The guests included Sergi Chien-Chu, Maylo Chien-Chu and Hiween Doma-Sa. The President gestured toward the Hudathan’s large and rather ornate bowl. “So, Ambassador, how are you doing? Ready for another serving?”
The Hudathan eyed his second bowl of cooked grain. It was hearty stuff—full of nuts and dried fruit. Not bad for shipboard cuisine. “Thank you, Mr. President, but no. This is more than sufficient.”
Nankool looked at Maylo. “And how ’bout you my dear? Some more of the fish perhaps?”
Maylo flashed back to the illicit swim that she and Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six had shared in one of the on-board aqua-culture tanks, and wondered where he was. Why did she care? And what about Booly? The silence stretched uncomfortably long, and she hurried to fill it. “No, thank you.”
“Well,” Nankool continued, dabbing at his lips, “let’s get to it. So, Sergi, what’s on your mind?”
Chien-Chu had very little need of nourishment, and what he did require was delivered by other means. He toyed with his wineglass. The dinner was his doing . . . so the question made sense. He looked from one face to the next. “I would like to submit a proposal, a proposal that many of our colleagues would consider to be insane, but, given our present circumstances, may represent the only real chance we have.”
Nankool finished one glass of wine and poured himself another. Light gleamed as he raised the glass. “To Sergi Chien-Chu! Author of the outrageous! Please proceed.”
The most fleeting of smiles touched Chien-Chu’s plastiflesh lips. “You may feel differently in a moment. My proposal is this: Given the fact that the Sheen are hunting for the Thraki, and we lack the clout to force them to leave, the Confederacy is in need of allies. Allies with military clout.”
“Yes,” the President agreed. “But who? All the players have chosen sides. None remain.”
“Ah, but that’s where you are wrong,” the industrialist insisted. “One player remains, and he’s here, sitting at this table.”
Nankool frowned, looked to Doma-Sa, and back to Chien-Chu. “I’m sorry Sergi . . . I don’t understand.”
“It’s really quite simple,” Chien-Chu replied. “After the last war ended, in an effort to prevent still another, a blockade was established. Since that time Ambassador Doma-Sa and his people have been free to do whatever they pleased so long as they remained on the surface of the planet Hudatha.”
Maylo wondered what her uncle was driving at, looked at the Hudathan, and took note of his expression. Though no expert, the businesswoman had spent a considerable amount of time with the diplomat, and thought she detected a strange sort of intensity . . . As if the alien thought he knew where Chien-Chu was headed . . . but was afraid to hope.
“I have no way to know,” the industrialist continued earnestly, “but it’s my guess that the Hudathan military has been anything but inactive during the last fifty years, and are at the very peak of readiness. All of which points to a reserve of warriors, fierce warriors, who have every reason to fight the Sheen and nothing to lose.”
Nankool went pale. His hands started to shake. “My apologies to the Ambassador—but have you taken leave of your senses? Have you forgotten the death of your own son? The deaths of more than two million Confederate soldiers? The deaths of a billion civilians? All at the hands of the Hudathans? I’m sorry, Sergi . . . but what you propose is out of the question. Even if the Hudathans agreed, even if they fought the Sheen to a standstill, they would turn on us in the end.”
Though not as responsive as his flesh and blood face had been, the highly malleable plastic did its best to reflect what the cyborg felt, and there was no mistaking the extent of his emotions. A hand slammed down onto the surface of the table, and wineglasses jumped in response. Maylo, who had never seen her uncle lose his temper in all the years she had known him, felt suddenly afraid.
“You think I haven’t considered those things? Damn your impertinence! Not a day passes that I don’t think of Leonid, of the fact that I sent him to Spindle, where the Hudathans killed him.
“But what of the billions for whom we are responsible? How many will the Sheen slaughter? Once dead, we have no means to bring them back. Should we defeat the Sheen, and go on to face the Hudathans, they have a chance. No offense to Ambassador Doma-Sa—but we defeated his race on two previous occasions. I believe we can do so again.”
Though confused by conflicting emotions Maylo came to her uncle’s assistance. “Sergi has a point . . . Perhaps the Hudathans could change, if they wanted to change, and integrate themselves into Confederate society. Still, even if they can’t, limits can be imposed.”
“Yes!” Chien-Chu added gratefully. “Limit the size of their navy! Troops mean nothing without the means to move them around.”
“Spoken like a true admiral,” Nankool said dryly. “I see what you mean . . . but I still find the concept more than a little frightening.”
The President turned to Doma-Sa. So, Ambassador, what do you think? Would you and your people fight alongside the Confederacy in exchange for limited freedoms? And to what extent could your race be trusted? Realizing that you are a bit biased of course.”
Doma-Sa fought to control the unseemly feeling of joy that threatened to overwhelm the rest of his faculties. At last! Here was the opportunity he had dreamed of ... An opening to exploit. But at what cost? The Thrakie hoped to use the entire Confederacy as a shield—and Chien-Chu wanted to employ his people as a spear. Oh, how he hungered for something clean and pure. The diplomat chose his words with care.
“The governor’s assumption is correct. Though not permitted to leave the surface of Hudatha, my people have been able to maintain a high state of military readiness. A fact that in no way violates the terms of our surrender and subsequent imprisonment.
“As for our willingness to fight the Sheen, well, anyone who has carried out even the most superficial analysis of our racial psychology knows that we have a strong, some would say overdeveloped sense of survival. Given the opportunity to neutralize a threat, we will always seek to do so.
“Such decisions lie beyond the scope of my authority, but, I believe the answer would be ‘yes.’ If we were allowed some additional freedoms—and the right to settle new worlds. Hudatha grows less stable with each passing year, and time grows short.”
“And then?” Nankool demanded. “If we defeat the Sheen? What could we expect then?”
The silence built as Doma-Sa considered his answer. He could lie, or try to, but doubted his ability to carry the deception off. Not with Chien-Chu present. No, the Hudathan decided, the truth was best. “I cannot honestly say that my people will ever be able to fully merge with the Confederacy. Given too much freedom, and the opportunity to build a fleet, our instincts would take over. If the Confederacy allows my race to fight, if we are allowed some additional freedoms, it would pay to be vigilant. We are what we are.”
There was another moment of silence followed by Nankool’s nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you Ambassador Doma-Sa. I have come to rely on your honesty. No one could represent you race or its interests more ably. Come, let’s eat, the food grows cold.”
It took the better part of an hour to finish the meal, complete the usual pleasantries, and prepare to leave. Nankool saw them to the hatch. It was he who raised the topic again. “Thank you for coming ... Terrifying though Sergi’s proposal is, I promise to give it some thought.
“In the meantime I suggest that all three of you direct your energies to the upcoming vote. The attempt on Maylo’s life is a sure measure of how desperate our opponents are. Once admitted, the Thraki would represent more than another vote—they would demonstrate how powerful the cabal has become. Many beings would align themselves accordingly, and a great deal would be lost, including any chance of approval for a scheme as wild as the one Sergi put forward.”
Nankool turned to the Hudathan. “They intend to kill you ... I wish you had refused.”
The Hudathan shrugged. “Thank you, but such a course is i
mpossible.”
“But why swords?” the President insisted. “Have you any experience?”
“I hope to give a good account of myself,” the Hudathan answered mildly. “Please notify my people should I fail to do so.”
Nankool’s guests left after that—but the politician was far from alone. Ghosts haunted his dreams. Many screamed in anguish.
In spite of the fact that it would have been more convenient to conduct the duel on board the ship, there were laws that prevented the combatants from doing so, which left Arballa’s hot rather unpleasant surface. A fleet of high puffy clouds sailed across the land. Each threw a separate shadow. They drifted like night over broken ground.
And so the politicos arrived, their shuttles shattering the silence, landing in sloppy groups.
There wasn’t much vegetation, which meant that oxygen was in short supply. Many of those who had chosen to come, and that was almost everybody, required supplemental air. They hiked in from wherever they happened to touch down with all manner of exotic breathing gear attached to their mouths, snouts, beaks, and other related organs.
All except for Doma-Sa that is, whose body could handle a wide range of atmospheric conditions, and who walked unencumbered from his shuttle. A fact that attracted no small amount of notice and fueled the speculation. Would the War Orno win? He certainly looked dangerous ... Or would the Hudathan carry the day? Opinions were offered, odds were given, and bets were placed.
Doma-Sa’s robe snapped in the breeze, dust exploded away from his boots, and he walked with purpose. Bystanders scattered at his approach, wondered about the bundle tucked under his arm, and some even felt sorry for him. Had anyone else been challenged seconds would have accompanied him down to the planet’s surface, but the Hudathan was all alone. The onlookers followed, marveled at the size of the alien’s footprints, and felt a delicious sense of anticipation.
The arena consisted of a bowl-shaped depression, scoured by the relentless globe-spanning winds, and rimmed by a circle of heavily weathered rocks. Someone, it wasn’t clear who, had seen fit to stick long whip-style poles into the soil, each topped by a colorful pennant. They seemed oddly gay, given the nature of the occasion, and flapped back and forth.
The rocks offered a sort of rough and ready seating and were half occupied by the time the Ramanthian party made its way down from the hill on which they had landed and entered the crater.
The War Orno had been there before, on three different occasions, to test the surface on which he would fight. Yes, he knew each dip, each patch of gravel, and each pocket of sand. Critical knowledge, given the fact that good footing is one of the most critical components of good swordsmanship.
The Hudathan was big, very big, and that meant slow. Slow and potentially clumsy. There was power in those shoulders, however, the kind of power generated by an internalized skeleton, and a mistake could be fatal.
Senator Alway Orno removed his counterpart’s cape, took pride in the way he looked, and stepped out of the way.
A buzz ran through the crowd. Balanced on his powerful retrograde legs, his chitin shiny with oil, the Ramanthian was very imposing. There was the rasp of high grade steel as Horgo drew his weapon, slashed the air into four equal sections, and restored the blade to its scabbard. The odds changed again. The cabal and its champion were favored to win.
Maylo made an adjustment to her nose plugs and spoke to her uncle. The words had a nasal quality. “That was impressive.”
“Ceremonial displays usually are,” the industrialist observed. “It’s what happens when blade meets blade that matters.”
The sun was hot, but Maylo shivered.
Doma-Sa looked strangely vulnerable as he entered the arena. His robe flapped around his knees, and he carried a bundle bound with twine. He paused, turned a long slow circle, and nodded as if satisfied. Then, with the care of a surgeon preparing her instruments, he gave a tug on the string, and flicked the roll toward the east. Dust spurted up around the edges of the fabric as the quiltlike material hit the orange-red dirt. Sunlight rippled along the surface of the thousand-year-old blade
It was called Head Taker and had been handed down through Doma-Sa’s family the way all things of value were allocated: by force. Like all such weapons, it had two edges, one straight, one with razor-sharp teeth.
Another buzz ran through the crowd. Did the Hudathan know how to use the weapon? Why have such an implement if he didn’t? The odds turned and surged the other way.
That’s when Doma-Sa dropped his robe, the audience watched his skin shift toward white, and realized how big he truly was. Leather cross-straps bulged where they sought to span his chest, muscles rippled along massive arms, and his legs looked like tree trunks. The diplomat bent to take the sword. Light danced the length of the blade and more bets were placed.
A robot named Harold had been designated to officiate the event. His day suit had been painted on. A hover cam appeared. Once-shiny metal had been dulled by hard use. Maylo knew who the device belonged to. Though unwilling or unable to venture out onto the surface of their planet, the Arballazanies were interested nonetheless. Somewhere, far below, they watched as Harold made his way to the center of the arena.
Harold motioned the duelists forward. His voice was amplified. “Before the duel begins, before blood is shed, the President begs both parties to reconsider. The Confederacy is built on the rule of law, not violence, and there are equitable ways in which to solve our differences. Will one or both parties yield to reason? No? Then let the contest begin.”
There was no salute, no words of respect, since neither one of the opponents was willing to honor the other’s traditions. They circled to the right. The Hudathan held his weapon in the on-guard position, his torso turned slightly inward, his rear arm touching his hip.
The Ramanthian shuffled sideways, watching the way Doma-Sa held himself, and waited for the attack. Though too young to fight in the last war, Horgo had studied it, and drawn certain conclusions. Hudathans were aggressive, impatient, and overly reliant on brute force. All of which suggested that Doma-Sa would come to him.
Doma-Sa watched the sun, waited till his shadow pointed at his opponent’s feet, and launched a head cut.
The War Orno flicked his head to the right, waited for the moment of full extension, and made the forward lunge.
The Hudathan took note of the other being’s speed, parried the incoming blade, and recovered his ground.
Encouraged by the small retreat, the Ramanthian brought his left foot forward, and timed the chest cut to coincide with the end of the movement. Steel flashed past his face, something tugged at his air mask, and his lungs sucked hot thin air.
A murmur of approval ran through the crowd, and Senator Orno displayed the equivalent of a frown. Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven and Senator Haf Noother stayed where they were, but others edged away.
The combatants continued their slow deliberate dance. The War Orno found that it was hard to breathe. Time was running out. He backpedaled as if afraid, waited for Doma-Sa to commit, and opened his wings. The wind rushed in, his feet left the ground, and the Ramanthian was airborne. His sword fell, found the Hudathan’s shoulder, and cut to the bone. Blood flowed and Senator Orno whistled his shrill approval.
Doma-Sa cursed his own stupidity, shifted his sword from the right hand to the left, and parried the next blow. The bug could fly! How could he miss that? Gravel slipped out from under his boots as he fell.
The Ramanthian beat his way forward—leg spurs at the ready. Shaped like claws, and razor sharp, they could rip through chitin. Still lying on his back, the Orno’s wings pushing air down into his face, the Hudathan slashed with his sword. Steel sliced through the outer surface of a leg, and the Ramanthian flinched.
This was the opportunity Doma-Sa had been waiting for. The bug couldn’t land—not and stand upright. That would keep him in the air ... or so the diplomat hoped. He rocked forward, found his feet, and surged upwards.
The War Orno
responded, or tried to, but discovered that his belly was exposed. Head Taker stabbed upwards, the Ramanthian screeched in agony, and Maylo closed her eyes.
The War Orno fell, the Hudathan jerked his weapon free, and the body hit the dirt. A cloud of bloodred dust rose, the crowd fell silent, and the duel was over. Androids rushed to dress Doma-Sa’s wound and peers hurried to congratulate him.
Senator Orno felt a terrible sense of sorrow and shuffled his way forward. The War Orno and he had been hatched within seconds of each other, had courted the Egg Orno as a pair, and promised many things. Visions, dreams, things that might someday be. Now they were gone, snuffed like cave candles, forever destroyed.
Maylo actually felt sorry for the Ramanthian as he knelt on alien soil, gathered his loved one into his arms, and made his way up the hill.
Haf Noother looked at Harlan Ishimoto-Seven. The clone shrugged. The Drac walked out into the arena, located the Ramanthian’s sword, and tested the heft. Then, aiming for soil still damp with the Orno’s blood, drove the blade into the ground.
Later, long after the visitors had left, night came, and the stars danced on steel.
The vote came two days later. The result was never in doubt. Thraki membership was rejected, “pending further investigation,” and the cabal suffered a setback.
Grand Admiral Andragna, his plans frustrated, left for Zynig-47.
Sergi Chien-Chu witnessed the vote, made his way back to his quarters, and palmed the lock. Once inside, the fold-down desk sensed his presence, dropped into position, and spoke. “You have six messages waiting—one of which carries the designations ‘urgent,’ and ‘private.’ ”
“Play it,” Chien-Chu said, dropping into his chair.
“Congratulations,” Nankool said, as his likeness filled the holo tank. “The vote went just as we hoped it would. The cabal lost, and you won.”
By Force of Arms Page 4