Chien-Chu remembered the twins and felt a chill run down his spine. Was this the moment for which the weapons had been intended? A standoff like the one the Thraki found themselves in? An opportunity to stop running and make a new home for themselves? It seemed all too possible. His mind continued to race. “Does Jepp know about this?”
“No,” Veera chirped, “he shows little to no interest in anything beyond his fantasies. The only time he has participated in anything even vaguely political was when Hoon number one tricked him into terminating Hoon number two.”
“ ‘Hoon number two?’ ” Chien-Chu demanded. “There were two of them?”
“Yes,” Veera agreed, “that was before my time, though.”
Two Hoons and two energy weapons. It made perfect sense. Still another piece of the puzzle fell into place. “So,” Chien-Chu reasoned, “Jepp knows how to deactivate the Hoon?”
Veera felt surprised. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Yes, I suppose he does.”
Then we should pay him a visit,” the industrialist said grimly, “and discuss the art of murder.”
18
In war: Resolution. In defeat: Defiance. In victory:
Magnanimity. In peace: Good will.
Sir Winston Churchill
The Second World War
Standard year 1948
Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The horn made a long mournful sound as the procession left the heavily guarded chamber where the twins had been stored—and wound its way through the ship’s passageways toward launcher 12.
There were eighteen individuals in all. The entire party wore the so-called dark vestments normally reserved for funerals and moved with the deliberate slide-step reserved for the most solemn of occasions.
The twins were cradled in specially designed pole-hung slings, each supported by four ceremonial robots, and guarded by members of the Brother-Sisterhood of Assassins.
High Priestess Bree Bricana led the processional herself—but did so with a heavy heart. Unlike most of the population, she had seen the footage captured on the Friendship and heard the good sister’s claim. In response to orders issued by her, the best scholars in the armada had delved into the records, scoured them for information, and reported their findings. Though couched in academic jargon and hung with qualifications, their conclusions were clear: Somehow, someway, mistakes had been made. The commonly accepted translation was wrong, Sister Torputus was correct, and the twins were inherently dangerous. So dangerous that Bricana now questioned their use. In fact, knowing what she knew, the priestess wished she had left Andragna in the dark.
But it was too late for second thoughts—and the decision had been made. Without an alliance, and faced with superior numbers, the Thraki had no choice. At least one of the twins would be summoned from its long sleep and sent against the enemy.
The horn groaned and sounded like a death knell.
Jepp lay on his badly rumpled bed, knees drawn to his chest, face to the bulkhead. Alpha had arranged for the lights to be dimmed and stood in a corner.
Chien-Chu entered the compartment and took a look around. Jepp was a mess—that much was clear. How to proceed? Sweet talk the ex-prospector into a state of cooperation, assuming such a thing was possible? Or jerk the miserable piece of shit out of his bunk and force him to comply? Not the way he normally worked—but there’s a time and place for everything.
The cyborg walked over, took hold of Jepp’s collar, and jerked the human off his bunk. The ex-prospector hit the deck with a thump and yelped with pain. “My shoulder! You hurt my shoulder!”
“Really?” Chien-Chu asked unsympathetically. “How ’bout the people on Long Jump? You know ... the ones you killed. I’ll bet that hurt too. Now get up.”
“Screw you,” Jepp said sullenly. “Wait till I tell the Hoon—he’ll send some robots ...”
“Who can kiss my hundred year old ass,” the industrialist said conversationally. Chien-Chu bent over, secured a second grip on the human’s collar, and dragged him toward the hatch. Jepp squealed all the way.
Alpha dithered for a moment, stepped forward, and stopped when Veera sang two or three notes. Once in the corridor, Chien-Chu jerked Jepp to his feet and stood him against a bulkhead. Veera, who had just discovered that the portly middle-aged man was more than he seemed, watched in open-mouthed amazement.
“Now,” the industrialist said, “Veera tells me that you know where the Hoon’s processor is located. More than that, she says you know how to kill the damned thing. Is that true?”
The human directed a dirty look toward the Prithian. “She lied.”
Chien-Chu’s normal reaction to people like Jepp was cerebral rather than physical. But the industrialist was tired, frustrated, and more than a little angry. He hit the would-be messiah in the gut, watched him bend over, and let go. The ex-prospector collapsed.
Chien-Chu waited for Jepp to recover, pulled him to his feet, and held him there. “There’s a liar aboard this ship ... but it isn’t Veera. You know where the Hoon is because this ship is identical to the one used by Hoon number two. It switches back and forth but is currently in residence.
Jepp nodded reluctantly.
“Good. Take us there.”
“Senator Ishimoto-Six?”
A hand touched his arm, and the clone awoke with a jerk. His neck hurt from sleeping in the waiting room chair, and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a recycling vat. “Yes?”
The doctor looked tired. “We’ve done everything we can. Miss Chien-Chu is stable ... but in serious condition.”
Six stood. “Can she travel?”
The doctor shrugged. “Under normal circumstances I would say ‘no,’ but given the resources at your disposal, I’ll say ‘yes.’ ”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Six said gratefully. “You won’t be sorry. I know you think the Hegemony is strange—but when it comes to culture-grown organs—ours are the very best.”
The doctor nodded. What the clone said was true, and everyone knew it. “I’ll have the orderlies transport her to your ship.”
The medic left, and Six peered into the murk. A khaki-clad body lay on the floor. The politician walked over, bent down, and touched a shoulder. “General? She’s ready to go.”
Booly groaned, rolled over, and shielded his eyes. “She’s okay?”
“As okay as someone who has severe cardiopulmonary damage can be.”
The clone extended a hand, the legionnaire took it, and pulled himself up. “Can I see her?”
Six jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “If you hurry.”
Booly nodded, made his way past the reception desk, and located Maylo’s cubicle. Tubes snaked into her arms, through her nostrils, and up under the covers. Her eyes were closed, the respirator wheezed, and a monitor beeped. A pair of androids were there, fussing with her sheets, and checking the portable monitors. The officer looked into a pair of scanners. “Can I be alone with her for a moment?”
The reply was respectful but somewhat flat. “Sir, yes, sir. Five minutes. The ship’s waiting.”
Booly nodded, waited for the machines to leave, and took Maylo’s hand. “I’m sorry, honey, sorry this happened to you. I know it’s too late, that I had my chance, but I wish I could have another. The fact is that I love you more than I know how to say. You’ll be fine, I feel sure of that, or I wouldn’t let you go. I guess that’s it then, have a good life, and be sure to take care of yourself.” The officer gave her hand one final squeeze, turned, and walked out into the corridor. Six was waiting by the reception desk. Booly stuck his hand out. “Thanks, Sam.”
“You’d do the same.”
“You’ll stay with her?”
“All the way.”
The words had a double meaning, and both men knew it. Booly nodded. “All right then, Godspeed.”
It was the last time they saw each other.
The watch was changing, and a long series of salutes rippled down the corridor. The adm
irals returned them one by one. “Damn,” Chang remarked, “my arm’s getting tired. Let’s duck into the wardroom.”
The officer was good as her word, and Tyspin followed. Though normally crowded, most of the officers not in their bunks, or about to go there, were at battle stations. A rather prolonged situation that wore on everyone’s nerves. A lieutenant shouted, “Attention on deck!” and sprang to her feet. An ensign did likewise.
“Both of you look tired,” Chang observed. “I’ll bet a nap would put you right.”
“I’m not tired,” the ensign said brightly, “I’m ...”
“Not too bright,” the lieutenant finished for him. “Come on, I’ll find something for you to do.”
“So,” Chang said, once the hatch had closed, “where were we? Oh, that’s right, you were telling me how the entire situation is your fault.”
“It is,” Tyspin replied stubbornly. “I was the one who led the Sheen into this system. Remember?”
The other officer’s eyes appeared unnaturally bright. “Why yes, I do remember. I also remember that I’m senior to you, that I command this sector, and you have a problem with military courtesy. Or is your S-2 full of shit?”
Tyspin stiffened. “Yes, ma‘am. No, ma’am.”
“Good,” Chang said, falling into a well worn chair. “Now, pull that ramrod out of your ass, and let’s get real. Nobody, not the clones, not intel, not the President his worthless self knew the chip heads could follow a ship through hyperspace. Williams had an inkling of such a capability but wasn’t sure. So cut the crap. We haven’t got time for it.”
Tyspin managed a grin. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”
“Now,” Chang continued, “tell me about the Thraki transport and what you plan to do with it.”
Tyspin frowned. “Boone ratted me out?”
Chang laughed. “No way. He’d blow himself out a lock for you. I’ve got spies—lots of them. Just one of the reasons why I pull so many gees.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, life sucks. Now spill your guts.”
Tyspin ran a hand through her hair—and sat on a couch. “You ordered the deck crew to place a tracer on Andragna’s hull.”
Chang nodded. “Of course.”
“So we know which ship he returned to.”
“Correctamundo. But so what?”
“That’s where the twins will be.”
Chang shrugged. “I repeat, so what?”
Tyspin looked the other woman in the eye. “So, I plan to take one of the captured transports, load a tactical nuke, and pay the fur balls a visit. They will see one of their own ships, open the bay doors, and invite me in. End of story.”
“No shit,” Chang said feelingly. “Even if I had good officers to spare, which I sure as hell don’t, I wouldn’t approve your plan.”
“Why not?”
“Because the nuke might trigger the twins,” Chang replied, “and destroy our entire fleet. Not to mention Arballa. We’re supposed to defend the worms—not blow ’em to hell and gone.”
“Might,” Tyspin responded. “You said might. I took the liberty of doing some research, and three out of four of the propeller heads I spoke with rated my plan at eighty percent or better.”
“And the fourth?”
Tyspin grinned. “He said I was out of my frigging mind.”
“How very astute of him,” Chang said dryly. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take the idea to the President. If he decides to roll the dice, I will green light the mission. If we were able to destroy the twins without detonating them, we’d be way ahead.”
Tyspin started to say something, but the other woman raised a hand. “Not with you at the controls, however ... not while I’m in command.”
“Then how ...”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Chang replied, getting to her feet. “We’ll talk to General Booly, followed by President Nankool .... Assuming the slob can make time to talk with us that is.”
Tyspin gave a crooked grin. “Slob? What did he do to deserve that?”
“Nothing,” Chang replied solemnly. “Like a lot of people ... he just pisses me off.”
Andragna’s day cabin was spacious, as befitted a person of his rank, and had once served as the ultimate status symbol. But that was back during the time when the Runners held sway, when entire lives were lived on ships, when most families were allotted a thousand square units of space and felt lucky to have that.
Now, after the colonization of Zynig-47 and time spent on the surface, the day cabin felt more confining. That, plus the fact that it had been stripped of personal effects, made the compartment seem cold and impersonal. One more indication of how much their lives had changed. For the better? Maybe, but that remained to be seen.
A tone sounded, and the officer cleared his throat. “Yes?” The bulkhead opposite his work surface played host to a mosaic of images ranging from lists of fleet-related data, to video of the control room, and randomly selected shots from throughout the ship. A new picture blossomed at the center. Weapons Officer Trewa Mogus looked worried. Very worried. Sorry to bother you, Admiral, but a problem has arisen.”
Andragna’s ears rotated in opposite directions. There was something about Mogus that brought out the worst in him. “And what? You want me to guess what the difficulty is?”
“No, sir,” the unfortunate officer said hurriedly. “It appears that the twins were configured to ride a delivery system that was replaced more than 150 annums ago.”
The first emotion that Andragna felt was anger—followed by an almost overwhelming sense of shame. He had been a weapons officer once and should have thought of the issue himself. “I’m sorry, Mogus, we should have thought of that. Very few people knew about the twins and most were priests. What’s being done?”
Mogus felt a vast sense of relief. He knew Andragna disliked him and was expecting the worst. “Four Class III Penetrator missiles are being retrofitted to accept the new payloads.”
“Four?”
“To provide 100 percent redundancy should one of them prove faulty.”
“Excellent. And time?”
“We need about six standard units, sir, four to do the work and two for tests.”
For perhaps the hundredth time that day, Andragna wondered why the Sheen seemed reluctant to attack. It didn’t make much sense, but it was a gift, and one he was happy to accept. He nodded his approval. “That will be fine, Mogus—we will attack shortly thereafter.”
The corridor stretched long and empty. A hatch could be seen at the far end. Jepp led the way, followed by Chien-Chu, Veera and a blank-faced Alpha. Sam rode the teenager’s shoulder. “This isn’t going to work,” Jepp grumbled. “The Hoon knows exactly where we are ... The moment it feels threatened, all hell will break loose.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Chien-Chu answered grimly. “Now open that hatch.”
Jepp stopped and crossed his arms. “I can’t.”
Chien-Chu started to reply but stopped when Veera raised a clawlike hand. She warbled a phrase, Sam answered in Prithian, and Alpha joined in. The conversation continued for a good fifteen seconds before Alpha approached the barrier, inserted an extension of his tool arm, and tried to make it open. Nothing happened.
Alerted by the attempt to open the hatch, the Hoon turned its attention to that particular portion of its far-flung anatomy. Tiny silicon imaging chips had been “painted” onto the bulkheads. They produced a composite picture. The primary soft body, the secondary soft body, and the “hostage” soft body were trying to access the AI’s private domain. Why? The computer should have felt threatened, should have opposed the invasion, but couldn’t process a reason for doing so. A biological might have wondered about that—but the Hoon didn’t. It released the door. The hatch opened with a pronounced hissing sound.
Jepp, who had already formed the words, “I told you so,” was forced to swallow them. The air beyond the opening was flavored with ozone. The prospector was confused.
The Hoon, which had been so predictable up till then, suddenly wasn’t. The realization shattered the human’s sense of security and made him frightened. He looked around. His voice sounded weak and uncertain. “Watch for robots—they attacked last time.”
But the machines didn’t attack, a fact that troubled Jepp, but didn’t bother Chien-Chu. They arrived at the end of the corridor. Another hatch faced them. “We’re closer now,” the ex-prospector announced. “Assuming you get past that door, you’ll find yourself in another section of hallway. It ends in front of a hatch. That’s the last of them. Knock politely, step inside, and find the bright blue module. Grab the bright red handle and give it one full turn to the right. Or was it the left? Not that it matters, since you’ll never make it.”
“But what if he did?” Veera asked pragmatically. “What then?”
“Pull on the red handle, and the whole component will come free.”
“That’s it?” Chien-Chu inquired cynically. “That’s all I have to do?”
Jepp shrugged. “It worked for me.”
The industrialist looked at Veera. They approached the door together.
The navcomp known as Henry forced the nonsentient Thraki computer to do its will, “felt” the retros fire, and knew the transport had started to slow. It felt good to control a real body for once. Even if the design was a bit uncomfortable.
A Thraki battleship loomed ahead, its bulk blotting out dozens of stars, sensors probing for incoming threats. The very thing strapped down at the center of the transport’s hold: Two nuclear warheads—either one of which could turn the larger vessel into tiny bits of scrap. The voice was hard and demanding. Henry took care of the translation himself. “This is Thraki warship Will of the Gods. The incoming transport will identify itself or be fired on.” A tone sounded to mark the end of the transmission. Authentication codes were included.
By Force of Arms Page 30