By Blood Alone (38 page)

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 the 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.”

Spear Commander Nolo-Ka, who had been silent till then, said what the other two were thinking. “They mean to take our worlds ... and keep them.”

“Yes,” Doma-Sa agreed, a jaw muscle rippling just below the surface of his skin. “They certainly do. Was there anything more?”

“Yes,” Prola-Ba said, “there was. Based on what we’ve seen so far, it seems clear that the Ramanthians are in league with a human called Governor Patricia Pardo, a commercial enterprise called Noam Inc., and the Clone Hegemony.”

“I want details,” Doma-Sa said. “
All
of them. You
forged the blade, and
I
shall swing it.”

 

Now that the dinner was officially over, and drinks had been served to those that desired them, the crowd had started to thin. Governor Pardo, Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven, and Senator Orno remained at their table.

Pardo checked her image in a small compact, wondered where the little lines had come from, and allowed it to snap closed. “So, Senator, what’s next?”

Orno rubbed his pincers together to stimulate the flow of gru and preened both sides of his face. “That depends. Your arrival supports our efforts, but ex-President Chien-Chu appears more formidable than first supposed.”

“Assuming that Chien-Chu is something more than a mechanical fool, he will seek those sympathetic to his cause and urge them to support military intervention. Once such a resolution is passed, assuming they have the votes to do so, the President will approve it.”

Pardo looked alarmed. “So, all is lost?”

“No,” Ishimoto-Seven replied, “far from it. While Chien-Chu and his niece pursue
their
strategy—we shall pursue
ours
.

“The first step will consist of hearings. Hearings that will provide you with the opportunity to make your case, hearings that will buy us some time, and hearings chaired by a sympathetic being.”

Pardo brightened. “Really? Who?”

Orno chuckled. It sounded like a series of corks being pulled from their bottles. “Why, by
me
, of course. Who else?”

The
Friendship
incorporated many wonders, some of which were advertised as such, and some of which were not. Ishimoto-Six was familiar with both, and, that being the case, had volunteered to show Maylo around—a strategy that succeeded in separating the executive from her uncle as well as everyone else.

The tour began with a trip to the observation deck bar, where the politician bought her a drink. They talked for more than an hour. Maylo observed the clone’s technique with the wary detachment of a scientist monitoring an experiment, thought he was amusing, and waited to see what, if anything, would happen.

Then, at some undefinable moment during the subsequent conversation, the executive discovered that unlike most of the men who made moves on her,
this
one had something to say.

They shared a number of interests, one of which was marine biology. Maylo paid close attention as Six described the manner in which the Founder, Dr. Hosokawa, had sterilized Alpha 001’s oceans and seeded them with what she called genetic “maxotypes.”

It seemed that the indigenous species, few of which had survived, were a source of fascination for Six. He had established an extensive collection of native fossils and dreamed of bringing some back to life via the same science used to kill them. Genetic engineering.

Then it was Maylo’s turn, and the politician listened in rapt fascination as the executive described the Cynthia Harmon Center for Undersea Research, the Say’lynt named Sola, and the plan to seed the southern oceans with iron particles. A plan that, like so many things, was on hold due to civil unrest.

It was at that point that Six looked as if he wanted to say something, seemed to think better of it, and shook his head. “I’m sorry so many were hurt... but glad you came here.”

It was nicely said,
very
nicely said, and the tenor of the conversation changed. Maylo smiled. “Thank you, Samuel.”

“Sam.”

“Thank you,
Sam.
”

Six grinned, and a mischievous look came over his face. “Would you like to see some of our marine life-forms?”

Maylo raised her eyebrows. “You have holos or something?”

The clone grinned. “No, better than that. The
real
thing. In a tank.”

Maylo shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“That’s the spirit!” Six proclaimed as he thumbed the bar tab. “Come on, the fish await!”

It took the better part of fifteen minutes to make their way through a maze of corridors and down onto the bio support deck.

Six was well versed regarding the entire operation. He took evident pleasure in discussing the amount of food produced in the hydroponics vats, the manner in which certain diplomats could live off the “crops” produced within their carefully sealed biospheres, and last but not least the protein raised in marine tanks.

It was then, while the clone was speculating on what sort of organisms might dwell within the Aaman-Du tank, that a technician appeared and greeted the politician by name. “Senator Ishimoto-Six! How’s it going?”

“Fine,” the clone answered easily. “Just fine. When was your last break?”

The technician was a small man with sallow skin and the eyes of a ferret. He consulted a rather ostentatious wrist chron. “Well, I’ll be! Time flies when you’re having fun!”

“How true,” Six said smoothly as he slipped some credits into the other man’s shirt pocket. “Why not take your break
now
? The lady and I will keep an eye on things.”

“That’s right kind of you,” the tech said, winking at Maylo. “Go ahead and enjoy yourselves... and I’ll be back in an hour or so.”