“Yes?”
“There’s a dance tonight, in honor of the President’s birthday, and I wondered if you would come?”
Maylo noted the hesitancy in the clone’s voice and considered her response. The truth was that she would have been there anyway—everybody who was somebody would be—but this was something different. A date or something very similar. If she said “yes,” he would take her answer as permission to proceed, to take the relationship to the next level, and if she said “no,” he would be hurt and wouldn’t ask again.
So, what did she want? To open the door or close it? And what of Booly? Why couldn’t he pursue her with the same ardor that Six did? Because he was so desperately busy? Or just didn’t care? The words formed themselves. “That sounds like fun Samuel—thanks for asking.”
Ishimoto-Six followed Maylo into the lift, knew the platform was falling, but felt his spirits soar.
In spite of the fact that only the humans, dwellers and a few other races liked to dance, or even had a name for it, nearly everyone wanted to participate in President Nankool’s birthday celebration—some because they truly liked the chief executive, some because it pays to suck up, and some because there was nothing else to do.
That being the case, the corridors were overflowing with revelers, would-be revelers, or reveler watchers all heading for the Starlight Ballroom. They were dressed to the nines, or whatever the nines were in their particular cultures, which made for a nearly overwhelming assault on the senses.
Booly stepped out of his sixth meeting of the day, felt the crowd pull him along, and was stunned by the bright shimmering reds, blues, and greens. Capes, gowns, and robes rustled, swished, and in once case chimed. The smell of perfume, incense and things the officer wasn’t quite sure of filled the air. Add the drone of multilingual conversation to the mix, and it made for a stunning combination.
It was the sort of thing that the officer in Booly dismissed as a complete waste of time. Still, odds were that Maylo was somewhere about, raising the distinct possibility that he could talk to her, or better yet, convince her to leave early.
Booly was considered a player by then, a being to be reckoned with, which meant that he was forced to shake all manner of limbs, answer nonsensical questions, and dodge various types of supplicants, the worst of whom were arms dealers, eager to sell him everything from pocket knives to nukes.
Finally, after what felt like a swim upstream, the officer heard music, managed to break through a screen of onlookers, and made it to the dance floor. It took less than a second to spot Maylo and recognize the man she was with, Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six.
They were dancing to something slow and stately. Maylo wore a bright red dress and positively glowed. Her teeth flashed when she laughed. They looked happy, as if made for each other, and the spectators thought so too. Comments came from all around. “Aren’t they wonderful together?” “Look at that dress!” “He’s so handsome!” “What a beautiful couple.”
Booly looked down, realized how plain his class-two khaki’s were, and felt suddenly out of place. Maybe it stemmed from his upbringing on Algeron, maybe it was the result of too many years on the rim, but the entire atmosphere made him uncomfortable. This was Maylo’s world and one in which he would never be able to compete. Slowly, reluctantly, the soldier turned and forced his way back through the crowd.
Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, Maylo caught a glimpse of khaki. Her eyes followed, she saw his face, and then he was gone. Something, she wasn’t sure what, seemed to squeeze her heart. The music played, her feet moved, but the dance was over.
13
Any and all available resources can and should be used while searching for the Thraki.
The Hoon
General Directive 00003.0
Standard year 2502
Inside the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The Sheen fleet swept through the Istar Seven system with the slow sureness of an organism that knows where it’s headed but is in no particular hurry to get there. And with good reason. In spite of the fact that the Hoon had completed its inventory and destroyed all remaining vestiges of its other self, the computer intelligence had something new to concern itself with.
Scouts had come across signs that the Thraki armada had not only come that way—but done so within the relatively recent past. There were other portents as well... Ships that flashed into existence at the far end of detector range, the presence of computer controlled drones that exploded if tampered with, and hundreds of free-floating relay devices that “squirted” data to each other as the fleet drew near.
The occurrences were interesting for any number of reasons, beginning with the fact, that, old though the Hoon was, the computer had never observed such phenomena before. They suggested coordinated activity of some sort and presented a 92.3 percent match with instructions the Al had never been called upon to use before.
How had the creators been able to provide instructions regarding events that would transpire hundreds of years in the future? The machine neither knew nor cared.
The essence of the newly revealed directions were actually quite simple: Although the Sheen had pursued the Thraki armada for centuries now, the day would almost certainly come when the hunted would turn and make a stand. And, as part of that effort, they might attempt to lure the Hoon into some sort of trap. The AI would know that day had arrived “when signs start to thicken, when ships harry the fleet, and when mysteries appear.”
The first pair of parameters made sense, but the last didn’t. “Mysteries?” What did that mean? Ah well, what the computer didn’t or couldn’t understand it had been programmed to ignore.
So, cautious as to the possibility of a trap, the Hoon doubled the number of units assigned to reconnaissance, ordered the rest of the fleet to the highest possible state of readiness, and slowed the overall rate of advance.
That’s how the Sheen discovered that a Thraki convoy had taken refuge on the eleventh planet out from a rather undistinguished sun and turned to investigate.
Veera was playing with Sam, something she did at least once a day, and Jepp was watching. Their cabins were too small for such activities... so they had moved out into the long, sterile corridor. Well, mostly sterile, since the human’s quasi-religious graffiti added what he considered to be a much-needed touch of color.
The game, which Jepp watched from the comfort of a chair that Henry had fashioned from metal tubing, was as old as man’s relationship with dogs. Veera, her iridescent underfeathers occasionally catching the light, would throw the crudely made ball down the passageway, and Sam, pleased to be the center of attention, would chase it. Not only chase it, but perform tricks while doing so, each calculated to outdo the last. Jepp watched the device scoot along the ceiling, drop from above, and swallow the ball.
The robot’s reward for this activity, if “reward” was the right word, were trills of approval from Veera. Trills that Sam answered in kind and made Jepp jealous. He couldn’t “sing” her language, hadn’t even tried, and felt left out.
Still, some company was better than none, and he had vaguely paternal feelings toward the little alien. Though competent in many respects, and almost impossibly bright, she was vulnerable, too. Both her mother and father were dead, she was passing through a stage analogous to human adolescence, and was trapped aboard an alien ship.
Dealing with Veera, which also meant dealing with her moods, had altered Jepp’s life. When she felt good then he felt good—and when she felt bad then he felt bad. The back and forth of which nearly drove the human crazy but beat loneliness. Something he had experienced all to often over the last six months.
Sam did a series of cartwheels, disgorged the ball at Veera’s feet, and dashed away. The Prithian uttered a series of chirps, threw the sphere down-corridor, and seemed to stiffen. Her crimson shoulder plumage rose slightly and stuck straight out. Though unable to converse with the alien without the assistance of a translator, Jepp understood som
e of her nonverbal communications. He sat up straight. “Veera? What’s wrong?”
The Prithian cocked her head to one side. “The ship changed direction—and picked up speed.”
The human hadn’t felt a thing but believed her nonetheless. The teenager had mentioned such changes shortly after coming aboard, and Jepp, having doubts regarding the veracity of her claims, ordered Alpha to check them out. The results were amazing. The Prithian was right at least 95 percent of the time. Her senses were more acute than his. So, given the fact that the ship had maintained the same course and speed for the last week or so, why change now? He frowned. “Tap into the Hoon and find out why.”
What could have been phrased as a request was expressed as an order. Veera felt mixed emotions. Her father ordered the youngster around all the time. And, as someone who was older than she was, and presumably wiser, Jepp was entitled to the same level of respect due Prithian elders.
Or was he? Veera’s father was dead, her companion was eccentric by human standards, and she was alone. It was tempting to say “no,” on principle. To take a stand and maintain some personal space. The problem was her own highly developed sense of curiosity. What was behind the change in course? Where was the Hoon taking them? The teenager wanted to know.
Veera trilled an order, Sam cartwheeled in her direction, and followed the Prithian down the corridor. Data ports were located at regular intervals along the bulkheads. The Hoon’s mechanical minions used them whenever they had a need to access certain types of information.
The Thraki device scuttled up the wall, created the necessary adapter, and plugged itself into the ship’s electronic nervous system.
The way in which Veera communicated with machines was different from the manner in which Jepp accomplished the same thing. Her songs were comprised of individual notes, each one of which could easily be translated into binary code, and manipulated by any device having the intelligence to do so. The resulting transfer was that much more efficient. Just the sort of thing that the average machine is likely to appreciate.
More than that was the fact that most soft bodies required a machine interface to communicate with other machines, which marked them as clearly inferior. All except for Veera, that is, who, from a machine point of view, spoke something very close to unadulterated code. An accomplishment that marked her as superior to the biped with whom she chose to associate herself. That’s why the Hoon had a tendency to indulge her. A tiny, nearly insignificant part of the AI’s consciousness listened as the interrogatory arrived. “The ship [I am on] changed course. Why?”
The computer intelligence spent a fraction of a fraction of a second considering the question and formulating a response. “Thraki have been detected. The fleet must respond.”
Jepp had arrived by then, and Veera relayed what she had learned. The human felt a variety of emotions: a sense of excitement born of boredom, feelings of guilt that stemmed from his last encounter with the Thraki, and a sort of spiritual lust. Because if there was anything the human hungered after it was live, honest to goodness converts.
Yes, it was true that the last group of Thraki had gone so far as to deny the existence of a single all-powerful, all-knowing god, and having done so, had paid with their lives, but they were outcasts, and these Thraki might be more amenable to reason. It was worth a try. “Tell the Hoon that I wish to speak with the Thraki in the hope that we might convert them to the cause.”
Though relatively young, Veera was possessed of an excellent mind and knew the human wanted to convert the Thraki to his cause, rather than the Hoon’s. But she was also smart enough to know that escape, if such a thing were possible, was more likely to result from her relationship with Jepp than from any connection to the Hoon. She decided to comply.
The request stuttered through the ship’s fiber optic nervous system and made the jump to Vessel 17-9621 where the Hoon was currently in residence. Not just any residence but the one time electromechanical home of the ill-fated Hoon Number Two.
Having received the request, the machine intelligence spent a quarter of a second thinking about it. The idea had obviously originated with the “human” soft body, and while it seemed like a waste of time, there were reasons to approve it. True to its nature, the Hoon listed them in descending order of importance: The being called Jepp had not only been useful where the elimination of Hoon Number Two was concerned, but had proven his willingness to slaughter the Thraki, and never stopped advocating the necessity for other others to do likewise. Add that to the new soft body’s ability to communicate via code—and the Hoon was ready to indulge the strange twosome. Veera cocked her head, listened, and made the translation. “The Hoon says ‘yes.’ A shuttle awaits.”
Jepp gave a whoop of joy, jumped into the air, and landed with a thump. “Come on! Let’s get ready!”
Veera uttered the Prithian equivalent of a sigh, waited for Sam to scramble up onto her shoulder, and followed the alien toward his quarters. Once again, her father was proven correct: humans were a pain in the posterior.
The control area was neat, but homey, as if those assigned to it lived there, which they basically did. There were monitors, gently curving control panels, and holes into which the pilots and other crew members could insert their hands. Once positioned within a laser beam matrix, the ship’s Navcomp “read” the complicated hand-finger signals that controlled not only the vessel itself, but the various subsystems of which it was comprised.
Convoy Commander Pol Bay Seph struggled to maintain her composure as alarms sounded, hatches hissed closed, and her crew went to battle stations. She should have been focused on the situation, on the fact that her forlorn group of stragglers had been overtaken by what appeared to be the entire Sheen fleet, but was filled with self-pity instead. Why now? After so many years had been left behind? After the fire that once burned in her eyes had dimmed? Why had the gods waited till now to fling the challenge in her face? Not that it mattered, since even a younger version of herself would have been helpless in the face of such an enemy.
Subcommander Ith Tor Homa shook her shoulder. It was a serious breach of etiquette and a sure sign of how desperate he was. “Commander! Every captain in the convoy requests orders... what shall I tell them?”
Seph glanced at a display. Once the Sheen were detected, she had ordered the convoy to land in the hope that they could avoid detection. The ships were arrayed around her. There were no signs of life on the airless planet, and the enemy was closing in. She felt like telling her captains to pray, since there was nothing else they could do, but she knew the unyielding younger version of herself would almost certainly disapprove.
Seph was about to offer some sort of meaningless platitude when a holo popped into existence in the upper right hand quadrant of her command space. The technical looked worried. “Commander, I have an incoming message... A Sheen envoy is on the way.”
Seph was surprised. Very surprised. Not by the arrogance involved—that was expected—but by the act itself. Why send an envoy when there’s nothing to negotiate? The Sheen never took prisoners, never made deals, and never showed mercy. The convoy was doomed. What were the machines up to? There was no way to know.
An envoy implied time, however, time the officer never expected to have, and she was determined to make good use of it. Years seemed to drop away. She felt younger and filled with energy. “Homa, you wanted some orders? Well, here they are: I want every youngster under the age of sixteen to suit up, grab what they can, and head for the hills. Any hills. Got it? Good.
“The minute that effort is under way have the technicals alter all of the crew manifests, supply inventories, and other lists to reflect the reduced muster.
“While the technicals work on that have someone clean out their cabins and destroy anything they can’t take with them. And Homa...”
“Yes?”
“Prep some class two beacons. I want them to activate thirty cycles from now. Maybe, just maybe, one of our ships will happen along.”
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Homa considered the possibilities... Death at the hands of the Sheen—or by slow starvation. Which was worse? The decision was made, so it didn’t matter. He saluted, said “Yes, ma’am,” and turned away.” His daughter was on one of those ships... and there was no time to lose.
Like the Sheen shuttles Jepp had used in the past, this one was equipped with a small almost perfunctory control space consisting of little more than a view screen, minimal controls, and a pair of uncomfortable seats.
Unlike previous outings, however, was the fact that Veera had agreed to accompany him and, after a quick survey of the lifeless control panel, had warbled a series of seemingly random notes. The human watched in annoyance as four additional displays appeared. One showed the relative positions of the shuttle, the planet they were about to land on, and the Thraki ships. The second consisted of colored bars that fluctuated in length. There was no way to be certain, short of asking Veera that is, but Jepp figured each bar was associated with one of the shuttle’s major systems.
The third display shimmered with color but remained blank, as if not in use, and the fourth, which the human found to be especially interesting, scrolled through line af ter line of alien hieroglyphics. Jepp had seen similar symbols before, printed on bulkheads, hatches, and other surfaces, but never obtained a large enough sample to attempt some sort of analysis.
He was about to signal Sam and order the robot to record the alien text, when the surface rose to meet them. The planet was barren and seemingly lifeless. A mountain range stretched from north to south. It rose sharp and jagged—like the teeth of a saw blade. And, judging from the nav display, twelve Thraki ships waited up ahead, grounded at the bottom of a monster crater. In order to hide? Probably, though the attempt had been futile.
By Force of Arms Page 19