it finally did, she couldn’t help but smile.
Rather than an embassy the structure the Hudathans had commissioned on Starfall looked more like a three-story duracrete bunker than what it actually was. And, as Vanderveen struggled to exit the small Thraki-sized robocab, she was struck by the extent to which the low, blocky-looking building matched what she knew of the Hudathan psyche. As she approached the huge doors, adjectives like “hard,” “wary,” and “defensive” came to mind.
One of the enormous durasteel doors sensed the human’s presence and slid out of the way. That was when she entered a locklike chamber, where a pair of brusque Hudathan troopers ordered the human to step through a screening device, eyed their screens, and reluctantly allowed her to pass.
From there Vanderveen entered a Hudathan-sized lobby and had no choice but to confront the mountain of flesh and blood who sat behind a barricade-like reception desk. He frowned ominously as the diplomat gave her name, consulted a data screen, and uttered a single word: “Wait.”
The reception area was empty of chairs, plants, and art. All there was to look at were duracrete walls, stone floors, and durasteel fittings. The human smiled. “Nice decor . . . Who is your decorator?”
The Hudathan frowned. “What is a ‘decorator?’ ”
Vanderveen was about to reply when a second Hudathan arrived on the scene. He was a smaller specimen, weighing only 250 pounds or so, and part of the so-called new clan of government officials that Doma-Sa was trying to create. He recruited youngsters for the most part, well-educated individuals who were willing to abandon the clans into which they had been born, to accept membership in a new group bound together by a common vision, dedication to those they served, and the rule of law. It wasn’t possible for a Hudathan to smile, not really, but the official did the best he could. “Ms. Vanderveen? Good morning. My name is Rinwa Molo-Sa. I am one of the triad’s aides. His excellency’s schedule is extremely full . . . but he agreed to see you while he takes his morning exercise. I hope that’s acceptable.”
“Of course,” Vanderveen agreed. “It was very kind of him to see me at all.”
Molo-Sa didn’t say anything, but clearly agreed, as he led the human around the reception desk and down a long, highly polished hallway. Finally, at the very end, the Hudathan offered her a small device and pointed to a door. “His excellency is in there. When your audience is over, please press the button, and I will escort you out.”
Vanderveen could have found her own way out, but knew it was a security precaution and slipped the device into a pocket. What she didn’t know was that it contained an explosive charge that Doma-Sa could detonate with a simple voice command.
The door slid out of the way, and the diplomat entered a well-appointed gymnasium. The air was cool but heavy with the rank odor of Hudathan sweat. Heavy feet thumped the wooden floorboards as a pair of Hudathans fought each other. Or that’s what Vanderveen thought she saw, until she realized that the aliens were identical, and only one of them was real. The hologram swung his sword, which caused the flesh-and-blood version to duck a potentially lethal blow.
It was relatively cool inside, which meant that the Hudathan’s skin was gray. Now, nearly stripped of clothing, Vanderveen could see how large the head of state truly was. Leather cross-straps bulged where they met at the center of his chest, muscles rippled along massive arms, and his legs were like twin pillars.
The diplomat’s father had been present for the now-famous duel on the surface of Arballa, when Doma-Sa had battled one of Ambassador Alway Orno’s mates, and what had been a matter of politics was transformed into something intensely personal. In fact it was her father’s account of the fight, plus the head of state’s timely visit to Starfall, that triggered Vanderveen’s attempt to enlist Doma-Sa’s assistance.
The sword, an ancient weapon named Head Taker, had been handed down through Doma-Sa’s family the way all things were. By force. It had two edges, one straight and one with teeth. Metal flashed, and the real Doma-Sa was forced to jump into the air as his double attempted to take him off at the knees.
There was a realistic cry of anguish as the head of state hacked downward, sliced through his opponent’s collarbone, and cut deep into the other Doma-Sa’s chest. That was when the holo exploded into a thousand motes of light, which sparkled as the disappeared. Doma-Sa turned to greet his visitor. “Good morning. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Vanderveen shook her head. “No, Excellency. It’s I who should thank you.”
“Maybe, and maybe not,” the Hudathan answered. “Like my sword, your visit could cut two ways. You may live to regret it.”
“Yes,” the human acknowledged soberly. “In some ways I already do.”
Doma-Sa’s craggy brow rose a fraction of an inch. “Really? Then why come?”
Vanderveen thought for a moment. “All of us battle ourselves. You do it with a sword. I fight battles in my mind.”
The Hudathan gave his deepest bow. “You are wise beyond your years. Come . . . You will talk, and I will listen.”
Five minutes later the human diplomat found herself in a private dining room where Doma-Sa sat down to breakfast and she was served what turned out to be a surprisingly good cup of coffee. “All right,” the Hudathan said, as he tucked into an enormous bowl of what looked like steaming oatmeal, “start at the beginning. I want to hear everything.”
So Vanderveen told the head of state about the party, her trip to the restroom, and the liaison between her boss and a certain Clone. Doma-Sa stopped eating long enough to utter the Hudathan equivalent of a chuckle. “No wonder you were hesitant to share the information with your superior.”
Vanderveen nodded, felt another pang of guilt, and managed to suppress it. With the situational material out of the way, the diplomat told Doma-Sa about the meeting between the Thraki foreign minister, Oholo Bintha, and the Ramanthian ambassador, Alway Orno. She finished with the details of the financial part of the deal, the mutually beneficial trade agreements that were supposed to follow.
A human, or a Dweller, might have reacted with surprise and anger, but Doma-Sa was Hudathan and therefore expected those around him to be treacherous. He wiped his mouth with a napkin the size of a dish towel. “Someone will catch up with Ambassador Orno one of these days, and I hope that person is me. In the meantime we need to expose the Thrakies for the liars they are . . . and force them to sever the relationship with the Ramanthians. That will slow efforts to retrofit the Sheen fleet, buy the Confederacy some much-needed time, and aid the war effort. Doing so will require two things, good intelligence and a bit of muscle. You supply the first . . . and I’ll take care of the second. Agreed?”
Vanderveen took a sip of coffee. It suddenly tasted bitter. Intelligence? How would she get that? Especially with Wilmot looking over her shoulder. But she was committed by that time, so there was nothing to do but nod. “Yes, Excellency. We are agreed.”
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