By Blood Alone (46 page)

“Many of you wonder
when
our day will come,
when
we will strike, and find it difficult to wait.”

“Yeah!” one of the Jack Heads shouted. “What the hell are we waiting for?”

“A good question,” Kattabi replied calmly. “The truth is that we’re waiting for a number of factors to fall into place. It would be foolish to mention all of them, since one or more of us may be captured, but some seem obvious.

“In order to succeed, we need buy-in from most if not all of Earth’s population, clear lines of authority, good communications, excellent logistics, off-planet military support, and recognition by the Confederacy.

“Once all of those conditions are met, we will move and move quickly. There isn’t much more that I can say, except to travel safely, tell your people to keep the pressure on Pardo’s government, and wait for the signal.

“We
will
rise, we
will
fight, and we
will
win.”

Maylo joined in the applause, wondered how her uncle was doing, and hoped that Kattabi was correct.

Booly found her from the other side of the room. He smiled, and she smiled in return. Suddenly, much to Maylo Chien-Chu’s surprise, her life had changed.

He who plants lies and calls them food shall reap nothing but misery.

Author unknown
Dweller folk saying
Standard year circa 2349

 

 

Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna stepped out onto his private gallery and looked up through the carefully tended gardens to the transparent dome beyond.

The planet called Zynig-47 hung there like a blue-green gem, beckoning the Thraki home.

Scouts had landed six ship cycles before, and were quickly followed by four teams of scientists, all of whom arrived at the same conclusion: The humans had been truthful.

The atmosphere was clean, some of the natural resources had been exploited by previous inhabitants, but plenty remained. The arks had assumed orbits that would allow them to function as fortified moons. Yes, their presence would result in tidal action down on the planet’s surface, but so what? The indigenous life forms were not likely to be of much value anyway.

Though previously inhabited by sentients known as the N’awatha, the planet had fallen to another race called the Hudathans, who, though subjugated by a multisystem government called the Confederacy, still claimed sovereignty over the world.

And now, as if
that
history wasn’t sufficiently complex, the Hegemony had introduced Andragna’s race to the Ramanthians, who, though members of the Confederacy themselves, had designs on the Hudathan empire and wanted to use the Thraki annexation of Zynig-47 as an excuse to occupy more planets.

All of which was probably part of some larger plot that the admiral and his staff had failed to penetrate as yet. Not that it mattered much, since none of the species encountered up to that point had a navy that could challenge his.

Andragna gave the Thraki equivalent of a sigh. If this was an improvement over roaming the stars, the advantage was lost on him. Ah, well, annoying though they were, there was some comfort in knowing that most, if not all, of the factious aliens would be eliminated by the Sheen.

That was the plan, anyway, and, given how stupid their new allies were, it might even work. Who knew? Perhaps he, the first in many generations, would be interred as the ancients had been in a crypt made of stone. Perhaps the Facers were correct. Perhaps the race should put down roots and prepare for the Sheen. The thought made him feel better—and the admiral returned to work.

 

 

Ambassador Hiween Doma-Sa looked in the mirror, checked to ensure that his ambassadorial robes hung straight, and cursed his fate.

To negotiate was bad enough, especially in light of the weakness that such an activity implied, but to negotiate with the individual known as Chien-Chu, the same human who played such a prominent role in defeating the Hudathans during the last two wars, amounted to the most exquisite torture he could imagine. Yet that was what duty demanded—so that was what he would do.

The Hudathan stepped through the hatch, checked to ensure that it was locked, and entered the flow of traffic. Lesser beings hurried to get out of the way.

 

The cabin was rather small, and, given the limited number of items the industrialist had brought from Earth, relatively uncluttered. There was his lap comp, a book titled
The Art of War
, and holos of his son, wife, and niece.

Sergi Chien-Chu read Maylo’s report one last time—and fed it to his shredder. The meetings in Rio had gone well, an alliance had been formed, and the resistance was ready. Or as ready as such an unlikely group of allies was ever likely to be.
If
Maylo and the others could hold the allies together.

All they needed was continued air support, which was under attack from Orno and his colleagues; a few brigades of troops, who were stranded on a number of different planets; and legal legitimacy, which Chien-Chu had failed to obtain.

Not that he hadn’t tried. The cyborg had stated his case in the
Friendship’
s corridors, over dinners he didn’t need to eat, in steam baths he couldn’t enjoy, deep under the surface of Arballa, and, in one case, in a certain lobbyist’s chlorine-filled hab, all to no avail.

There were sympathizers, plenty of them, up to and including the President himself, but no one with the guts to take the bull by the horns. Each and every one of the senators had legislation to pass, legislation that required votes, and could easily be held hostage.

And then, as if to reinforce any concerns the politicians might have, there were Senator Orno’s hearings—stagemanaged affairs in which Pardo was allowed to deliver speeches during session breaks, while Chien-Chu and his allies were scheduled into the shipboard equivalent of evenings. All of this was perfectly legal, and an excellent example of why politicians like Orno wanted to chair certain committees.

A chime sounded. Chien-Chu glanced at the wall chron, saw it was time for his next meaningless appointment, and rose from his fold-down desk. It sensed the movement, collapsed in on itself, and merged with the bulkhead.

Of all the meetings, both clandestine and otherwise, that Chien-Chu had participated in of late, this one, with the Hudathan ambassador, seemed the least likely to deliver any sort of benefit.

Everybody of any importance, and that included Chien-Chu, had spent time with Doma-Sa, heard the Hudathan’s story, and written him off. More to the point was the fact that he couldn’t vote on legislation pertaining to Earth.

Still, the Hudathan diplomat had sworn that his mission was of the utmost importance, and, lacking anything else to do, the industrialist had agreed to see him.

Chien-Chu trudged to the hatch, checked the security screen, and released the lock. The door hissed as it opened. Doma-Sa nodded stiffly. “Greetings, Citizen Chien-Chu. Thank you for receiving me.” The words had a sibilant quality but were understandable nonetheless.

The cyborg bowed, ushered his guest inside, and pointed to a heavy-duty chair. “You are quite welcome, Citizen-Ambassador. The privilege is mine. Please, have a seat.”

Doma-Sa noticed that the chair had been placed in a corner to ensure his comfort, felt a little bit better about the visit, and accepted the invitation. “Thank you.”

Chien-Chu sat on the bed-couch and gestured toward the tiny galley. “Can I get you something?’

The Hudathan knew the question was a matter of form and shook his head. “No, but thank you for asking. May I be blunt?”

“Please,” Chien-Chu replied fervently. “You can’t imagine how good that sounds. Tell me something—
anything
—so long as it’s true.”

No wonder it was
this
human who beat us, Doma-Sa thought to himself. He thinks as we do.

“It shall be as you suggest,” the Hudathan said out loud. “A cabal consisting of certain humans, the Clone Hegemony, and the Ramanthians is working to weaken the Confederacy, circumvent its powers, and confiscate worlds under its protection. Earth was first ... others will follow. Some belong to the Hudathan people.”

Chien-Chu sat bolt upright. “Can you prove that?”

“Yes,” the Hudathan said grimly, “I certainly can.”

It took the better part of two hours to review the data that the Hudathans had intercepted and decide what to do with it. When Doma-Sa left, Chien-Chu felt better than he had in weeks.

 

Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six had a multifunction com implant located at the base of his skull. He felt the unmistakable tingle, noted two repetitions, and left his breakfast uneaten.

A variety of beings greeted the clone as he left the senatorial cafeteria and headed up-ship. He acknowledged their salutations, wondered why Gorgin-Three had paged him, and nodded to the brace of Jonathan Alan Seebos that stood in front of the embassy.

The hatch opened and closed behind him. They were waiting just inside. The thugs, all supplied by the Bureau of Internal Affairs (BIA), understood their assignment. Humble the senator, but leave him unmarked.

That being the case, two identical men grabbed the politician’s arms, a third hit him in the gut, and a fourth used a baton on his kidneys.

Ishimoto-Six went down within seconds, was kicked exactly six times, and then jerked to his feet. The face that waited to greet him was the mirror image of his own.

Harlan Ishimoto-Seven grinned into his brother’s shocked countenance. “Hello, Samuel, nice of you to show up. What? No cute comments? The kind you share with free-breeding sluts? Well, that’s too bad. You have a job to do—and you’ll damned well do it! Take him to room three.”

The BIA agents lifted Ishimoto-Six off his feet and carried the clone down a sterile-looking corridor. His toes touched every third step or so. The politician caught sight of Svetlana Gorgin-Three’s smug expression and started to put the pieces together. She worked for Seven, and he had support from above. But whose? There was no way to know.

They knew about his dalliance with Maylo Chien-Chu, that much was obvious, but didn’t explain the beating. Back in the old days, maybe—but not for the last fifty years or so. An entry in his personnel file, a letter of censure; either would be sufficient. No, they wanted to intimidate him, but why?

Though ostensibly used for meetings, room three had other purposes as well. That being the case, it was equipped with sturdy easy-to-clean furniture.

They carried Six inside, dropped him into a chair, and cuffed his hands—not because they were afraid of what the politician might do, but to emphasize how vulnerable he was. Then, so Ishimoto-Six would have time to worry, they left the room.

A full hour had passed by the time the door opened again. That was more than enough time for Six to imagine all sorts of unpleasant possibilities and sweat into his clothes.

A number of beings entered the room. They included Ishimoto-Seven, Gorgin-Three, Governor Patricia Pardo, Senator Alway Orno, and the BIA thugs. The latter stood with arms folded while everyone else took seats at the table. The Ramanthian used his tool legs to preen his beak. “Senator Ishimoto ... how nice to see you outside of chambers. We should get together more often.”

Ishimoto-Seven chuckled. “Please forgive my brother. His sense of humor is somewhat impaired.”

Pardo, her hair just so, and her legs carefully crossed, glanced at her wrist term. “Can we get on with this? I have a meeting at 1100 hours.”

“Of course,” Seven said smoothly. “Would one of you like to brief my brother? Or shall I?”

“The idiot belongs to you,” Pardo said harshly. “Please continue.”

“As you wish,” the clone replied, clearly relishing his role. “Well, dear brother, here’s the situation. Listen carefully ... because
you
have a part to play.”

Six listened as Seven described how the cabal had come into being, the manner in which Earth’s government had been usurped, and how the Thraki had appeared from nowhere.

The politician forced himself to ignore the pain caused by the cuffs and concentrate on what his brother was saying. Saying and not saying, since Six knew Seven almost as well as he knew himself and could tell when the bastard was lying. Or, if not actually lying, then withholding critical information.

And that made sense, because the arrangement the diplomat described would provide scant benefit to the Hegemony. That fact hinted at darker motivations—ones Seven didn’t want to discuss in front of the others.

One such motivation was obvious, to Six at least, and that was the desire to reduce the amount of influence that Earth exerted over the Confederacy—a trap into which Pardo had fallen like an overripe plum.

But what about the Thraki? Where did
they
fit in? And what of Orno and Pardo? Were all their cards on the table? Not very likely. It was a dangerous game that Seven was playing—and one that could pull the Hegemony down.

“So,” Six croaked, “what do you want of me?”

“Very little, actually,” Pardo said, glancing up from her compact. “All you have to do is give a speech.”

“Yes,” Orno agreed. “A speech in which you will reveal that the Thraki entered the Confederacy via Hegemomycontrolled space, that they seized the planet known as Zynig-47, and are well on the way to fortifying it.

“Not
something our colleagues are likely to approve of, but will have to accept, since they lack the means to change it. That’s when I will rise to announce that in an effort to shield nearby planets from a similar fate, the Ramanthian Navy has placed Jericho, Halvar, and Noka II under protective custody.”