By force of arms

Chapter 15

Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

Matthew 7:15

First printing

Circa Standard Year 1400

Transit Point NS690193, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The combined fleets, now numbering more than six thousand ships, emerged from hyperspace in groups of one hundred, formed clusters around the transit point, and waited for instructions. If the Hoon had been something other than a machine and if the Hoon had been possessed of emotions, it might have been excited. For here, after a journey that spanned half a galaxy, the quarry was finally at hand.

But there were variables, factors the computer had never encountered before, and these argued for a certain degree of caution. Early reports, along with those that continued to trickle in, suggested the same thing: The Thraki were not only present in that particular sector of space, but present in large numbers, and showed no sign of trying to escape. This was unprecedented ... and therefore of concern. Adding to that concern was the fact that non-Thraki probes, hundreds of them, had already arrived on the scene, with more popping out of hyperspace all the time. Who were the interlopers? How strong were they? And what if any relationship had been established with the Thraki? Such questions deserved answers, and the Hoon was reluctant to proceed without them.

If the computer was cautious, however—Jepp was ecstatic. The news sent the human dashing back and forth, powerless to affect what took place, but desperate to do so. Hopeless though it had seemed at times, his faith had finally paid off There was a plan. God’s plan, and it was his job to see it through. Though no longer invested in a ship of its own, the Navcomp named Henry still took a passionate interest in things navigational and had taken advantage of Jepp’s momentary credibility to monitor the fleet’s progress.

The realization that the Sheen had entered Confederate controlled space in a system known as NS680193 came as a shock, since the human designed intelligence had given up any hope of scanning familiar constellations a long time before. It hurried to notify its human master and, if not capable of joy, processed a sense of satisfaction.

But now, with Jepp literally jumping up and down, and running around like a madman, the computer wasn’t so sure. The Sheen brought nothing but pain and misery to the systems they had visited in the past, and there was no reason to think this stop would be any different. There could be an increased possibility of escape, however—which the computer was quick to bring to the human’s attention.

“What?” Jepp responded, his face filled with consternation. “Are you out of your silicon packed mind?

This is the moment we’ve been waiting for! The fleet is God’s instrument—his way of bringing the sinners around. Judgment Day is upon us.”

Henry had heard such pronouncements before, most recently in connection with some very dead Thraki, but knew better than to comment. Jepp was Jepp, and whatever would be, would be. The cabin was dark, air whispered through ducts, and Tyspin was asleep. More than that she knew she was asleep and relished the knowledge. The officer heard the intercom bong, resolved to ignore it, and swore when it sounded again. She regretted the words the moment they were spoken. “Yes? What the hell do you want?”

“Sorry, Admiral,” the OOD said apologetically, “but a probe was waiting at Transit Point WHOT89653452. It appears that the Sheen have arrived.”

Tyspin sat up, rubbed her eyes, and swung her feet off the bunk. “Where?”

“In system NS680193 . . . about halfway between the Ramanthians and the Arballazanies.”

“Notify the general—I’m on the way.”

The OOD had notified the general—but didn’t see any need to say so. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” The intercom popped and went dead. The officer scanned the bridge, spotted one of the less essential ratings, and made eye contact. “The admiral is on her way—how ‘bout getting her a cup of coffee?”

The tech said, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared.

Tyspin liked, no needed coffee, and everyone knew it. The bridge crew looked at each other and chuckled as the OOD considered what he knew. If the Intel was correct, and there was no reason to doubt it, the machines had six thousand ships. Booly was one hell of an officer, and so was Tyspin, but that was twice the number of vessels the Confederacy could bring to bear ... Not to mention the fact that the Thraki armada consisted of more than four thousand ships.

The OOD’s father had opposed his son’s choice of careers urging the youngster to pursue the law instead. Now, knowing what he knew, it appeared that dad was correct.

Planet Zynig47, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Sun poured down through rose-colored glass to bathe the Chamber of Reason with soft pink light. Much of it was trapped there, blocked by the carefully laid stone, but some found its way to the beings below.

Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna had been listening to negative reports for the better part of three days now, and he was tired of it. The initial news had come as a shock. He had expected more time. A lot more time. The fact that the Sheen had arrived—were only weeks away—frightened him. But now, having accepted the situation, the naval officer was ready to fight and more than that to win. All he needed to do was put the resources in place, execute his carefully considered plan, and do something about morale. Regardless of where he went. the gloom was palpable. Most of the negativity was centered on the Sheen—but the constant stream of refugees from planets like BETA018 certainly didn’t help. Each convoy, each ship, was like a harbinger of doom. There was something strange about that, something suspicious, but there hadn’t been time to focus on it. Not with thousands upon thousands of killer machines to cope with. But that was for later—this was now. Sector 19 was late as usual, murmured her apologies, and slipped into her assigned chair. The chamberlain struck the Shield of Waha, and a single note reverberated between the walls. That was the signal for the rest of the Sectors to retrieve their forms. Signals went out, and the miniature robots crawled, walked, and tumbled back to their owners, where they were deactivated and restored to cases, bags, or laps Though normally the subject of considerable discussion, not to mention competition, there was little interest in the forms on that particular day.

So serious was the situation that High Priestess Bree Bricana had been invited to participate and, as the table was cleared, rose to give the traditional benediction. The final words, which Andragna had always found to be moving, were even more so now: “... And may the gods guide us through the labyrinth of stars to the peace that lies beyond. For it is there, in the promised place, where our spirits may rest.”

In most cases, Andragna preferred to let one of the Sectors set the agenda and open the meeting, but this was different. Focus was important. The Admiral cleared his throat and scanned the faces before him. Thousands watched via live feeds. The expression on his face and the tonality of his words were as important if not more important than what he said. “The moment we have both dreaded and anticipated is upon us. The Sheen have entered Confederate space, know where we are, and will attack soon.”

“I think we know that,” Sector 12 said sarcastically.

“We need a leader... not a clerk.”

Sector 12 was a Runner and, in spite of Andragna’s Runner sympathies, never tired of needling him. Many of the committee members thought her comments were amusing—but not today. Sector 27 rapped the surface of the table. He was a high-ranking member of the priesthood, a xenoanthropologist, and a levelheaded pragmatist. “Enough! There is no time for the game of politics. The admiral has a plan . .. and I want to hear it.”

Sector 12 actually looked contrite for once—and the admiral enjoyed her discomfort. He leaned forward as if to add weight to his words. “We had hoped to join the Confederacy of Sentient Beings and bind some allies to our cause. That particular path has been blocked,” Andragna continued earnestly,

“but the strategy continues to be valid.”

Sector 18 looked at Sector 4 to see if the Facer understood what the admiral was driving at, but she was as mystified as he was. Nortalla signaled as much with the set of her ears.

“The Sheen have sent probes and scouts to find us,” Andragna added, “and six have been detected within the boundaries of this very solar system.”

Though known to senior military officers and the top level of the priesthood, this was news to the majority of the population. Andragna paused for a moment to let the information sink in. Then, knowing how worried they were, he took them off the hook.

“We could have destroyed every single one of the intruders—but allowed them to survive. Why you may ask? So that when the vast majority of our fleet enters hyperspace, as it will soon, the Sheen will follow.”

Some of the Sectors looked confused—but the rest started to brighten. Did he mean?

“Yes,” Andragna confirmed, “I plan to drop our fleet into the system dominated by the race known as the Arballazanies . . . Because that’s where the Confederate government is momentarily convened, that’s where a significant number of their ships will be gathered, and that’s where the battle will be joined.”

It was a masterful plan, one that would force the Confederacy to side with the Thraki, or, failing that, enable Andragna to use them as a highly disposable shield. It was a good plan, a brilliant plan, and feet started to stomp, not just within the Chamber of Reason, but elsewhere on the planet, on the arks that orbited above, and out in the blackness of space.

Andragna heard the noise and felt it through the recently reconditioned floor. The timing would be critical—but hope had been restored.

One moment the Ninja was in the nowhere land of hyperspace, and the next moment it was bathed in light from NS680193, a rather benign sun in the prime of its life. Tyspin forced herself to remain impassive, or at least look impassive, as every detector, sensor, and warning system the ship had started to buzz, bleat, and speak in technical tongues. The Ninja’s command and control computer, better known as Big Momma, delivered the news with the same inflection used to announce the lunch menu: “More than three thousand targets have been acquired, indexed according to standard threat protocols, and tagged with firing priorities. This vessel will be destroyed approximately twenty-two seconds after the engagement begins—but may be able to inflict at least some damage on .001 percent of the enemy fleet. This intelligence recommends a preemptive strike.”

Tyspin glanced at the ship’s commanding officer. Captain John Hashimoto had been with her during theBattle for Earth. He was one of the most trustworthy officers she knew. Hashimoto was short, muscular, and eternally cheerful. The computer assessment made him grin. The Ninja had not been dispatched to attack the Sheen all by herself but it was nice to know that Momma was game.

“Stand by,” Tyspin said grimly. “One wrong move, and we make the jump.”

Hashimoto nodded. The calcs were complete and loaded. The Navcomp, affectionately known as Old Screw Head, was on standby. All it would take was a single word to fling the ship into the void. Would they make it before the Sheen blew the ship to bits? It seemed doubtful, but the possibility made everyone feel better.

Seconds ticked away. The bridge crew stood like statues, hesitant to breathe lest the action somehow trigger an attack, yet determined to appear fearless.

Tyspin felt fear gnaw at her belly and struggled to ignore it Five, maybe ten seconds had passed, and her heart continued to beat. That was good wasn’t it? Careful lest her voice betray how she actually felt, she raised an eyebrow and glanced at Hashimoto. “Well? What are we waiting for? You know the drill... Tell the servo heads that we’d like to parley.”

The words, plus the knowledge that they were still alive, acted to free the bridge crew from their momentary paralysis The admiral was pulling the old man’s chain’ Situation normal. Hashimoto, who was fully aware of the role he’d been given, looked appropriately stem, “Ma’am, yes, ma’am. You heard the admiral... send it out.”

The message was sent in Thraki and standard: “Greetings on behalf of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings. This sector of space is controlled by outmember states. Please state your intentions.”

President Nankool and his advisors had invested a considerable amount of time and energy in constructing the text. The phraseology was cool but short of hostile. That was the intent anyway, and how they would interpret such a message, but what about the machines? Could they? Would they read between the lines? Tyspin regarded the possibility as unlikely—but what did she know? At least two AIs had been part of the process, and if they believed the text would work, then maybe it would. The reply was not only expeditious but unexpected. A corn tech watched a holo bloom, listened to the audio that accompanied it, and raised his hand. “Over here, ma’am ... the machines replied ... or at least I think they did.”

Tyspin stepped over to the corn tech’s console and eyed the video. No wonder the rating was confused. In place of a machine, or some sort of graphical interface, a human being had appeared. He was in obvious need of a haircut, his face looked slightly cadaverous, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. They seemed to bore through Tyspin’s head. Judging from what the man said he had more than a passing familiarity with naval insignia. The tone was arrogant. “I see they sent an admiral to greet us ... kind of an insult wouldn’t you say? President Nankool would have been more appropriate.”

A memory tickled the back of Tyspin’s mind. Something the loquacious Willy Williams had discussed during the intelligence debriefings Something about a human who had been present during the attack on Long Jump, and of even more importance, had directed at least some of the ensuing violence. Was this the same man? A renegade with blood on his hands? Yes, Tyspin had a feeling that it was, which meant she was eyeball to eyeball with a psychopath, war criminal, or both. Knowing that, or being reasonably sure of it, raised a very important question: How should she deal with him? The most obvious strategy was to appease him, assuming such a thing was possible, in hopes of gaining his favor. But something cautioned the officer against that approach, something she couldn’t quite articulate, but which stemmed from his motivations. What were they? Perhaps that was the key, what Jasper, no, Jepp really wanted was a sense of legitimacy, of respect for what he saw as his accomplishments. The thoughts flickered through her mind at lightning speed, and while it wasn’t much to go on, Tyspin decided to gamble. She could, the officer reasoned, back off, should that become necessary. “President Nankool is rather busy,” Tyspin said coldly. “Give me a message, and I’ll pass it along.”

The exprospector found himself torn between his desire to impress the Hoon with how tough he was and the somewhat unexpected need to win Admiral Tyspin’s respect. He tried another tack.

“Look, I’m sorry if I seem a bit over the top, but we’re on the same side. My name is Jorley Jepp. You’ve heard about the attack on Long Jump by now ... so you know what the Sheen can do. Their main objective is to find a race known as the Thraki. If the Thrakies are around, and the Sheen say they are, then you’re in contact with them by now. The best thing the Confederacy can do is to provide the Sheen with information, plus some fuel for their ships, and get out of the way.”

“And then?” Tyspin inquired skeptically, glad that the entire interchange was being recorded, “what happens after that?”

“That depends,” Jepp said evasively, “on any number of things. The Sheen trust me ... and I may be able to influence them. I know the President is busy—but I would appreciate his advice.”

Tyspin didn’t believe that the last part of the comment was sincere... but took note of the less truculent tone. Could the earnest looking man in the soiled jumpsuit influence what the Sheen did next? The initial answer seemed to be “yes,” given the events on Long Jump, the fact that he was still alive, and was allowed to speak. But how far did that influence extend? And what would Jepp want in return? Those questions and dozens more begged to be answered. The key was to buy time—time Booly could use to prepare, time Nankool could use to perform maintenance on the alliance, and time she could use to learn more about Jepp. The naval officer forced a smile. “Of course . . Let’s see what I can arrange. Would you or your, er companion?,, have any objections to my dispatching a message torp?”

Jepp looked offscreen, seemed to converse with someone, and turned back. “No, so long as you and your ship remain.”

Tyspin nodded. A battle of sorts had been won. The message torp would carry a copy of the interchange, a request for instructions, and more important than that, data regarding the Sheen fleet. Valuable data that could help Booly win.

The Hoon monitored the exchange, assigned a probe to follow the message torp through hyperspace, and processed something akin to a feeling of satisfaction. The soft bodies were gratifyingly stupid, data would be gathered, and the mission furthered. Life, or what passed for it, was good.

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

A clutch of nervous looking advisors stood and waited while President Marcott Nankool read the message for a second time. It was warm with so many bodies packed into the chief executive’s office, and the ship struggled to cope. Cold air blasted out of an overhead vent, and ChienChu felt his cybernetic body adjust accordingly. DomaSa shuffled his feet, and servos whined as an exoskeleton clad Dweller shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Nankool placed the printout on the surface of his highly polished wood desk, arranged it just so, and met their eyes. “So? Your presence speaks more eloquently than words. You know what Admiral Tyspin sent me—what would you suggest?”

DomaSa waited to see if anyone would speak, realized they weren’t sure of what to say, and broke the silence. “BETA018 has been secured, but the Thraki occupy other worlds as well. The more time we buy, the more General Booly has to work with.”

Nankool scanned their faces. “How ‘bout the rest of you? Do you agree?”

ChienChu nodded and glanced around. There was no dissention for once ... a rare and memorable moment.

A message torp was dispatched an hour later. A Sheen probe was allowed to follow it. They hit the outward-bound transit point within minutes of each other and seemed to wink out of existence A reply was on the way.

Transit Point NS690193, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The launch bay was no different from the last time Jorely Jepp had been there. Ships sat in what appeared to be random fashion but was actually a mathematically precise arrangement that allowed the Sheen to use the available space in the most efficient possible manner. Ropes of silvery nano hung, crawled, and in one case squirmed across the bay. The tang of ozone flavored the air. Only one thing was different and that was the way the human felt: happy, excited, and nearly giddy with joy. The message torp had returned. An agreement had been reached. He, Jorely Jepp, exprospector, debtor, and all around loser was on his way to visit with President Marcott Nankool!

No, he told himself, not visit, but negotiate on behalf of God and the heathen waiting to be saved. An account would be written one day, a tome on a par with the Holy Bible or the Koran. A book that would tell the tale of the savior who emerged from the cosmic wasteland accompanied by a silvery host. The very thought of it filled the human’s heart to the breaking point. He seized Veera’s clawlike hand. “Come on! This is our moment!”

Veera knew the human was trying to be generous—but suffered no illusions. Her moment would come when she was back among her own kind. In the meantime, with no other possibilities in sight, the lunatic at her side offered the best opportunity of escape. They boarded the shuttle. Henry, along with Alpha, followed behind.

Given how unstable her guest appeared to be, and given the extent of the power he might be able to call upon, Tyspin planned to be at the lock to greet him. That’s why she was down in the ready room—watching a bank of monitors.

The shuttle slowed as it approached the ship, followed a brightly lit drone into the bay, and settled onto its skids. The vessel was sufficiently streamlined so that it could operate within a planetary atmosphere. It shimmered as if lit from within. Here, at least, was something of an intelligence coup since an entire battery of sensors had been specially rigged to gather information on the enemy ship. Even if the contact with Jepp proved futile, anything they could learn about Sheen technology could prove very valuable indeed.

The shuttle landed, a hatch opened, and a ramp hit hull metal. The Ninja’s deck master wore bright orange space armor. He approached the ramp and waited for the visitor to disembark. Jepp, or a figure that Tyspin assumed was Jepp, was a sight to see. In spite of the fact that he had an entire fleet to back him, the exprospector wore the same suit of dilapidated, much patched space armor in which he had been captured. And what was that perched on his shoulder? Some sort of machine? That’s what it looked like.

There was more, however—including an entourage which caught Tyspin by surprise. The second individual to emerge from the shuttle wore a type of space armor she didn’t recognize until her intel officer turned in her direction. His name was DorbaKa, and he spoke standard with a slight hiss. “Where did the Prithian come from? What’s going on here?”

What indeed? Tyspin wondered as the odd couple made their way across the repulsor blackened deck toward the entry lock. That’s when the robots appeared. Form follows function, and the first pair looked similar to the navy issue general-purpose androids assigned to her ship. The units that followed were considerably different. There were four altogether, as similar as ball bearings, and protected by force fields. Arms ended in what appeared to be energy projectors, heads swiveled from left to right, and they moved in unison.

“They look dangerous,” the intel officer said conversationally. “Can the marines handle them?”

It was a good question, but Tyspin had other things to worry about as well. Should she treat Jepp like a head of state? Someone entitled to armed guards, even within the hull of a Confederate warship? Or refuse to admit them? And risk a confrontation? A confrontation with catastrophic results? It was a nasty decision and one she would have preferred to avoid.

But Jepp had arrived in front of the lock, and time had run out. The entire side party, which consisted of the intel officer, a chief petty officer, and a squad of smart looking marines all turned to look at her. The decision, which she would live to regret, emerged as a croak. “Let them in.” The hatch cycled open, the visitors spent the requisite time in the lock, and were admitted to the ship. Jepp, who, with the exception of his brief stay on Long Jump, had been cut off from humankind, stopped to take it in. The faces, the sounds, the faint odor of cooking all rushed to fill his senses. The admiral said something but the exprospector failed to process the words. He felt a little bit dizzy but managed to keep his feet. Those around him seemed unaware of his discomfort and led him down a long, sterile corridor.

The robots followed behind. Alpha discerned little of interest, Henry was on the lookout for some way to escape, and the Hoon, who occupied all four of the security units, was beaming data back to the shuttle. Useful data that would come in handy when the battle started. The AI was struck not by the technology that surrounded it, which was average at best, but by the diversity of the life forms that crewed the ship. At least three or four different species, if appearances were any guide. They seemed to be cooperating—to be working together—the way machines would. Something the Hoon had never witnessed before.

Veera, her heart beating faster, wondered what to do. The Hoon had accompanied them, she was fairly certain of that, but doubted that Jepp even cared. The truth was that the human had accepted the computer’s primacy—and even come to depend on it.

As for the other humans, those who ran the ship, they had no idea what they were dealing with. The Prithian glanced over her shoulder. Alpha and Henry followed along behind, backed by the ominous security units, and a squad of soldiers. What would the Hoon do if she tried to escape? Shoot her? Or ignore the whole thing? There was no way to know. It seemed prudent to wait and see what developed. As with most warships, the Ninja had no quarters for guests, but Jepp was thrilled with XO’s cabin, and never gave a moment’s thought to where the unfortunate officer had disappeared to. Though actually smaller than his compartment aboard the Sheen battleship, this space had been designed for the convenience of humans and seemed luxurious by comparison. There was a small but serviceable shower, hot water that shut itself off after three minutes had elapsed, and a stack of brand new clothing. There was crisp white underwear, three dark blue shipsuits, plus a cap with the Ninja’s star emblem on the front of it. Life was good.

When Jepp entered the cabin, and left the robots to wait in the passageway, Henry was far from surprised. Even though the human knew the Navcomp was sentient, he had always treated the AI like a machine, and assumed it would remain loyal. And, up till that very moment. Henry had been. Partly because of the programming he’d been equipped with, and partly because he chose to be. Now, with freedom all around, the Navcomp had decided to put its own interests first for a change. Veera was shown to a cabin farther down the passageway and entered without protest. That’s when the Sheen security units assigned themselves to stand guard over both cabins—two per hatch—while heavily armed marines were posted to both ends of the corridor. Tyspin’s way of keeping the machines in check.

Henry eyed the Hoon controlted robots and wondered if the AI was even aware of him. There was one way to find out. The Navcomp looked from one group of humans to the other, decided they were roughly equidistant, and turned to the right. Henry hadn’t moved more than a few feet when the Hoon made itself known. The message came via low powered intercom. ‘The unit will remain where it is.”

The command, which should have frozen the previously hijacked body right where it was, had no discernable effect. Henry addressed himself to the marines. They stared straight ahead. “My name is Henry... I am an artificial intelligence held captive by the Sheen As such, I place myself under your protection in keeping with the provisions of the Confederate Charter that covers the rights of synthetic beings.”

The Hoon didn’t approve of rogue units, had never been willing to tolerate disobedience, and wasn’t about to start now. The AI set one fourth of its addressable assets into motion. A security unit stepped forward, did a leftface, and aimed an arm-mounted energy weapon at Henry’s back. “Stop or I will shoot!”

The marines couldn’t hear the transmission, but didn’t need to. Actions spoke louder than words. They raised their assault rifles in response.

Sergeant Musa Moso wasn’t paid to make decisions, not this kind of decision, and radioed for assistance. Half a dozen laser projected red dots appeared on the Hoon controlled machines as Henry rolled toward freedom.

Jepp was whistling by the time he toweled off, got dressed, and called for Sam. The robot was nowhere to be seen. It was spending more and more time with Veera of late. The little traitor. Jepp examined his image in a small bulkhead-mounted mirror, noticed the need for a haircut, and thought about Tyspin. The idea of spending more time with the naval officer appealed to the exprospector. He headed for the hatch. It opened, and he stepped out into the corridor. The Hoon chose that moment to open fire. Henry “felt” the energy beams punch their way through his alloy back, uttered a plaintive beep, and fell facedown.

Sergeant Moso formed the word “fire,” and was just about to say it, when Jepp stepped into the passageway. The exprospector watched the energy bolts whip past, saw Henry fail, and threw himself forward. “Stop!” The envoy held his hands in the air. A collection of red dots danced across this chest. Moso didn’t know much, but he knew Jepp was a VIP, and in the line of fire. He bit the word off before it could emerge.

The Hoon verified that its target was down, processed a sense of correctness, and “felt” the harmless lasers pass through the force field’s corona to caress its metal skin. Weapons were in the process of rising when Jepp reentered the equation.

The Hoon, gratified by the extent of the human’s loyalty, was hesitant to fire through the biological’s body. The result was a stilllife tableau. And that’s how it looked when Tyspin arrived. With the exception of one of Henry’s drive wheels, which continued to whir, the scene was totally silent. Tyspin took the situation in and nodded to Moso. ‘Thank you. Sergeant, I’ll take it from here . .. Corporal, Private, safe those weapons. Get the casualty to robotics. Perhaps they can save it.”

The naval officer strode down the corridor, stopped two feet away from Jepp, and placed hands on hips. Her eyes were like lasers. “As for you, Envoy Jepp, how dare you attack a sentient aboard one of my ships!”

Jepp felt himself wilt in the face of her anger, knew it was a mistake, and drew himself up. The Hoon was watching, the human was conscious of that now, and started to sweat. His voice was tense but controlled. “A couple of things to consider, Admiral... The AI in question is, or was indentured to me under the terms of a standard contract, the body it occupies belongs to the Sheen, and I didn’t fire on anyone. Your marines will attest to that.”

The naval officer looked at Moso, who nodded. She turned back. “It seems I owe you an apology. I’m sorry. So, who fired ... and why?”

For one split second, Jepp considered telling Tyspin the unvarnished truth .. . That the Hoon controlled all of the security units, that the AI was extremely arrogant, and that she hadn’t seen anything yet. But there could be a down side to that kind of disclosure, especially if the naval officer decided that it was pointless to negotiate, and broke the whole thing off. There would be no conversation with Nankool, no opportunity to deal, and no galaxy spanning religion. Jepp chose his words with care.

“It was a mistake that’s all. Henry, that is to say the Navcomp in question, was taken prisoner when I was Our ship was destroyed, so, with nothing else available, he appropriated the body you see before you. I wasn’t here—but I’m guessing that Henry tried to leave—and the Sheen ordered it to stop. He refused, and one of the security units shot him.”

Tyspin glanced at Moso, who shrugged. “We didn’t hear nothin’ ma’am—but it coulda been that way. You know how machines are—sendin’ stuff back and forth.”

“So, they shot him?” the admiral demanded. “Real nice. Who is ‘they’ anyway? I though some sort of computer called the shots.”

“Well, yes,” Jepp replied weakly. “An AI called the

Hoon controls the fleet. The various units have intelligence of their own, however—which is why I used the word ‘they.’ “

The answer skirted the truth—but Tyspin was unaware of that. She eyed the security units. They had returned to something approximating parade rest. “Keep those machines under control—or I’ll have them ejected from a lock.”

Jepp didn’t think the process would be quite so easy, but managed to look chagrined and hoped the Hoon would behave itself. “Of course. I’ll do my best,” he assured her. The naval officer nodded, told Sergeant Moso to carry on, and left the area.

A crew of four robo techs arrived, lifted Henry onto a self-propelled cart, and led the device away. Henry, who lay flat on its back, was happy to be at least partially functional. Functional and free. Or as free as a machine programmed to equate productivity with happiness could be. The cart took a cum—and Henry went with it.

Though none too pleased with the human style fittings, the cabin was to Veera’s liking, especially the computer interface. It provided access to the navcomp known as “Screwhead,” and, after a bit of digital cajoling, to “Big Momma” herself.

Prithians didn’t name their computers, but Veera liked the custom and concluded that, while treacherous, humans could be charming.

Thraki, on the other hand, kept robots as pets—but didn’t seem to name them. Sam, who had followed the Prithian into her cabin, cluttered happily and scampered across the overhead. Though not entitled to full unrestricted access, the ship’s computers still provided the teenager with what amounted to a digital feast. And she was hungry. How much knowledge did the Confederacy have on the Sheen? What about the Thraki? Where had the long flight started? Veera warbled, and the ship sang in response.

Chapter 16

Truth/find/take/use.

Baa’l Poet StarISearcher

Year unknown

Veca IV, Clone Hegemony, Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Like BETA018 and DevoDor, which Booly had visited during the previous month or so, Veca IV

looked beautiful when viewed from orbit, but was something less than that down on the surface. The planet was hot, dry, and generally miserable. All of which reminded the legionnaire of Caliente, the planet on which he had been stationed prior to the now famous mutiny. The shuttle shuddered as it passed through a layer of superheated air and continued to lose altitude. The general glanced out the view port at his elbow. The surface of the planet looked like poorly tanned brown leather, wrinkled from hard continuous use, and cracked where tremors, floods, and heat had attacked Veca IV’s skin. Another less than desirable world, which the Hegemony had been only too glad to let the Thraki settle. The aliens weren’t stupid, though, and had limited their presence to about five hundred souls. The colony surrendered without a single shot being fired. The ideal scenario from Booly’s point of view—given the casualties his troops had suffered on BETA018 and DevoDor. Now, against his better judgment, he had agreed to meet with some sort of clone xenoanthropologist, who, according to McGowan, had something important to show him. It had better be, Booly thought grimly, or I’ll leave the major here to rot. It wasn’t true, of course, but the thought made him feel better. Nicole Nogosek101, adjusted the scarf that protected her neck, and shaded her eyes against the sun’s reddish-orange glare. The dry crusty plain released what heat it could, and it shimmered over the land. The aircraft seemed to wink in and out of existence.

The settlement, which her people had named Solaris, bad been established at the bend of a subsurface river, and was marked by an isolated grove of snapsnap trees. Trapped between the plain on one side of a dry riverbed, and sand dunes on the other, they were the only hint of green for miles around. The clones had come first, followed by the Thraki, and most recently the Legion. The living quarters, as well as the hydroponic gardens, were located under the planet’s surface, but the steel landing platform, along with the heavily insulated corn shack and a clutch of sensors, were elevated fifteen feet off the ground. Safe from the dunes that bordered that side of the settlement, but exposed to the never-ending wind.

The clone squinted upward as the shuttle circled and prepared to land. What would General Booly be like? she wondered. A martinet? On the model of the Jonathan Alan Seebos she knew? An incompetent?

Sent to deal with what amounted to military minutiae? Or, as Major McGowan claimed, “the best damned officer in the Legion.” If the translations were accurate, if Nogosek had interpreted them correctly, millions of lives would depend on the answer.

Repellors flared, grit peppered her face, and the aircraft dropped onto paint stripped metal. A hatch opened, stairs unfolded, and McGowan emerged from the corn shack. She was halfway to the shuttle when an officer appeared in the doorway, waved, and made his way to the deck. He was tall, lanky, and physically graceful. Nogosek saw no sign of an entourage and felt her spirits rise. Whatever else General Booly might eventually turn out to be—an egomaniac wasn’t one of them. The officers greeted each other with a quick embrace, exchanged some words, and turned in the academic’s direction. The pilot killed the repellors—and allowed the engines to wind down. McGowan arrived first. “Dr. Nogosek, I’d like to introduce General Booly.”

Nogosek smiled and stuck out her hand. “It’s a pleasure, General... Nicole will be fine.”

Booly took the proffered hand, noticed the firm grip, and smiled in return. “The pleasure is mine, Nicole

. .. and I go by Bill.” The clone was attractive in an athletic sunburned sort of way. She had sunbleached blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a determined chin.

Nogosek decided she liked the legionnaire, hoped it didn’t show, and gestured toward the ramp.

“Thanks for agreeing to come. I suggest that we get out of the sun. The temp will rise another twenty degrees before it starts to cool. We run most of our errands at night when the temp falls into the low seventies.”

Booly used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. His well starched camos had already started to wilt. “Sounds good—lead the way.”

Their boots rang on metal as the threesome passed the corn shack, crossed the remainder of the platform, and stepped onto the ramp. Nogosek’s pocket corn burped static, insects buzzed, and metal pinged as it expanded. The wind was warm, too warm to deliver any sort of relief, but the snapsnap trees rustled in response. The community of Solaris baked in me sun. Since the priestess lacked the strength to stand for more than a few units at a time, she had ordered the maintenance bots to lean the bed against the wall. That allowed her to rest yet remain involved with everything that took place within the underground vault.

The problem was that Bris Torputus was old, very old, so old that she had stopped keeping track some years before and no longer considered the matter to be worthy of her attention. What did merit her attention were the Tomes of Truth, all three of which had been laid on the makeshift table that occupied the center of the room.

First came the Book of Yesterdays, which described the gods, their powers, and areas of influence. Then came the Book of Nows, a history of sorts, that started with the creation of the great armada and would end when the Thraki did. Finally came the Book of Tomorrows, prophecy mostly, some of which had proven to be eerily accurate. Unlike the first two volumes, which were available to everyone, the Book of Tomorrows was restricted to members of the priesthood who were sworn to secrecy regarding its contents.

Each volume was a work of art. Rather than rely on transcriptions carried out by others, Torputus did her own translations, many of which were more accurate than those most of the priesthood had come to use. Each page of each tome bore drawings, designs, and marginalia executed by her own hand, and paid for with her failing vision.

The task, which had been given to Torputus as punishment for an offense she could no longer remember, had grown to consume her every waking moment. Considered to be something of an eccentric, and of little use to the hierarchy, she’d been sent to serve the colonists. The tomes accompanied her. Now, as her days dwindled to a precious few, the priestess could no longer carry out the work herself, but was forced to rely on her carefully programmed form, which, truth be told, had a finer hand than she did, was willing to work around the clock, and never complained. She watched the spider shaped robot dip a brush into some pigment and apply it to a grim visage. Was it the great god Hoonara? Yes, the priestess thought so, but knew her eyes had a tendency to betray her Especially from so far away. The knock came softly—and Torputus knew who it was. Ironically, it was the human who understood her best, who realized the importance of her work, and spent hours at her side. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Come in.”

The door, which had once been part of a clone cargo container, and still bore the legend, “Rations Ready To Eat,” creaked on makeshift hinges. Nogosek went to the female’s side, located a hand, and held it in her own. She was good at languages and spoke without the aid of a translation device. “I brought a visitor, Sister Torputus—just as I said that I would.”

“He believed you?”

“I haven’t told him yet... but I will.”

“He must come to believe you,” the Thraki whispered urgently, “or many will die.”

“Yes,” the xenoanthropologist said gently, “I know.”

Nogosek released the oldster’s hand and turned to Booly. He seemed relaxed, but she could read his thoughts. “Show me something—and make it soon.”

The academic looked at McGowan who nodded encouragingly. The key. Nogosek thought to herself, is to hook him, and follow with the facts, or, what the facts seemed to be. She motioned toward the table.

“I came hoping to study Thraki culture. They are polytheistic, which makes religion extremely important. The books are the basis of their religion. One of those volumes, the Book of Tomorrows, contains the following passage: “And our people will settle a new world. Some will call it home, and wish to stay there, while others will point to the stars, and the menace that follows. Beware of those who call them selves friends, for they may attack, or align themselves with the menace. Run if you can, but failing that, call on the twins,”

Booly wondered if the word “menace” referred to the Sheen. The quote was interesting if so—but hardly worth the trip. He glanced at McGowan. She nodded as if to say “Hang in there.” The legionnaire tried to sound interested. “So, who are the twins?”

“Not who” the academic replied, “but what. Step over to the table, and I’ll show you.”

The floor was made of compacted dirt and felt slightly uneven. The tomes lay open, and the officer admired a beautifully illuminated page while Nogosek accessed the Book of Tomorrows. She knew what to look for and touched Booly’s arm. “Here, take a look.”

The officer turned. The text was illegible, to him at least, but the picture was quite riveting. The hand drawn, hand colored illustration was very realistic, and, thanks to the way it had been done, seemed to glow from within. What he saw were two golden cradles. Both had been decorated with beautifully executed scrollwork and rested on the same platform. Of more importance, however, were the bright metal tubes that the structures supported. The cylinders might have functioned as storage tanks, pressure chambers, or something equally mundane. But the soldier in Booly knew what they were. The twins were weapons. Weapons so special, so powerful, they had acquired religious significance. Nogosek saw Booly’s expression and nodded. “That’s correct, General, either one of the twins could destroy an entire fleet.”

Booly raised an eyebrow. “How?”

“By releasing the sort of energy trapped within a black hole. Not in a gradual or controlled way—but all at once. On demand.”

The legionnaire tried to imagine something that powerful but wasn’t sure he could, or even needed to, since the matter was obviously hypothetical. “So, what are you trying to tell me? That the beings who wrote the book believe that such weapons will exist one day?”

“No,” Nogosek replied patiently. “They exist now. The

Thraki have them.”

Booly was skeptical “No offense, Doctor, but how do you know that?”

“Because Sister Torputus saw them with her own eyes,” Nogosek replied, “and belonged to the elite team assigned to guard and maintain them. That was more than thirty years ago, but there’s no reason to think that the weapons disappeared.”

Booly looked up to find that, dim though they might be, the oldster’s eyes were locked with his. Something, he wasn’t sure what, drew the officer to her side. Nogosek followed and served as translator. “So, tell me Mother of Mothers,” Booly said, unconsciously reverting to the form of address reserved for Naa grandmothers, “is the doctor correct? Do your people have such weapons?”

The reply was faint. “Yes, the twins exist, though only the priesthood is aware of them.”

“But why?” Booly asked gently. “Why run for hundreds of years when such weapons were available?

And why tell me?”

There was a pause while Nogosek translated and Torputus struggled to get her breath. “There were long periods of time when no one beyond initiates such as myself was even aware that the twins were among us. On other occasions, when all seemed to be at risk, those who needed to know were told. But the Runners ruled back then, and, thanks to the fact that their power came from running, they were reluctant to call on such weapons. Battles were fought and sometimes lost. The twins slept on.”

The priestess made a wheezing sound and gestured with her hand. Nogosek placed an oxygen mask over the oldster’s face, waited while she took three deep breaths, and pulled it away. “The reason I am telling you is because things have changed .. . The Facers have come to power—and may decide to fight.”

Booly shrugged. “So? Perhaps they should. If the Facers destroy the Sheen, then so much the better.”

“No,” the oldster said sternly, “there is more. An entire paragraph that the original translators chose to omit from die Book of Tomorrows. It read: ‘Know, however, that the twins may turn on you, may attack those who gave them life, leaving nothing but tears.’ There is no way to know why the passage was left out. An error perhaps—or part of some plot. It makes no difference. Take the information. Give it to my people. Save them from themselves.”

Given the nature of the weapons Nogosek had described, Booly had no difficulty believing that once unleashed, the twins might inflict as much damage on the Thraki as the Sheen. The aliens could and probably would be destroyed by their own weapons. Cold comfort to any bystanders who happened to be in the neighborhood.

The threat was more than physical however. The bombs, if that’s what they could properly be called, would introduce more uncertainty into an already uncertain situation. Booly felt an almost panicky sense of urgency. Approximately 80 percent of the Thraki bases had been dealt with—and the time had come for him leave. Others could deal with the remaining 20 percent of the problem while he traveled to Arballa. That’s where the decisions would be made, that’s where a significant portion of the Confederate navy was starting to gather, and that’s where the twins could do the most damage. He met the old, somewhat cloudy eyes. “Thank you, Sister Torputus. In spite of the present state of conflict, the Confederacy feels no animus towards your race, and seeks only to protect itself. I will do everything in my power to ensure that the twins continue to sleep.”

“May the gods bless you.” came the reply.

The legionnaires left shortly thereafter, followed a ramp to me surface, and stepped out into the sun. The heat fell like a hammer, the landing platform shimmered in the distance, and a scavenger circled high above. Booly looked at McGowan. “You were right, Major.. . The trip was worthwhile.”

The other officer nodded. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. “Sir, yes sir. What do you think? Can we put a lid on things?”

Booly shrugged. “Beats me, but we’ll give it a try. Come on ... the last one to board the shuttle gets to brief the Senate.”

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The planet Arballa was crowned with white, robed in brown, and floated on a sea of black. She was beautiful, very beautiful, and the naval officer liked to start each day by gazing at her from his command chair on the bridge and drinking his first cup of coffee, which, as the entire crew knew, was a critical component of his physical as well as psychological welt being. Knowing that, they left him alone. Boone dreaded the day ahead. Until very recently, the Friendship and her coterie of warships, dispatch vessels, and freighters had the system pretty much to themselves. Now, as a variety of naval units dropped insystem, and took up defensive positions, his life had turned to shit. Not because of the ships themselves and the traffic problems they caused, but the officers who commanded them. Worst of all were two or three admirals, who, unhappy with the slot to which they had been assigned, or resentful due to some perceived breach of protocol, wanted to speak with his admiral, a rather crotchety individual named Mary Chang, who planned to retire in a year or so and enjoyed telling her peers to screw off. Fun for her, but not for Boone, since he’d have to deal with the victims of the old lady’s wrath long after she was gone. The naval officer sighed, took another pull from his coffee, and swore when the alarms went off. Reports flooded his earpiece.

“Robotic sensors report a system incursion at Transit Points NS426021, 022, and 023. The first ships through register a 98.2 percent match for Thraki recon droids ...”

“. .. Incoming transmission, sir, text only: ‘Greetings on behalf of the Thraki race—we come in peace.’ “

“Admiral Guinn on tight beam four, sir, requesting permission to engage.”

Coffee forgotten, Boone eyed the bridge screens. Red deltas poured out of hyperspace and took up positions around three closely grouped Transit Points. Closely being defined as being within fivehundred thousand miles of each other.

One of the recently arrived naval groups, the 404thDestroyer Wing, was stationed in close proximity to Transit Point 021 and was in the perfect position to attack. If there was a state of war, if the rules of engagement allowed for it, and if Boone had the balls to make that kind of call. The repercussions of any decision could and probably would be enormous. If Boone said no and the Thraki proceeded to attack, an important advantage would have been lost, along with who knew how many casualties, and perhaps the Friendship herself. If he said yes, and it turned out that the Thraki had been friendly, and a war resulted, he would be at fault.

The naval officer gritted his teeth. Where the hell was Chang anyway? She was paid to make those kinds of decisions and as Chief Naval Officer InSystem, (CNOIS) had responsibility for anything more than thirty thousand feet above a planetary surface. But seconds were passing—and Guinn needed an answer. Boone had opened his mouth and was just about to speak when a familiar voice sounded in his ear. It was Chang. Still in her cabin, just out of the shower, dripping on the navy blue carpet. She was five feet tall, skinny as a rail, and in good shape. Her hair, which she had allowed to turn white, was worn in a crew cut. All the bridge communications were piped to her cabin where she monitored them via overhead speakers.

‘Tell Guinn to hold his goddamn fire ... but to remain at battle stations. Same for every other group in the system. Get the President on the horn. Tell the worthless bastard that we have visitors. Contact the fur balls ... Tell the little shits that if they so much as blow a sack of garbage through their disposal tubes we’ll blow their butts off. Got it?”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”

“Good. And tell my steward to get some breakfast in here ... I’m hungry.”

The control area had the same subdued lighting—the same sense of carefully guarded quiet associated with great libraries. There was no sense of motion, the view screens were filled with. electronic confetti, and the battleship could have been anywhere. Except that hyperspace was closer to nowhere than to somewhere. A diagrammatic control display claimed the forward bulkhead. Icons stood in for systems, colors conveyed status, and numbers provided data on everything from speed to time in transit. Grand Admiral Hooloo Andragna looked up at the steadily dwindling numbers and saw that a little less than twelve temporal units stood between the present and the future of his race. Once the numbers disappeared, the battleship would emerge from hyperspace, reestablish communications with the rest of the subfleet, and. ..”

And what? The naval officer asked himself. There were so many possibilities.. . The lead ships had emerged by now—into a heavily defended system. Were they fighting for their lives? While he sat and stared? Cursing his name as missiles flashed through the darkness, shields fell, and red-orange flowers blossomed in the darkness. Or had the Confederate ships withheld their fire? And allowed the Thraki vessels to enter? Anything was possible.

The countdown rippled toward zero, systems were checked, and the crew went to battle stations. The precision of it made Andragna feel better. Defeats, like the one suffered on BETA018, had occurred on the ground. Here, in deep space, the Thraki were at their best. No race had been persecuted as they had, fought a more relentless enemy, or won so many battles. They were warriors, tired warriors, but warriors nonetheless. The Confederacy would come to know that, and, assuming it survived, to respect it.

Andragna had left all the moon-sized arks, plus fifteen hundred of the armada’s best ships, to protect Zynig47. That left him with more than three thousand vessels, less than what the Sheen could bring to bear, but more than the Confederacy could cobble together.

Besides, the admiral thought to himself as the final moments ticked away, we have the twins, and if all else fails, they will see us through.

The battleship lurched, stars flooded the screens, and communications came online. The first ship to follow the drones into the Araballazanie system was a destroyer commanded by Captain Algo Portatious. He knew what Andragna wanted and needed most. His face appeared on a corn screen. The tone was lighthearted. He knew his peers would monitor the conversation and played to the invisible gallery. “Greetings, Admiral. .. Welcome to assembly area one.”

The officer’s demeanor spoke volumes. Andragna felt an enormous sense of relief. “Thank you. Is there anything to report?”

Portatious offered the Thraki equivalent of a grin. “If threats were missiles we’d be dead by now.”

The bridge crew laughed, and Andragna looked to his screens. With each passing temporal unit three more ships arrived. That’s how quickly his forces were entering the system. It wouldn’t be long before the defenders were outgunned. Then, with the Confederate vessels as a screen, the battle could begin. Would the Sheen take the bait? Yes, the naval officer thought to himself, as surely as the universe continues to expand.

The Hoon, along with its electromechanical minions, had long been able to follow its prey through hyperspace, a capability that so far as it knew was completely unique. That’s why it had been able to track the Confederate ship back to its lair, record all of the necessary navigational data, and download it to the fleet.

So now, as the Ninja hurtled through time and space, a long silvery snake followed behind. A snake comprised of countless Sheen ships all having the same destination. Tyspin, who had no way to know about the menace that followed, was on the bridge at the moment when the Ninja popped into normal space. Data rippled across previously vacant screens, the corn techs struggled to deal with an avalanche of high priority corn calls, and the naval officer did her best to take it in. The displays told the story.

The Confederate forces, more than before, were clustered around well-established transit points, while a host of Thraki vessels had coalesced into three “war” globes, all of which continued to grow as more ships arrived. The naval officer was still in the process of absorbing that, of dealing with it, when Captain Hashimoto yelled in her ear. “We’ve got trouble. Admiral! It looks like the Sheen managed to follow!”

Tyspin struggled to combat the rising sense of panic. Follow? No, it wasn’t possible’ Or was it? My god, what had she done?

The Hoon answered the human’s unspoken question by ordering a wing of fighters to sweep past the Ninja, all flying in formation, blasting everyone with the same message. “Hold your fire! We come in peace!”

It might have been ignored except for one extremely important factor: Rather than broadcast an image of itself, clad in a metallic body, the Hoon sent video of a human being instead. And not just any human being, but Jorley

Jepp, who watched with slackjawed amazement as his countenance appeared on the main corn screen, and words poured from his mouth. Not his words but those that the Hoon had given the electronically generated doppelganger to say. The syntax was wooden, but who would know the difference?

“Hello, my name is Jorley Jepp. The Sheen were kind enough to rescue me after my ship was destroyed. I have lived with them for many months. In spite of the endless persecution imposed by the rapacious Thraki, the Sheen come in peace, and call on the Confederacy to sponsor meaningful negotiations. Thank you.”

There was a pause followed by a holo of President Marcott Nankool. His face was stem. “Given hostile actions by both the Thraki and the Sheen—the Confederacy takes small comfort from their proclamations of peace. If both parties are truly willing to negotiate, the Confederacy is willing to help, if the following conditions are met: The warships within both fleets will take all targeting systems offline, cut power to primary weapons systems, and remain where they are. In the meantime, our offensive capabilities will remain at the highest state of readiness. Should either side violate the conditions just put forth—the Confederacy will side with the opposing group and open fire. That’s our best offer... take it or leave it.” The video snapped to black.

It was a gutsy position, especially in light of the fact that the Confederacy possessed less firepower than the other potential combatants, and stood to lose its government as well. It could work, however—since all three of the groups had the technology necessary to determine when weapons systems were online. Tyspin held her breath as millions waited for some sort of reply. If the combatants were to ignore the offer, if a fullscale battle ensued, the fault would be hers. For assuming too much, for failing to anticipate the possibilities, and for underestimating the enemy. The knowledge brought blood to her face and made her chest feel tight. Comfort came from an unexpected source. “It wasn’t your fault,” Jepp said softly,

“there was no way you could know. Not even I knew the Sheen could follow a ship through hyperspace.”

That wasn’t strictly true, of course, since Jepp had had inklings of such a capability, but he liked Typsin and wanted her to fee! better. And, though she would have been reluctant to admit it, the naval officer did feel somewhat better, and turned her attention to the screens. Jepp tried to guess what the Hoon would do next. The AI had already revealed a level of political sophistication greater than he had originally supposed. First, during the power struggle with its twin—and now in its dealings with both the Confederacy and the Thrakies. One thing was for sure, however. While some beings played power games for the fun of it, the Hoon had little interest in such diversions. It wanted to win—and nothing else mattered.

A full minute elapsed before Grand Admiral Andragna appeared. “We find the Confederacy’s conditions to be acceptable—and are willing to comply.”

A computer generated image of Jepp filled the corn screen half a second later. He smiled. ‘The peaceloving Sheen agree to the conditions and stand ready to negotiate.” The image faded to static. Tyspin raised an eyebrow, and Jepp shrugged innocently. “What am I supposed to do? It’s not like the Hoon asked my permission or anything.”

The admiral turned as President Nankool reappeared. A digital readout filled the tower righthand corner of the frame. “Excellent. Prepare to deactivate targeting systems sixty seconds from now ... Weapons to follow.”

It took less than five minutes for the warships of both fleets to power down but more than six hours for the Confederate Navy to gather the requisite data, process it, and produce the necessary reports, reports that became outdated the moment they were issued but were supplemented by a hastily rigged sampling program meant to monitor compliance. It was scant protection—but all that the Confederacy had. Nankool’s message was issued a few minutes later. “Thank you for your patience. As of 1500 hours local, we find both sides in compliance. That being the case, envoys from both fleets are invited to board the Friendship six hours from now. No more than twelve representatives from each fleet will be allowed to board the vessel that serves as our capital. If you have questions regarding protocol or logistics please contact my staff on corn channel six. Thank you.”

The Hoon was everywhere and nowhere in particular—flitting from ship to ship, riding recon drones no larger than a pebble, gorging itself on data. Data regarding the system in which the battle would take place, data on the fools who believed its lies, and data on the Thraki who had nowhere to run. Not alt of the Thraki, because fully 25 percent of their ships were missing, but most of them. The rest could and would be dealt with later. Yes, there was much to learn and every reason to learn it, especially given the fact mat if the Thraki fleet were added to the Confederate fleet the resulting force would be equal to all of its units combined. The Hoon had never faced an enemy that powerful before, never fought a battle with anything like parity, and didn’t want to lose. That being the case, it was time to stall—a task for which the soft body was uniquely suited. The necessary orders were issued, re ceived, and ultimately complied with.

Grand Admiral Hooloo Andragna was more frightened than he cared to admit—not only by the size and power of the two fleets that opposed him—but by the extent to which the entire dynamic had changed. Rather than attack, as he had supposed that they would, the Sheen had agreed to negotiate. Or had they? What about the human who claimed to speak for them? Did he have any actual authority? And what did he want?

Of equal or even more concern was the manner in which the Confederacy had responded to the situation. He had hoped, no assumed, that they would out and out capitulate, or failing that, waffle back and forth. Instead they evidenced vision, courage, and ironclad determination. Not a very good sign. The naval officer sighed and released his harness. Another more elaborate uniform waited in his quarters. He hated the damn thing and wondered who had been responsible for it. A Runner? Or a Facer? It made no difference. Now, with thousands of ships waiting to attack, neither philosophy seemed especially valid. Andragna thought about his wife, gave thanks that she was on Zynig47, and left the control room. The command crew watched him go.

President Marcott Nankool, Governor Sergi ChienChu, Maylo ChienChu. Ambassador Hiween DomaSa, Ambassador Tula Nogo Mypop, Senator Samuel Ishimoto Six, and a clutch of advisors stood at the center of the Friendship’s bridge. Admiral Chang was present, as was Captain Boone. Everyone stared at the battle screens arrayed above their heads. “So,” Nankool said gravely, “is that it? Is that all of them?”

“Maybe,” Chang answered. “The number matches the information gathered by the Ninja off Transit Point NS690193. So, unless the goddamned machines have some reserves they haven’t shown us yet, we’re up against a force of six thousand vessels.”

“More like nine thousand if we have to fight both fleets,” DomaSa growled. True,” Chang conceded, “which is why I hope President Nankool is one helluva good negotiator.” She grinned, but no one joined her.

“Which brings us to the upcoming talks,” ChienChu said quietly. “What do we have on this Jepp person?”

Boone shrugged. “He was a prospector based on Long Jump. Had a ship, but it was mortgaged to the hilt. He disappeared and was given up for dead. When the Sheen arrived, so did he. An army of robots landed, took to the streets, and spouted a lot of religious nonsense. It appeared he was in charge. Then, for reasons we’re not sure of, the machines attacked.”

“So, he really does have some clout,” Senator Mypop put in.

“Maybe,” Boone allowed, “but Admiral Tyspin has her doubts. She spent some time with the man and thinks that whatever influence he has is extremely limited. Take those messages for example . . . both of them were computer generated. Jepp was surprised to see his face on the screen. The Hegemony spent quite a lot of time talking to the Thraki. They claim the real power lies with an artificial intelligence known as the Hoon.”

“Which raises an interesting question,” Senator Alway Omo said, almost forgotten toward the rear of the crowd. “Why send false messages—followed by a meaningless emissary?”

“To buy time,” DomaSa said simply, his eyes boring through the Ramanthian’s head. “The oldest trick in the universe.”

The Ramanthian felt a sudden stab of fear. Did the Hudathan know? Had word of the tercentennial birthing leaked somehow? No, the Hudathan lacked subtlety, and would broach the matter head on.

“That would explain Jepp,” Nankool observed, “and the Hoon, but how ‘bout the Thraki? What are they up to? And why, after hundreds of years, are they ready for a showdown?”

“I think I know the answer,” a new voice said, “and you aren’t going to like it.”

The group turned. The Gladiator had dropped insystem in time to witness Nankool’s most recent broadcast. General William Booly caught a glimpse of Maylo ChienChu, felt a fist squeeze his heart, and tried to ignore it. “They have a secret weapon, two of them, either of which could destroy the Sheen fleet.”

There was silence for a moment. Chang was the first to speak. She was cynical, but Booly was head of the Joint Chiefs. That made him her commanding officer. “Sir, you’re sure of that?”

Booly nodded. “Yes, Admiral, I am.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yes,” Booty agreed dryly. ‘Those are my sentiments exactly.”

Chapter 17

Yield to all, and you will soon have nothing to yield.

Aesop

“The Man and His Two Wives” (fable)

Standard year circa 600 B.C.

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Grand Admiral Hooloo Andragna had been aboard the Friendship before, during the period when the clones and their allies had sought to form an alliance. Seeing the vessel triggered a feeling of reluctant respect. Not awe, since the arks that his people had constructed were larger, not fear, since the Thraki fleet outnumbered the Confederate navy almost two to one, but respect. It was amazing that such disparate races had come together and stayed together, especially in light of how divided his own species was. Something to remember during the upcoming talks.

Andragna, who was seated above and behind the pilots, watched the view screen as the Friendship’s weapons pods, missile launchers, cooling stacks, antenna housings, and other less obvious installations slid by. He spotted the point where a shaft of light shot out into space and felt the shuttle bank to the left. The launch bay yawned before him. The shuttle entered.

The blast doors, which rarely closed while the ship was in orbit, started to do so. Andragna and his staff would be spared the necessity of donning space armor to reach the inner access lock—a signal honor indeed since it meant that the Friendship would be unable to launch or recover spacecraft so long as the hatch was closed.

The shuttle swept low across the deck, fired retros, and, supported by its repellors, settled onto the blastscarred deck. Rows of neatly parked ships marched into the distance. The pilot heaved a sigh of relief. His job was momentarily over.

The doors met, atmosphere was pumped into the bay, and a reception party gathered by the shuttle. A technical triggered the hatch, and Andragna stepped out onto rollup stairs. He recognized some familiar odors: The harsh smell of ozone, the sickly sweet stench of fuel, and the reek of overheated metal. The Thraki scanned the group below, saw some familiar faces, and nodded accordingly. He displayed some teeth, wondered how such an expression could possibly be interpreted as friendly, and descended the stairs. His staff followed. “President Nankool, Ambassador DomaSa, Governor ChienChu, it’s nice to see you again.”

Andragna’s form boosted the volume to overcome the sudden chatter from a power wrench, made the necessary translation, and started to record. Each and every word would be captured for subsequent review and analysis.

There were reciprocal greetings, several rounds of introductions, and pro forma expressions of goodwill that no one took seriously.

Once the formalities had been concluded, the Thraki were escorted across the deck. through the lock, and into a maze of mostly empty corridors. The majority of the ship’s crew were at battle stations, nonessential civilian personnel had been restricted to their quarters, and even robots were few and far between.

Eventually, after what seemed like a long hike, Andragna and his staff were ushered into a large conference room. The space was equipped with a twenty-foot-long oval table, wall screens, and soft overhead lighting. A heavily laden side table supported food and a variety of non-intoxicating drinks. Great care had been taken to provide items the Thraki would like.

There was a certain amount of milling around as everyone sought seats appropriate to their particular status, and it was then that Andragna was reintroduced to General William Booly. Their top-ranking officer if the admiral remembered correctly—and a person to be reckoned with. Nankool stood. He waited for everyone to take their seats, cleared his throat, and met Andragna’s eyes. Though offensive to some sentients, it happened that Thraki reacted to direct eye contact in much the same manner humans did. They viewed it as a sign of sincerity and mental engagement. The President, who had already rehearsed the gesture in his mind, glanced at his wrist term. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I come straight to the point. .. The Sheen emissary is due to arrive in less than an hour—and we have something of considerable importance to discuss prior to his arrival.”

Andragna felt a sudden sense of excitement. Could this be what he had been hoping for? Was the Confederacy prepared to form an alliance? Nothing would please him more. The officer nodded but kept a tight rein on his body language. The humans were clever and might have educated themselves regarding the nonverbal aspects of Thraki communication.

‘The issue,” Nankool continued, “centers around certain weapons included in your inventory. I’m not sure what the technical name for such devices would be—but you and your priests commonly refer to them as ‘the twins.’ “

Andragna felt his ears go back, knew the fur along the back of his neck stood straight up, and was powerless to stop it. How did they know? And if the Confederation knew about the twins, what else did they have? Or was this some sort of trick? A stratagem designed to draw him out?

None of the admiral’s aides had been briefed regarding the twins, but they could see how upset he was and stirred uneasily. The conference room felt suddenly small and confining. Andragna decided to play it safe. ‘Twins? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Nankool raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, perhaps this will refresh your memory.”

A holo blossomed at the center of the conference room table. The footage had been captured by Major McGowan on Veca IV. Content made up for what it lacked in technique. The assemblage watched Booly examine the Tomes of Truth, looked over the officer’s shoulder as he stared at a beautifully wrought illustration, and spoke with Sister Torputus.

With the exception of Sector 27, who belonged to the priesthood, the picture of two cylinders meant nothing to the rest of the delegation. He had never seen the twins with his own eyes but was aware of rumors. No wonder Andragna was upset! The Confederacy had stumbled across something very important indeed. He wanted to help but was forced to watch while the admiral struggled to maintain his composure.

Andragna listened to the thin reedy voice, saw the female’s obvious sincerity, and sensed that what she claimed was potentially true. Once detonated, the twins might inflict some damage on his fleet. Still, they were the only equalizer he had, and well worth hanging on to. Besides, now that the twins were out in the open, he had a new bargaining chip, one that he should retain for as long as possible. The Thraki mustered all the dignity he could. “Though well intentioned—Sister Torputus had no right to reveal such information. That being said, I suppose it would be pointless to issue further denials. However, while it’s true that we possess two rather unique energy weapons, the rest is pure conjecture. I have complete faith in our technical experts who assure me that while powerful—both weapons can be successfully deployed.”

The last statement was an outright falsehood—but no one knew that except for Andragna. Nankool experienced an almost overwhelming sense of anger. His hands made fists. The Thraki position was arrogant and foolhardy. More than that, it could result in millions of unnecessary deaths. He glanced at his wrist term, saw that his hands had started to shake, and clasped both behind his back.

“Very little time remains ... In the interest of your people, as well as ours, the Confederacy requests, no, implores you to forgo use of such weapons, at least until such time as you and your fleet are well clear of our systems.”

“That’s it?” Andragna inquired sarcastically. “You ask that we sacrifice the very weapons that mean victory for our people? In return for what? Your heartfelt prayers?”

“No,” Nankool replied coldly. “Forswear use of the twins, and we will fight at your side—not as sacrificial pawns, but as equals.”

There it was, evidence that the Confederacy understood the nature of Andragna’s intent, but was willing to overlook it. For a price. But which was more valuable, the naval officer wondered. The twins? And all their latent energy? Or the Confederacy? With a small but still powerful fleet?

Andragna wanted to believe Nankool, wanted to trust me Confederacy, but found that difficult to do. The Thraki were a self-reliant people, unfettered by the compromises that bound the multi-species government together, and therefore stronger. His voice seemed unnaturally loud. “No While the Thraki people would otherwise welcome such an alliance, the price is too high.”

Nankool felt a profound sense of disappointment. He looked around the room, scanned each face, and came to Andragna’s. “I’m sorry to hear that. Admiral—sorry for your people as well as ours. This meeting is over—may the deities protect us.”

The Sheen shuttle made no attempt to obtain a clearance from the Friendship’s traffic control computer. It simply followed the shortest possible route in, slid the length of the battleship’s starboard side, and approached the launch bay as if entitled to do so. It was a dangerous thing to do under normal circumstances but with the battleship at the highest state of alert it verged on suicidal. Captain Boone’s command chair whined as he swiveled to the left. More than two dozen cameras covered the launch bay. He checked number sixteen. It showed the hatch through which the shuttle would soon enter, “All batteries will hold their fire ... The Sheen will receive the same courtesies extended to the Thralki.”

The naval officer sensed a presence and turned to find Admiral Chang at his side. She offered a fresh mug of coffee. “So, are we having fun yet?”

He accepted the cup. “No, ma’am. The Sheen are crazy.”

“Machines,” the senior officer replied cheerfully. “You can’t live with ‘em—and you can’t live without

‘cm.”

Meanwhile, oblivious to what the humans thought, the Hoon commanded its fleet, flew the Sheen shuttle, and controlled the onboard security units. Everything and everyone with the exception of Jepp, Veera, and Sam.

The Hoon executed a sharp left-hand turn and entered the battleship’s bay. It was far less automated than the AI considered to be appropriate. After all, why rely on biologicals when machines were available? All of which served to confirm the conclusion already arrived at: Negotiations were a waste of time, and the fleet should attack. The conclusion was logical, eminently so, but the Hoon took no action. A very un-Hoonlike thing to do. Had the computer intelligence been capable of greater introspection it might have wondered why and sought to understand. But it wasn’t, couldn’t, and didn’t. Programming is programming, and where computers are concerned, as immutable as DNA. Careless of what the Hoon thought, Jepp was on a high. Veera, to whom a lot of his babbling was directed, ignored most of his commentary. The occasional “yes” or “no” was sufficient to keep him happy. In spite of the fact that the Prithian might have been able to remain aboard the Ninja, she had decided to come, and observe what took place.

Though inconclusive thus far, her research regarding the Sheen had proved quite interesting, as had her evaluation of Thraki society. “Markets derive from economic principles,” her father liked to say, “but are influenced by culture. That’s why you must understand each in order to profit.”

The merchant was gone now. but his lessons lived on.

The shuttle touched down, the blast doors closed, and air flooded the bay. Jepp was eager to address the senate. He bounced off the small uncomfortable seat. “This is it, Veera! The moment we’ve been waiting for. Once they hear God’s plan, once they embrace the silvery host, the new order will unfold. Think of it! The entire Confederacy governed by a single religion! Historians will write about this day—and your name will appear for all to see.”

Veera realized that Jepp was more concerned with his name—but knew better than to say so. The hatch opened, the delegation descended a flight of self-propelled stairs, and were met by a carefully chosen reception committee. Nankoot was there, per Jepp’s request, but so was Maylo, who, unbeknownst to her, had been chosen for reasons other than her political acumen. Admiral Tyspin had provided the government with every bit of information that she could, including the fact that Jepp had a definite interest in women.

Knowing that, Nankool couldn’t help but smile when the exprospector saw Maylo, and his face lit up. The party formed a column of twos, wound its way between some navy transports, and headed toward the main lock. A metal archway had been established in front of the portal. Anyone who approached had no choice but to pass through. The humans went first followed by the robots. Booly and a pair of technicians were sequestered in a compartment not far away. A row of jury-rigged monitors was racked in front of them. The essence of Tyspin’s theory was that Jepp amounted to little more than a noisy decoy and that the Hoon, or part of the Hoon, controlled one or more of the so-called security units. If that was true, there would be a link back to the fleet and that would validate Tyspin’s thesis.

“Okay, sir, here goes,” Corn Tech Rutaza said. “Assuming the chip heads are linked with each other and//or one of their ships, the computer will provide me with a visual profile.”

Booly watched the first security unit pass through the arch. The monitors, lime green the moment before, shivered as an image appeared. It looked nothing like the real thing. The protective force field from which the Sheen took their name appeared as a yellow-white aura. A complex tracery of blue lines described the robot’s electronic nervous system. They rippled in synch with the machine’s alloy body. A lake of red-orange heat confirmed the location of the droid’s power plant while lesser ponds, pools, and streams were associated with online weapon systems, sensor relays, and good old friction. The weapons were worrisome but allowed. There wasn’t a senator onboard who didn’t have their own security.

Rutaza frowned as the first unit exited screen left. “No linkage, sir.”

Booly nodded. “Keep looking.”

The second robot passed under the arch followed by the third. Some lavender lines appeared, and Rutaza pointed at a screen. “Bingo! They’re talking to each other.”

Booly nodded. Some sort of localized communication was to be expected. But what of the more important question? Was the Hoon, or a part of the Hoon, actually present?

Booly was just about ready to say, “no,” when Unit Four appeared. “Look!” Rutaza said. “See the bursting? The dashed line coming in from the upper righthand comer of the screen? Four is taking a feed. Not continuous, like we were thought, but in the form of periodic reloads. How much you wanta bet the receiving unit will update the rest?”

Booly watched the prophecy come true. No sooner had the incoming feed stopped than Unit Four sent lavender lines to all the rest. It appeared Tyspin was correct. The Hoon had decided to use Jepp, to allow the human to take center stage, white it monitored the proceedings. He gave the tech a pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, Rutaza. Nice job. Get that stuff to Intel. We’ll let the spooks wrestle with it.”

The corn tech waited for the general to clear the compartment before throwing his feet up onto the console. The other rating, a woman named Hoko, grinned. “Suck up.”

Rutaza offered a gesture. “Screw you.”

“Don’t you wish.”

Both of them laughed.

Oblivious to the activities of crew members like Rutaza and Hoko, the senators stood in clumps and waited for the emissary to arrive. Opinion was divided into three schools of thought: those who favored an alliance with the Thraki, those who favored an alliance with the Sheen, and those who favored a policy of nonalignment.

The third contingent, often referred to as the “do-nothings” by the other two, were further split into additional subgroups. One wanted to declare a policy of “constructive neutrality” and spent a great deal of time trying to explain what that meant, while another, led by Senator Alway Omo, wanted to leave the Araballazanies alliance, and the brother-sisterhood of sentients.

Everyone wanted their ideas to be heard, so everyone talked at once, and nothing was accomplished. ChienChu waited toward the front of the chambers and was relieved when the doors swung open. He nodded to the master-of-arms, who addressed a mike. His voice boomed through the chambers. ‘The Sheen emissary has arrived. Please return to your seats.”

It took the better part of five minutes for the senators to return to their seats. President Nankool held the delegation just beyond the doors until the noise level dropped and the assemblage was ready. He signaled Jepp, and the entire party marched the length of the aisle. Maylo saw her uncle, wondered what he was thinking, and thought how strange the moment was. She looked at Veera, knew the Prithian’s thoughts were similar to hers, and smiled. A necklace of feathers shifted by way of response. Jepp, who had pressed some creases into his dark blue ship suit, drew himself up. Was Maylo ChienChu impressed? He hoped so. The entire senate was staring, waiting for him to speak, thinking how important he was. Everything was so clear, so vivid, that the exprospector knew he would never forget. The blur of alien faces, a whiff of exotic perfume, the carpet beneath his shoes. Each would be indelibly etched onto his memory.

Most of the beings in the chamber watched Jepp with a sort of curious diffidence. What was this strange apparition anyway? A well-meaning citizen, co-opted by the machines, or a brutal renegade deserving of their contempt?

At least one mind was made up, however, and it stared at Jepp with unalloyed hatred, knowing what the ex

prospector had done. His name was Harvey S. Holander,

Father to Sissy M. Holander, first officer of the ill-fated container ship Rho Ophiuchi, which had been in the process of refueling when Jepp ordered the attack on space station Halo. Holander, who served as Nankool’s first under secretary of defense, had first learned of the attack on Long Jump while reading a summary of the statement taken from the smuggler currently known as “Willy Williams.”

Not being privy to the Rho Ophiuchi’s itinerary, the administrator had no way to know that he had just read an account of his daughter’s death, not until the better part of a month had passed and the intelligence reports started to filter in. That’s when he learned the truth—and the hatred was born. Now, only feet from the podium, the moment was near. It had been relatively simple to steal the weapon, tape it to the bottom of his seat a few hours before, and pass through security with everyone else. Now, in a matter of minutes, revenge would be his.

Unaware of the danger that lurked nearby, Jepp shook hands with Sergi ChienChu and took note of the relationship between the governor and the beautiful young woman, people who would never associate with him if they had a choice. Life was looking up! He waited while Nankoo! took the podium.

“My fellow sentients ... Now, as we face the possibility of a terrible conflagration, communication becomes even more important. The Sheen rescued Citizen Jepp after his ship was wrecked, allowed him to travel with their fleet, and came to trust him. He, along with those sent to assist him, hopes to establish a two-way dialogue ...”

“What about Long Jump?” a voice yelled. “Let’s talk about that!”

Nankool raised a hand. “What occurred on Long Jump remains under investigation .. . Let’s wait for the facts and reserve final judgements until then.”

Holander seethed, wondered if he could nail Nankool as well, and forced himself to wait. He had very little experience with weapons, which meant that the shorter the range me better. He would kill Jepp... followed by the President.

There was no applause as Jepp made his way to the podium, a rather jarring departure from his most cherished fantasies, and one for which he might force the senate to apologize. Still, the would-be messiah thought to himself, they deserve a second chance—an opportunity to willingly join his flock. After that, well, the fleet would make his will known. He smiled into the lights.

‘There is a plan, a glorious plan, conceived by God and given to me. It consists of three parts, the Cleansing, which is now under way, the Covenant, in which all sentients will bind themselves over to God, and the Consecration. Once the Consecration has been completed and the throne is mine, a cadre of secular advisors will be required. Beings such as yourselves who can take my pronouncements and, with assistance from God’s silvery host, bring them to life. What I offer is nothing less than a partnership, an opportunity to step back from the apocalypse and begin a new age. An age in which ...”

Holander reached under his seat, rumbled for the weapon, and attempted to free it. The tape was stubborn, and the action proved more difficult than he thought it would be. Finally, energy pistol in hand, he staggered to his feet. A guard yelled but it was too late.

Everything felt so weightless. Memories stuttered through his brain. He saw Sissy hold up her arms, cheered as she dove from a dock, and clapped as she accepted her diploma. The barrel wavered, found its target, and spit bolts of bright blue energy. Blue like her eyes, blue like the water, blue like . . . The Hoon detected the threat, gave the necessary orders, and monitored the results. The security units responded in unison. They brought their weapons up and fired. Holander staggered as nine bolts of coherent light punched their way through his chest and struck the senators beyond. What felt like a red-hot steel bar punched its way through Jepp’s shoulder. Sam felt clear and scuttled towards Veera. The human took two steps backwards, felt Alpha wrap an arm around his waist, and shouted “No!”

But it was too late. The security units continued to fire.

Maylo ChienChu fell as a bolt of energy ripped through her chest, the master at arms died with his sidearm half drawn, and a staffer lost the left side of his face. Someone screamed, panic erupted, and the aisles filled with bodies.

Jepp pushed Alpha away, screamed, “Stop it!” at the top of his lungs, and threw himself into the line of fire. The Hoon ordered its minions to pause, “heard” some sort of alarm, but saw no further threat. That being the case, it allowed the human to intervene.

Jepp, conscious of the fact that reinforcements were on the way, looked left and right. Sergi ChienChu was crouched a few feet away, holding his niece in his arms, radioing for help. The exprospector pointed.

“We need a hostage—someone they won’t harm—take him!”

Though new to the idea of hostages—and struck by how illogical the concept was—the AI was quick to respond. Two of the security units seized ChienChu, discovered that the cyborg was a good deal stronger than he appeared, but still managed to bring him under control. Then, with Jepp, Alpha, Veera, and ChienChu at the center, the Hoon-controlled robots formed a defensive wheel. Light flared as even more power went to their shields and the Sheen headed for the doors. Booly, along with a half dozen heavily armed MPs pounded around a comer, and skidded to a stop. Doors slammed open as what looked like a silvery amoeba emerged from the senate chambers. It oozed their way. The soldiers raised their weapons, but Booly ordered them to stop. “Hold your fire! Lower your rifles! Back away.”

The MPs backed into an alcove while the strange assemblage marched by. Booly caught a glimpse of ChienChu’s eyes, heard the industrialist shout Maylo’s name, and knew something horrible had happened. He turned to a lieutenant. “Track them all the way to the bay. Don’t interfere, and don’t let anyone else interfere. Jepp is meaningless, and the Hoon is somewhere else.”

The lieutenant didn’t know who the Hoon was, but knew how to follow orders, and proceeded to do so. The clutch of marines followed as the mixed party of machines and biologicals retraced their steps. Booly, feeling guilty because of the way he had dumped the entire matter onto a there lieutenant, ran for the senate chambers. The interior was absolute chaos. The legionnaire saw a splash of red on the front of the podium, but no sign of Maylo. A naval officer bumped his side. She’d been nicked by an energy beam and was clutching a still smoking arm. She looked pale. “Sorry, sir, what a mess.”

A party of robo medics entered through the main door.

Booly waved. “Over here! Now damn it!” He turned back. “Tell me. Commander, what happened to Maylo ChienChu?”

“They shot her,” the naval officer replied shakily.

“Through the chest Sorry, sir, I feel a bit dizzy.”

A robot caught the commander before she hit the deck.

Another came to help.

Booly felt something rise to choke off his air. Maylo? Dead? No! He refused to believe it. The officer pushed his way through the crowd, stepped over a mostly decapitated body, and saw Nankool. He yelled over the crowd noise “Mr. President! What happened to Ms. ChienChu?”

“Wounded! They took her to the sick bay!”

Booly waved his thanks, turned, and pushed his way back through the crowd. “Wounded?” Not killed?

Had Nankool chosen the word intentionally? Or because he really didn’t know?

Booly hit the corridor, ignored the voices that called to him, and pounded down the hall. Though referred to as the “sick bay,” the facility was a good deal more than that. It consisted of a full-scale hospital, staffed with medical personnel from each of the member races, and ready to deal with almost anything. If anyone could save Maylo, they could. That’s what the legionnaire told himself as he skidded around a comer, passed a row of self-propelled gurneys, and headed for the well marked hatch. It hissed open, and a desk blocked his way. An android rose to greet him. It wore a marine green paint job. A serial number had been stenciled across its chest. “Greetings, General. Arc you in need of medical attention?”

Booly fought to catch his breath. “No, I’m looking for a patient... A woman by the name of Maylo ChienChu.”

“Yes, they brought her in about ten minutes ago,” the robot replied gravely. ‘The doctors are treating her now. Please take a seat and ...”

Booly ducked around the desk, steered for the sign that said “Trauma,” and stuck his head into an alcove. A Turr diplomat lay on the table, his face contorted with pain. Having already passed through Holander’s chest, an energy beam had severed his hand.

A doctor frowned. Booly said, “Sorry,” and moved to the next cube. It was packed with medical personnel all gathered around Maylo’s supine body. Her face looked slack and lifeless. The officer pushed his way forward, but a hand grabbed his arm. “Not now. General We must allow the medics some room.”

Booly turned to find himself face-to-face with Senator Samuel Ishimoto Six. Both men wondered the same thing ... Assuming that Maylo loved one of them—which had she chosen? It was a selfish thought, and both felt guilty. “How is she?” Booly asked. “Can they save her?”

The clone shrugged. “It’s too early to say.”

A medic turned to confront them. “You’ll have to leave now—a doctor will be out to see you.”

Both men backed out of the room. Booly remembered the Sheen, the lieutenant upon which the responsibility had been dumped, and knew it was time to go. His wrist term started to vibrate. He met the politician’s gaze. “They’re looking for me—can you stay?”

Ishimoto Six nodded

“Good. Make sure the docs do everything they can. Be there when she wakes up. She’ll need someone.”

The clone nodded and watched Booly walk away.

Knowing his rival would be present when and if Maylo came to, wishing it could be him. The politician sighed. In a galaxy full of assholes, why did his competition have to be such a nice guy? It wasn’t fair. He turned to look for a chair.

There were close calls, two to be exact, but no one fired. The lieutenant chanted Booly’s name like a mantra, people listened, and the Sheen were allowed to pass. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they made it to the launch bay where the shuttle waited. Doors opened to space, the Hoon guided the vessel through the opening, and the visitors were allowed to escape. Now, as they blasted toward the fleet, Jepp was whining. Not about his wound, which he had ignored, but about the lost opportunity. ‘They would have listened!” he wailed. “I know they would. Where was God? How could he forsake me?”

Veera, had no answers for such questions and allowed the human to rant and rave. Her regrets were entirely different. Was there something she could have done to prevent the bloodshed? Had there been an opportunity to escape? Had she blown the only chance she would ever be given?

ChienChu listened but remained intentionally passive. Partly because his death would be pointless, but partly because the Sheen were taking the industrialist to a place where, with the exception of Jorley Jepp, no other human had been allowed to go: the Sheen fleet. Would he be able to accomplish anything while there? No, it seemed unlikely. Still, his cybernetic body included a built-in corn set, and he might be able to provide some intelligence.

In the meantime his thoughts were focused on his niece.

Was Maylo alive? Booly would look after her—he felt sure of that—but wished he could do so personally. The whole thing was his fault. Had it not been for him, his niece would have been on Earth, looking after the Chien Chu Enterprises. The knowledge filled him with guilt. A clawlike hand touched his arm. A robot perched on the Prithian’s shoulder. It translated her words. ‘The female—she is your daughter?”

ChienChu shook his head. “No, my niece. But like a daughter.”

Veera cocked her head to one side. “I am sorry. The Sheen murdered my father.”

‘That’s how you came to be with the Sheen?” ChienChu inquired. “They took your ship?”

“They destroyed it,” Veera replied chirped soberly. “My father forced me into a lifeboat. The machines located it. I’ve been with them ever since.”

ChienChu nodded toward the front of the shuttle. Jepp had stripped to the waist and allowed Alpha to dress his wound. “And Jepp? What do you think of him?”

Feathers rose and fell. “I intend no offense to either you or your race—but he seems unhinged.”

“What are you two talking about?” Jepp demanded.

“Stop whispering.”

“Sorry,” ChienChu replied. “I asked how your companion came to be with the fleet. Nothing more.”

“Good,” Jepp said sourly. “You may be a big deal on Earth—but not out here. Hostages are expendable—so shut the hell up.”

The Hoon monitored the exchange but learned little of value. The soft bodies seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time on meaningless communication. No wonder they were doomed to extinction. The shuttle announced its arrival, scooted past a picket ship, and was welcomed back into the fold. Though unable to meet with the Sheen envoy, the Thraki had been seated at the back of the room when Holander launched his murderous attack and felt themselves lucky to have escaped unharmed. But now, as Andragna reboarded his battleship, he felt more than a little depressed. The Confederacy knew about the twins.. . and negotiations had proven fruitless. His people would fight alone. The Hoon would make a move soon. Unless he moved first. Expression grim, the admiral entered the lock.

Soon after the shuttle put down, ChienChu was escorted through the nano-draped bay and out into the ship’s sterile corridors. It was then that the security units seemed to lose interest and wandered away. Jepp, still angry at the manner in which he had been cheated, turned his back and left. That left Veera to explain. She steered the cyborg toward her compartment. Sam took care of the translation. “There’s nothing biologicals can do to hurt the ship—so the Hoon allows them to roam free.”

“But where is everyone?” ChienChu asked, as he looked around. “Machines don’t need airlocks—biologicals do. What happened to the beings mat created these vessels?”

“That is an excellent question,” Veera warbled as they entered her cabin. “Especially in light of the way the Thraki look. I had never seen one until I boarded your ship. They were sitting toward the rear of that big room. I’m sorry about the lack of furniture—but you could sit on that box.”

ChienChu accepted her invitation. Outside of some cartons stacked along one bulkhead, and a nest shaped bed, the compartment was nearly empty. *’ ‘The way the Thraki lookT What does that have to do with anything?”

“They’re small,” the Prithian replied patiently. “Did you try the seats on the shuttle? Jepp hates them. That’s because they are too small for his frame.”

ChienChu frowned. “What are you trying to suggest? That the Thraki created this fleet? That they programmed the Sheen to pursue them? No offense, but that makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Perhaps,” Veera answered calmly, “but I’ve had time to study the matter and would ask that you consider the following facts: The creators were diminutive—and so are the Thraki. You’ll have to look long and hard to find any sort of written symbols on this ship—but what few there are bear a close resemblance to Thraki pictographs. More than that, take a close look at Sam here. The Thraki like robots and are good at designing them, so much so that they spend a good deal of time and energy creating handcrafted mechanical pets. Is that a matter of coincidence?

Maybe. But maybe not. Then there’s the matter of the religion One of their most fearsome gods is referred to as ‘The great Hoonara.’ The computer that controls the fleet is called *the Hoon.’ “

ChienChu felt a rising sense of excitement. What if the teenager was correct? But how could that be? It seemed illogical “It makes for an interesting hypothesis,” the industrialist allowed, “but why? Why would the Thraki do such a thing?”

The Prithian cocked her head. “Are you familiar with the concept of symbiosis?”

“Yes, it refers to dissimilar organisms living in close association with each other.”

“Precisely,” Veera agreed. “Organisms living in a mutually advantageous manner. And that could explain what’s going on here. Suppose that the ancient Thraki feared for the future of the species? Thought their civilization had grown too comfortable, too privileged, too prone to decay. What if they decided to recast the future? To transform themselves from pleasure seekers to a race of warriors? Forever pursued—but strengthened by the process?”

ChienChu was stunned by the sweep of the youngster’s vision, by the manner in which she jumped to what seemed like a wild hypothesis, but one that rang true. Perhaps there had been a society like the one she envisioned. A culture so rich, so self-satisfied, that it started to rot. And maybe there had been visionaries, males and females who saw where the rot would lead and took steps to prevent it. If so, they would launched a fleet, no two fleets, one for the machines programmed to hunt them down, and one for themselves, or those who agreed to go, for it was hard to imagine that more than a few hundred thousand beings would sign up for such a plan. And the strategy worked! Not for every individual, not for those murdered by the Sheen, but for the organism as a whole. It might have been noble in a twisted sort of way if it weren’t for the fact that the Sheen had attacked other races as well, and more than that, continued to do so. Except. . .

ChienChu found the Prithian’s eyes. “You are brilliant, i Veera—truly brilliant. Your hypothesis makes a great deal of sense. There’s one loose end, however ... What are the Sheen waiting for? Why don’t they attack?

Veera felt a momentary sense of warmth. Her father had praised her in similar fashion—and she missed his proud approval. It was a good question, and the answer was self evident. For her at least. “There’s no way to be sure—but the Hoon may be programmed to wait. To see if the Thraki will run.”

“Yes!” ChienChu exclaimed. “That’s it! The Runners held sway for a long time—but the Facers came to power. The Hoon is waiting for Andragna to bolt... to start the whole process over again.”

“Except that he won’t bolt,” the teenager theorized. “Not this time.”

ChienChu 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?’ “ ChienChu 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,” ChienChu 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.”

Chapter 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 slidestep reserved for the most solemn of occasions. The twins were cradled in specially designed polehung slings, each supported by four ceremonial robots, and guarded by members of the Brother-Sisterhood of Assassins High Priestess Bree Bricana led the processional her self—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 comer.

ChienChu entered the compartment and took a look around. Jepp was a mess—that much was clear. How to proceed? Sweet talk the exprospector 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 exprospector hit the deck with a thump and yelped with pain. “My shoulder! You hurt my shoulder!”

“Really?” ChienChu 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. ChienChu 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, ChienChu 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 openmouthed 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.”

ChienChu’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 exprospector collapsed.

ChienChu 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 steeping 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 ChienChu 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. Booty 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 admirals 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 S2 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 lo 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 Zynig47 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 in 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 ChienChu, Veera and a blankfaced 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,” ChienChu answered grimly.

“Now open that hatch.”

Jepp stopped and crossed his arms. “I can’t.”

ChienChu 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 farflung 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 ChienChu. They arrived at the end of the corridor. Another hatch faced them. “We’re closer now,” the exprospector 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?” ChienChu 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 non-sentient 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.

Henry had a story and put it to use. The voice message was preceded by a code, which he hoped was current. The transport had been captured less than a standard day earlier so if it was out of date it wouldn’t be by much. ‘This is Transport U81279. I have a Class IFI environmental system failure. Both my pilots are incapacitated. Request permission to land.”

The navcomp sent the standard endtone and waited to see what would happen next. Would the Thraki terminate that particular existence right then? Or would the AI “live” long enough to enter the enemy’s launch bay and detonate the nukes? What was it that humans liked to say? “Never volunteer for anything?” How right they were. But how could he say “no?” Especially to Admiral Tyspin?

Yes, there was some satisfaction in knowing that a copy of itself remained on the Friendship, already different by more than twelve hours of divergent experiences, and therefore unique. Would the other Henry mourn the “death” of a copy? And why did that matter?

The navcomp’s ruminations were interrupted by a second transmission, “Your vessel is cleared to land, U81279. Medical personnel will be waiting.”

Henry noted the endtone, acknowledged the transmission, and fired the transport’s steering jets. Robo beacons swarmed into position, turned themselves on, and formed a lane. The launch bay appeared as a rectangle of yellow light. The navcomp used the transport’s sensors to make one last sweep of the stars. The control room had the quiet, almost hushed atmosphere of a library or monastery. The light was subdued, corn sets whispered in the background, and the bridge crew sat in front of what could have been electronic altars. Andragna sat on a dais. His U-shaped command chair could swivel through 360degrees. The unexpected arrival of Transport U81279 had delayed the officer’s plan of attack by a full twenty units. He had even toyed with the idea of directing the unfortunate spacecraft to rendezvous with another ship but talked himself out of it. The Sheen, with whom he had expected to be locked in mortal combat by now, seemed content to wait. That being the case, the Thraki could afford to accommodate the medical emergency.

But that was it, though . .. The technical issues had been resolved, the twins were ready, and so was the armada. More than ready, it was eager, which made the attack that much more imperative. To turn away now, to show the slightest hesitation, would be political suicide. Andragna looked up at the screens, saw the transport enter the bay, and gave the preparatory orders.

“Message the fleet: ‘Prepare to attack—May the gods be with us.’ Ready the twins. Remove all safeties. Launch on my command.”

A digital countdown appeared in the upper lefthand comer of every screen. All eyes went there, ears lay flat against skulls, and the seconds leaked away.

Jepp had detected something of a sea change and, in keeping with his somewhat elastic standards of behavior, was already seeking to accommodate it. Somehow, against all logic, the balance of power had started to shift. That being the case, it made sense to put something into the Confederate bank. And why not? The attack on Long Jump could be blamed on the Sheen, the attempt to assassinate him would generate some sympathy, and the whole thing could turn around.

The exprospector saw the shimmery blue force field that blocked the corridor and waved ChienChu forward. “Come on! It’s meant for robots ... we can pass through.”

The industrialist took Jepp at his word, charged forward, and staggered as what felt like a thousand volts of electricity blasted his electronic nervous system.

Veera saw the cyborg convulse, grabbed his tunic, and pulled him back. The industrialist collapsed on the deck. His limbs twitched as his overloaded system sought to rid itself of excess electricity. ChienChu found it difficult to speak. “Go—Veera. It’s—up—to—you.”

Veera wanted to help the human but knew she lacked the necessary skills. There was something about ChienChu that reminded the teenager of her father. She turned to find that Jepp blocked her path. The human wore a sneer. “Hold it right there—I’m in charge now. Nobody messes with the Hoon unless I say so.”

Veera considered her options. Jepp was larger than she was, much larger, which pretty much settled the issue. Unless .. Veera issued a short burst of staccato song. Sam was in the air and halfway to Jepp’s throat before the exprospector knew what was happening.

The Thraki robot landed, sank alloy hooks into the human’s chest muscles, and transformed itself into a configuration Jepp had never seen before. He brought his hands up, grabbed the machine’s torso, and tried to pull it off. But the robot’s steel claws had an excellent grip. The machine was literally in his face. A heavily serrated blade appeared, started to spin, and produced a mindnumbing whine. Something pushed it forward, the human felt something press against his throat, and saw blood jet left to right. That’s when Jepp tried to speak, tried to countermand Veera’s orders, but couldn’t produce the necessary air. There was time to think, however—to process one last thought: It wasn‘t fair. Darkness closed around him.

Veera averted her eyes, bypassed the body, and made for the end of the corridor. Her body had been designed for flight rather than speedy travel along the ground, but the Prithian did the best she could and approached the final hatch. There was no reason to think that it would open, and no way that she could force it, but the teen was determined to try. Because ChienChu wanted her too, because he reminded the Prithian of her father, because there was nothing else to do.

The Hoon observed the first soft body’s death with the same dispassionate neutrality that it applied to its own imminent demise. Time had passed, a need had been fulfilled, and programming had been triggered. The AI issued a command. The hatch hissed open. Veera stepped through. Booly entered the Friendship’s bridge, heard someone yell, “Attention on deck!” and waved them off.

“As you were.”

Admiral Chang, Admiral Tyspin, and Captain Boone stood in a tightly clustered group. They waved him over. He nodded to each in turn. “Thanks for the page ... The Turr ambassador had me trapped. What’s up?”

“Something pretty damned big,” Chang answered. “Listen to this.” She nodded to a tech. The rating touched a button, and ChienChu’s voice flooded the bridge. There was static, lots of it, plus some dropouts: “ChienChu here—unintelligible—relay to General Booly, Admiral Chang, or...” The words were buried by an avalanche of static.

Booly raised both of his eyebrows. “He’s alive! That’s wonderful but...”

Tyspin raised a hand. “Hold on, sir. There’s more.”

The static cleared, and the voice reemerged. “What that means is that the Hoon has been deactivated, repeat deactivated, so the rest of its fleet ..”

The voice faded as a trim looking lieutenant approached Admiral Chang. “You were correct, ma’am . . . The entire Sheen fleet appears to have powered down.”

The Hoon was dead! And, without its intelligence to guide them, the less autonomous computers were switching to standby. That changed everything. Booly’s mind started to race. “Get Andragna on the horn—tell him the news. Where’s that transport?”

Nobody asked, “Which transport?” because there was only one that mattered. Boone checked a screen. “The Thraki allowed Henry to pass through their fighter screen—and he’s two or three minutes from touchdown.” His eyes flicked to a digital readout. “And a good thing too—since the nukes are due to detonate in about five minutes.”

Booly nodded. “Send a signal—stop the clock.”

A corn tech stood to get their attention. “Grand Admiral Andragna on corn channel four.”

Booly heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank god, put him on.”

A holo blossomed over the main tank. Andragna looked calm and relaxed. There was an almost unnoticeable delay while his words were translated. “Greetings, General Booly ... how can I be of service?”

Booly looked into alien eyes and tried to force a connection. “The Hoon has been deactivated—and the Sheen have switched to standby. There is no reason to launch the twins.”

Andragna’s ears turned forward. “Don’t be fooled by their tricks. We know the Sheen in a way that no one else can. The machines have pursued us for hundreds of years. Thousands upon thousands of Thraki have died. This is our chance, perhaps our lost chance, to achieve lasting freedom. We have the means to destroy them, and we will do so.”

“But what of our ships?” Booly demanded. “And the Araballazanies? The twins could sterilize the surface of their planet.”

Andragna produced a human-style shrug. “We don’t believe that will occur—but feel there is little choice. There is nothing more to say—may the gods protect us all.”

The holo snapped to black.

Everyone turned to Booly. His face was drawn. “Send the signal... restart the clock.”

In spite of the fact that the seconds were ticking away and that two nuclear warheads were going to detonate within twenty feet of its processor, Henry was a navcomp, and that meant the landing had to be as perfect as the AI could possibly make it, that the power had to be shut down, that... Not far away, within the battleship’s control room, the landing was noted. An officer droned through the list.

‘Transport down ... launch bay sealed ... weapons systems ready.”

Andragna thought of his wife and things never said.

Would he get to say them? Only the gods knew for sure.

He looked up. “Prepare launcher 12 ... fire.”

The nuclear warheads detonated together. The battleship Will of the Gods along with its entire crew, and both “the twins,” ceased to exist. There was no secondary explosion, no outpouring of ravening energy, no wave of cataclysmic destruction.

Thousands of miles away on the Friendship’s bridge, Booly watched a pinprick of light wink on, then off. Here one moment, gone the next. Just like life itself. His voice sounded hoarse. “Send a message to the Thraki fleet: “The Sheen have been neutralized. There is no need for war.’ “

But there was war—though a mercifully short one. Frightened by the sudden destruction of their flagship and certain that the Sheen were responsible, the Thraki attacked. More than fifty of the now passive Sheen warships perished in less than fifteen minutes. Not one of them fired a shot in response. Finally, having realized that what the Confederacy said was true, the Thraki called a halt. The battle, such as it was, had ended.

Many months would be spent dealing with issues related to the Thraki settlements on Zynig47, Hudathan demands for increased autonomy, and the disposition of the Sheen. A rather rich prize that almost everyone thought should belong to them.

But those were concerns for politicians, bureaucrats, and to a lesser extent soldiers to deal with. Not the sort of things that a there navcomp had to concern itself with.

That being the case, it was relatively easy for Henry to give a deposition, petition for its freedom, and find a job.

The decision had been made to backtrack along the route followed by the Sheen. The objective of the mission was to hunt for Sheen scouts, some of which could have survived, and assist any colonies that might have been attacked. President Nankool himself had authorized Henry to ride the first ship out—which was all a navcomp could possibly wish for.

The AI lined up on the outgoing transit point, waited for permission, and sent the appropriate command. The heavily armed survey vesselLivingston seemed to wink from existence. The stars swam in silence.

Chapter 19

For life is a journey, a long winding way, that shall end as the god’s wish. The Thraki Book of Yesterdays

Year unknown

Planet Algeron, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The wind came in nasty little gusts, grabbed the snow pellets as they fell, and hurled them into Booly’s face. He looked up into the quickly darkening sky and marveled at his own stupidity. Even generals are allowed to take leave, and, with all the Confederacy’s planets to choose from, he could have been basking in the sun, especially given the amount of back pay he had accumulated. But Algeron called, and with no attachments, he had answered.

The ground sloped upward, the dooth groaned pitifully, and Booly kicked its ribs. Rocks rattled away from the animal’s hooves as it lurched forward. Boulders crowded both sides of the trail and offered plenty of hiding places. The legionnaire decided to ignore them. He was tired—too tired to care. More than six standard months had passed since “the Battle of Arballa,” as the press liked to call it, and the peace had proved more difficult than the war. If “war” was the right word for what had transpired. Negotiations with the Thraki continued, and while some wanted the newcomers to leave, others were willing to let them stay—Tf they decommissioned half the armada, if they assumed the responsibilities attendant to membership in the Confederacy, and if they renounced all claims to me Sheen fleet. This was an issue that seemed to be of extreme importance to the Ramanthians, who favored the immediate distribution of Sheen assets as the means to compensate members for losses suffered during what the diplomatic community now liked to refer to as “an unfortunate series of incidents.” Booly grimaced. Some mighty fine soldiers had died during “incidents” like the one on BETA018. Though still denied the right to possess naval ships of their own, the Hudathans had proven themselves in battle and kept their side of the bargain. That being the case, their home world was open to commerce. Eventually, after the passage of enough time, it was hoped that full integration could and would take place.

In the meantime, a significant number of Hudathans had served in the Legion, taken a liking to it, and seemed prepared to stay. A development that could lead to problems—or add strength to an already diverse organization.

While some things had changed, some remained the same. With the crises resolved and their planets secure, the Hegemony had turned inward once again. All of the Jonathan Alan Seebos had been withdrawn from the Legion, joint military exercises had been cancelled, and de facto partition restored. Elsewhere, out along the rim, trouble was brewing. Sheen units, still operating on the orders from the Hoon, continued to search for Thraki. Renegades, many of whom had deserted during the mutiny, were increasingly active. And colonists, who insisted on pushing the frontier ever outwards, were increasingly hard to protect. None of it boded well.

As for individuals, well. President Nankool had put on more weight. Ambassador DomaSa had returned to his duties as a member of the Hudathan Triad, Veera had been given any number of decorations prior to being returned to what remained of her family, Sergi ChienChu was looking forward to his next, attempt at retirement, and, according to all reports, Maylo was fully recovered. Recovered and back at the helm of ChienChu Enterprises. The clones had grown new organs for her, and the nano-assisted surgery had gone without a hitch. Booly felt the familiar stab of pain and pushed it away. It was important to release, to let go, and focus on the future.

The doom moaned. Booly urged the animal forward and eyed the mountain ahead. A week on the mesa... That would clear his head. Snow cloaked the legionnaire’s shoulders and sealed the land in silence.

The observation point was perfect. Not on the path itself, but off to one side, on a well screened ledge. Thanks to her sensors, Wilker could “see” about five miles worth of trail. Well, not all of it, because there were blind spots, but enough. She watched the green blob lurch up out of a streambed and marveled at how strange officers were. “So, Sarge, what’s your theory?”

First Sergeant Neversmile had elected to remain where he was—high on the Trooper IF’s back. The cyborg warmed the front half of his body but left his ass out in the cold. “My theory about what?”

“Your theory about the general.. . What’s so special about the mesa?”

Neversmile knew a lot about lieutenants, had some insights into the behaviors of captains, and opinions regarding majors. But generals were pretty much a mystery, especially ones like Booty, who defied the usual stereotypes. Still, deep down, the noncom sensed that the true answer to the cyborg’s question had more to do with Booty’s origins than his rank. There were ruins on the mesa, old ruins, left by the ancients. Such places held power—the kind Wilker would never understand. He structured his answer with that in mind. “Beats the hell out me—maybe he likes the view.”

“Wonderful,” Wilker replied darkly. “So why us? How come we catch the shit details?”

“ ‘Cause Colonel Kirby liked the job we did last time,” the Naa answered. “Now shut the hell up and earn your pay. If he gets bushwhacked I’m gonna pull your brain box and use if for a spittoon.”

Wilker wanted to say, “You and what army?” but held her peace instead. Neversmile didn’t take much lip ... not from biobods or anyone else.

The sun plunged toward the horizon as if eager to light the far side of the planet. The murk fumed to darkness and the legionnaires continued their vigil. There might have been other guardian angels—but none so heavily armed.

The long winding climb had already claimed two of Algeron’s two hour and forty-two minute nights, two days, and was well into another period of darkness before the legionnaire neared the top of the mesa. The dooth was understandably weary. Vapor jetted from its nostrils, and a beard of half frozen saliva dangled beneath its chin

Booly was exhausted, his mind numbed by the arduous climb and more than twelve hours spent in the saddle. Still, the realization that he had arrived served to revive the legionnaire’s nagging spirits, and he stood in the stirrups. The sun, still engaged in its never-ending game of hide and seek, had just started to peek over the eastern horizon. It glazed the ancient walls, caused ice crystals to glitter like diamonds, and threw shadows toward the west.

Man and animal passed through the narrow defile where sentries had sheltered from the wind and emerged on the mesa itself. Low walls, few more than three feet high, marked where wind breaks, animal shelters, and storage buildings once stood. The dooth’s hoofs made a lonely clip clop sound, and it snorted loudly.

That’s when Booty saw the shuttle, felt ice water seep into his veins, and jerked the dooth to a halt. The aircraft was black, of a type the legionnaire had never seen before, and, judging from the pods mounted under the short stubby wings, heavily armed.

Booly’s mind flashed back to Sintra on Earth, to the Thraki assassins, and the attempt on Maylo’s life. The aliens had no reason to murder him back then—but they did now. When the Will of the Gods exploded and Grand Admiral Andragna died along with most of his staff, there had been confusion. But that was then. The Thraki knew who was responsible for the flagship’s destruction now, could deduce who had given the order, and might be out for revenge. And where better than here? Where they could attack with impunity, remove the body, and leave nothing but a mystery?

Well, not without a fight, Booly thought grimly. He slid the assault rifle out of its scabbard, checked the ammo indicator, and removed the safety. Then, with the weapon in hand, he slid to the ground. He listened, heard nothing but the wind, and was thankful for the opportunity to prepare. He led the doom to a wind-sculpted tree, tied the reins to a much-tested branch, and wished there was a way to make the animal disappear. But there wasn’t, so he patted the beast’s neck, and backed away. There were plenty of places to hide, which meant that Booly would need to be careful. The sun was higher by then, which would make it easier for the legionnaire to see his potential adversaries—and easier for them to see him.

The shuttle represented the obvious starting point for his investigation, so Booly circled to the left, careful to keep the sun at his back. A two or three-inch crust of snow covered the ground and made soft crunching noises as he followed one of the lichen covered walls. There should be tracks somewhere ahead, unless the shuttle’s occupants had elected to remain aboard, which would make sense if they were what? Shipwrecked? No, anyone who needed help would get it from one of the navy ships now in orbit or would land at the fort. Yes, the Legion did make use of civilian contractors from time to time, but they liked their comforts, and never ventured into the boonies without benefit of an armed escort. The kind of escort that would be confronting him by now. That left the possibility of spies, smugglers, or the assassins he had feared from the beginning.

The shuttle crouched on its skids. Though small as spaceships go, it loomed large on the mesa and was very intimidating. Booly paused, took a long slow look around, and called on his full array of senses. Other than the serial number painted on the much abused hull, there were no apparent markings. If the registration number was real, it conformed to Confederate conventions, but phony RN’s were extremely common.

Now, for the first time since reaching the top, Booly considered calling for help. He had a radio—Kirby had insisted on that—and a fly form could be there in fifteen or twenty minutes. But what then? Which was worse? Calling for help when it might turn out that he didn’t need any? Or confronting the assassins alone? It was stupid—he knew that—but the first choice seemed worse than the second. Pride Yes, and he wasn’t especially proud of it.

Booly listened, heard nothing more ominous than the keening of the wind, tested the air for any scent that shouldn’t be there, and came up empty. Not all that reassuring, given the fact that the first set of Thraki assassins had gone to considerable lengths to neutralize their natural body odors. The officer approached the aircraft from the stem, on the assumption that there would be fewer sensors aimed in that direction, stepped in by a drive nacelle, and touched the metal with a thickly gloved hand. He waited a moment but felt nothing. The hull was cold, very cold, which suggested that the vessel had been there for a while. Waiting for him to show up? Or for some more innocent reason? There was no way to know.

Moving as stealthily as he could the legionnaire made his way forward. The hatch was closed, and a muddle of slush indicated where someone or something had left the ship. Tracks pointed north. Booly debated the merits of pounding on the hatch, decided to leave that approach till last, and followed the tracks. They were small, consistent with the Thraki theory, but less than perfectly clear, thanks to the fact that the prints went in both directions, as if one or more individuals had completed multiple trips to and from the ship. And, based on lessons learned as a youth, the officer could see that repeated exposure to the heat of day and the cold of night had altered the size of the impressions, making them more difficult to interpret.

Careful lest he follow the tracks into an ambush, Booly angled out and away. He kept the trail in view but walked parallel to the footprints. The fact that his back was to the spaceship made him nervous, but there wasn’t much choice. The tracks wound back and forth, passed under a sturdy arch, and rounded the comer of a tumbledown building. Then, straight as an arrow, they headed toward a rocky spire. His spire, the one that marked the location of the underground dwelling where his mother and he had camped, and the box of mementos had been buried. A coincidence? Or something else?

It was that particular moment when Booly’s nostrils detected the odor of cooking. Something good from the smelt of it. What was Thraki cuisine like anyway? The legionnaire had no idea. Booly moved forward, found the spiral stair, and eased his way down. The steps were dry—as if no one had used them for a while. Light danced on the opposite wall, the smell of food hung in the air, and the rifle pointed the way.

The officer eased through the entry and into the common room. Only one figure was visible, and he, she, or it was crouched in front of the fire pit, stirring the contents of a pan. Whoever the individual was put the container on a platform constructed for that purpose, stood, and turned. The light illuminated only one side of her face, but Booly would have recognized her anywhere. He lowered the rifle. Thoughts, questions, and emotions tumbled over each other and blocked his capacity to speak. Maylo smiled. “Well, it took you long enough ... I thought you’d like some breakfast. Kitty Kirby was most helpful. . . Not too surprising since she was a woman long before the Legion promoted her to Colonel.”

Booly just stood there, eyes taking her in, heart in his throat. “I thought I would never see you again.”

Maylo walked forward until their parkas touched. She looked up into his face. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes, the way her hands caressed the back of his neck, or the almost palpable magnetism of her body.

Suddenly Booly knew what his grandfather had felt for Windsweet, what his father felt for his mother, and what had nearly been lost. Her eyes were bright with tears. “I’m sorry. Bill, sorry I took so long.”

Booly took Maylo in his arms, buried his face in her shiny black hair, and breathed her in. He whispered in her ear. “The Naa have a saying: “There can be no darkness when heart finds heart—for love lights the way.’ “

“I love you.”

“And I,” the legionnaire said truthfully, “will always love you.”

Outside, high above the windswept mesa, a spy sat passed overhead. It snapped a series of high mag stills. They were digitized, sent to the surface, and displayed on a monitor in Colonel Kirby’s office. She examined the shuttle, saw the dooth, and smiled. Every once in a while, something went right. Neversmile would be pissed, but it was worth it.

Miles to the north the sun caressed a mountain and the cycle continued. Rocks were warmed, snow melted, water gurgled, and the ancients continued to dream.