The Tender severed Nindoah’s umbilical, then quickly took the two cords, knotted them close to the child’s belly, and cut off the long ends. She presented Nindoah’s to Delightful Childe and his to Nindoah, and then asked the ritual question.
“What is this yearling’s name?”
“Patience,” Delightful Childe said.
“True Patience,” Nindoah added.
The Tender looked from one to the other, then at the yearling. “True Patience, I accept you into my care and into the citizenship of Oina.”
“It is done,” Nindoah said, completing her part of the ritual. She turned her back on them and walked away.
“Yes, thank the gods, it is done. Take the yearling, tender, treat him well.”
“His needs will be served.”
“Thank you.” Delightful Childe turned away from her and walked away holding Nindoah’s umbilical cord. He would have it processed, of course, and hung with the other seventeen in his private meditation room where he knew that duty would require him to hang many more before he died.
It was a problem, one to which there were no answers. The population of Oina was dwindling, and there were more females available for parenting than males. By all good moral judgment he should sell his business enterprises to some nonbearing female and devote his attention to the preservation of his species. But the thought of spending the next five or six decades attached to one offspring after another and the females that necessarily went with them sent shivers through Delightful Childe.
No. He wouldn’t do it. Not yet. Right now all he wanted to do was to take a ship into space and experience the joys of detachment and freedom. His thoughts were interrupted by a checkdroid.
“Realtime communications for Delightful Childe.”
“From whom?”
“Oinaise registered freighter number four-four-seven-ay-two-two-nine-three, name Graycloud.”
Delightful Childe rushed past the checkdroid toward his communications cell where he found another checkdroid waiting.
“Most unusual,” the checkdroid said its gestures poor imitations of Delightful Childe’s own. “This appears to be a human freighter with Oinaise registration.”
“Out of the way, droid,” Delightful Childe said as he seated himself in front of the screen. “Captain Teeman?”
A quiet buzz of static preceded a weak response. “Xindella down and in trouble. Saks and probably the Ukes are both closing on our zzz-zzzt…instructions, and need for assistance.”
“Understood, Captain. I have your coordinates. Assistance and instructions on the way immediately.”
Without waiting for Teeman’s response, Delightful Childe left the cell and went straight to his office. There he learned that four of his ships were available, three of which were too large and slow. He chose the Housa, ordered it made ready, and went to gather personal things he would need. It was quite evident that Xindella’s festbid had not proceeded as planned and that Teeman was unable to cope with this new situation.
That was the problem with humans. They had such narrow horizons they couldn’t see solutions standing right beside them – and Teeman was one of the most competent humans he had ever known. That gave Delightful Childe hope. If Teeman was having trouble with choosing a course of action the Ukes and the Saks couldn’t be much better off.
Nine days later the Housa climbed through Oina’s atmosphere, heading for space with a checkdroid crew and a happy Delightful Childe piloting. The checkdroids had driven him to distraction with their insistence on the delay. But it wasn’t the delay that dampened his joy about being free and in space again. It was the prayer that he wouldn’t be too late.
26
“SOMEHOW, DENORO, I WAS THINKIN’ we’d have more time than this. A trick of the mind, I guess.” Rasha’kean smiled. “Think we’re ready for a new assault?”
“Does seem like an awful fast seventy days,” Denoro said, but I’m sure the company’s ready –and I know you are Colonel.”
“Thanks. I’ll have to admit I wa’not sure I would live up to your expectations until after that first day under fire. Somehow after that I quit thinkin’ or worryin’ about it.”
“You’re a damned fine officer, Colonel, but don’t get too sure of yourself. Every hill’s a new hill, and you got to bust them one at a time.”
“Secure all stations! Assault descent begins in three minutes. Secure all stations!” the overhead repeated.
“I’ll check ‘em, Colonel,” Denoro said, standing in the isle of the landing craft. “Check yourselves! Then check your buddy!” Denoro shouted. “Sound off by platoons!”
“First and Second Platoons, all sticks secure!”
“Third and Fourth Platoons, all sticks secure!”
“Fifth and Sixth Platoons, all sticks secure!”
“Recon, all sticks secure!”
“Company’s secure, Colonel,” Denoro said, cramming herself back onto the bench beside Ingrivia and strapping herself in.
“Delta Company, all platoons secure,” Rasha’kean said into her new hand-held communicator. She had barely tucked it back into her shoulder pocket when the landing craft shuddered in the first wave of turbulence.
‘What ever happened to the Chief?” Denoro asked.
“He’s still aboard the Walker. Something about that fanatic, Kinderman. Broke out of prison back on Nordeen,” Rasha’kean shouted over the noise. “Ca’not worry about the Chief now.”
But she did worry about him a little. He was an intriguing man, full of interesting contradictions. Stanmorton was unabashedly frightened under fire, yet he forced himself to stay where the action was when he could just as easily have retreated up to some safer echelon of command. He claimed to hate war, yet he was openly fascinated by it from top to trooper. Perhaps the contradiction that fascinated her most was that while he denied any religious inclinations, Stanmorton radiated a quiet, reassuring kind of spirituality.
Rasha’kean forced her thoughts back to the task ahead. This was no time to be thinking about anything but the coming assault. If all went as planned, her company would be landing on the largest island on Thayne-G Two. The Fleet had been reluctant to soften the Ukes up with missiles for fear of harming the civilian populations, so the legions were told to expect strong resistance. She could only hope that it was no worse than that first day on Terratane.
The landing light flashed. The craft lurched sideways. Its hull rang like a smattering of bells. Rasha’kean braced herself as they came to a bouncing, twisting halt, her stomach clenched with fear.
The troops were on their feet before the deboard horn blasted, pressing against the landing hatch as it opened. They had done this before.
Rasha’kean and Denoro were out the hatch with the first twenty troopers. Automatic weapons fire tore up the earth al around them. Rasha’kean dove forward between two of her troops.
“Down! Down!” Denoro shouted as the rest of the company flooded out of the hatch.
“In that tree line,” Rasha’kean said to the co-squader beside her, pointing to a dark green row of low trees and thick underbrush two hundred meters to their left front.
The co-squader nodded and shouted over his shoulder, “Grenadiers, front and center!”
Almost immediately two grenadiers crawled up to join them. Rasha’kean noted that Denoro was already spreading the company out on its belly, ready to move forward. They were firing into the trees, but the enemy fire did not slacken.
Screams of pain filled the air as a second automatic weapon opened fire on their exposed flank.
“They’re under that tallest tree on the left” Rasha’kean said. “Blast them out.”
Both grenadiers took aim with their stubby launchers and fired together. Moments later the ground in front of the trees exploded.
Rasha’kean heard the hollow sound of grenade launchers to her right and knew that someone was taking care of their flank. Again her grenadiers fired and this time were rewarded by two explosions in the trees
. The Uke fire stopped. Then the company stopped firing, and for a long moment an eerie stillness hung over them, spoiled by the ringing in their ears and the moans and cries of the wounded.
“Delta, move out!” Rasha’kean shouted. Her order was repeated down the line, and her Z-company came cautiously to its feet and began forming an assault-V as they moved toward the trees. She assured herself that the wounded were being cared for and that the company was moving out in good order, and then took the communicator from her shoulder pocket.
“Leo One, Leo One, this is Delta One. We have suppressed fire and are movin’ to secure the perimeter,” she reported.
“Affirmative, Delta One. Report when perimeter is secure.”
“Will do. Delta One, out.” Only as she tucked the communicator back in its pocket did Rasha’kean realize how excited she was. Her system was so charged with energy she wanted to run to the tree line. Only common sense and good training stopped her.
“Company’s on line,” Denoro shouted from her right.
Rasha’kean grinned and signaled her acknowledgment. This was promising to be a good day.
Then the tree line erupted with fire, and her company hit the ground again.
◊ ◊ ◊
“That’s right, sir,” the MG said. “Bock is still here.”
“In her office?”
“No, sir. She’s working with the archive translator.”
“Thank you. That will be all for now,” Rochmon said, dismissing the MG. What was Bock doing with the archive translator? It didn’t make any sense, and he was fed up to his ears with things that didn’t make any sense. As he left his office and headed for the archive translator, he decided to confront her with the new information FID had finally uncovered.
Her natural father hadn’t died. He’d been a Uke soldier who had deserted her mother. Rochmon wanted to know why Bock had lied about that. Was she afraid that being half-Uke would harm her career? Or was it something more than that?
The door to the archive translator was locked. That was a normal security procedure, but when Rochmon punched the numerical sequence on the lock that should have opened the door, nothing happened. That was not normal.
He took his security override card from his pocket and stuck it in the top of the lock. This time the door did open. At first he didn’t see Bock. Then he realized she was sitting at the burst transmission composer in one comer, so intent on what she was doing that she didn’t hear him enter.
Closing the door as quietly as he could, he walked slowly across the computer-crowded room, his mind filled with sudden suspicions and fears. The soles of his white leather boots made a scuffing sound on the antistatic mat, and Bock spun around to face him.
“What the-” She turned back quickly and furiously began entering the delete code.
Without thinking, Rochmon threw himself at her, flailing his arms against hers and knocking her out of the chair. He landed on top of her with a grunt as the air was forced from his lungs.
Bock growled and twisted and clawed. She fought her way out from under him and tried to get to her knees. Rochmon realized that she was reaching for the composer and hammered the base of her spine with his fist.
As she fell, she threw out her hands and scrambled out of his grasp. He barely caught the top of her left boot and yanked as hard as he could, pulling her back and himself forward as he struggled to get on top of her again.
“Aaa!” she grunted. “Let go of me!”
Rochmon got his arms around her waist and was surprised that she still managed to stand up. He let his arms slip down and threw his shoulder into the back of her knees.
Arms flailing, she fell forward. Her head hit the corner of the composer with a soft crunch. Then her body went limp as it slumped to the floor.
Panting to catch his breath, Rochmon forced himself to his knees. He crawled up beside her still form and rolled her onto her back. His stomach turned over as he closed his eyes to the sight of bloody pulp in the center of her forehead.
Finally, he forced himself to look at her again and placed his hand on the side of her neck. She had no pulse.
He turned away again and forced himself to his feet. Weak knees and nausea threatened to overcome him. With grim determination he made his way to the door, opened it, and shouted. “Security! Security! On the double!”
The first MG to arrive called for a second. The second called for a security officer and the medics. As he waited, Rochmon calmed himself, anxious to read the message Bock had given her life for but knowing the formal procedures had to be followed. After all, he had killed her.
Thirty minutes later, the medics had removed Bock’s body; a senior security officer stood beside Rochmon and two MGs stood behind him as he retrieved Bock’s message from the burst transmission composer.
At first what he saw was meaningless. Then, when he realized what it was, he couldn’t believe it. “I’ll need some help on this, Commander McSpadden,” he said to the security officer. “There’s a staff list posted on the duty board. I want everyone on the A-One section of that list back in this office as soon as possible.”
Even with help it took Rochmon and his staff the better part of ninety hours to break through Bock’s security screen and decode her message. Rochmon’s initial suspicion had been correct. The message was written in the Q-3 code.
That was revelation enough to absolve him of any guilt he felt about Bock’s death. She had broken the code without telling anyone. That was treason, or something close to it.
The message itself was a warning to the Ukes that the attacks now taking place against Shakav, Buth, and Thayne-G would be followed by assaults on Gensha and Yakusan. But now the message wasn’t as startling as the greeting to its addressee, Admiral Frye Charltos of the U.C.S. It began, “Dear Father...”
◊ ◊ ◊
Delightful Childe felt an irresistible urge to exit subspace even though he was nowhere close to Teeman and Xindella. He tried to shake it off, but the more he fought the urge, the stronger and more compulsive it became. Only after he set the controls to exit did he feel any relief, and then it was only momentary.
As soon as the exit was complete, he applied Housa’s full inertial dampers to slow his ship down. But why? the rational quadrant of his brain kept asking. He had no answer.
The ship-to-ship communicator suddenly started pinging, but his scopes indicated no ships within their scanning range. With a depressing sense of confusion he turned the communicator on.
“Greetings, Delightful Childe, offspring of Dawn Air and Naffow, tendered by Xidie. We welcome you in peace.” Delightful Childe checked his scopes again in disbelief.
“Who in the name of all that is holy are you? And where are you?” he asked.
“We are nearby,” the strangely musical voice replied. “As to who we are, that is simple. We are those you call Verfen.”
Only then did Delightful Childe realize that the voice was speaking perfect Vardequerqueglot. He stroked his proboscis with both hands. If this was true, it was a most interesting and unexpected development, but given the voice, he doubted the truth of its statements.
“I do not believe you,” he said simply. “How would a Verfen know who I was, and those who birthed me, and she who tendered me? Is this some kind of illogical attempt humor? I see no humor at all.”
“Are you not the trader Delightful Childe?” the voice asked, “Oina’s emissary to the Neutral Alliance and partner with the humans Benjamin Holybear Teeman and Marsha Lisa Cay Yednoshpfa? Have we called the wrong ship to us?”
“What do you mean, ‘called’ the wrong ship? No one called me.”
“Then why did you come here?”
Delightful Childe had no answer for that question. He had no answer for any of this. “I do not understand. How did you call me here? What, why…I just do not understand.”
“We did not mean to upset and confuse you,” the voice said. We seek your counsel on a matter of great importance to us all.”
/> With a deep fluttering sigh Delightful Childe felt himself relax. Then immediately he stiffened. They were doing this to him. They were manipulating his emotions.
“Again we apologize,” the musical voice said. “We had no idea that our actions would upset you. We have avoided contact with the six other sentient phyla for so long that we have forgotten the necessary customs and conventions to be observed.”
“Are you reading my mind?” Delightful Childe asked. “No. We only receive emanations – as we transmit them. When you reacted so strongly to our calming transmission, we felt your aversion.”
“Why doesn’t your ship show up on my scope?”
“We have no idea why this should be. Perhaps its materials are incompatible with your detection device.”
“Why do you speak Vardequerqueglot? Why not gentongue?”
“We speak all sixty-three of the “major intergalactic languages,” the voice said in gentongue. “Do you not also?”
Delightful Childe shook his head. “I did not even know there were that many major languages.” Suddenly he realized he had missed something. “Did you say six other sentient phyla?”
“Yes. Are there more than that?”
“I am at a loss again. I only know of five phyla.”
“That is understandable. Neither the Marcadelitins nor the Quadiecommastoleons have much contact outside their systems.”
“This is all very fascinating,” Delightful Childe said, “but I need to proceed to my destination.” His curiosity begged to know more about the reclusive Verfen, but his head was worried about Captain Teeman and Xindella-and more than that. He was afraid. “You said you wanted my advice about something?”
“We do, Delightful Childe, but please accept those better than we to explain. “ There was a brief silence before a new voice spoke. “Greetings, Trader Captain,” it said in a tone even more musical than the first voice.
“Greetings, Verfen. How may I be of service?”
“We wish to know how this struggle between the two human factions can be halted.”
Double Spiral War Trilogy Page 74