By Force of Arms (5 page)

“And Governor ChienChu?”

“Hopeless,” Omo concluded. “The governor is so wealthy that money holds no meaning for him. There are other possibilities however—and the Thraki are working on them. Admiral?”

The robot that rested on the Thraki’s lap was part toy, part pet, and part tool. It morphed into a globe and assumed the role of translator. “Our priesthood includes a branch focused on the martial arts. A team of assassins was dispatched to Earth with instructions to kill Maylo ChienChu. We haven’t heard from them as yet… but they seldom fail.”

“Point is what?” the Drac inquired flatly.

“Intimidation,” IshimotoSeven replied easily. “If ChienChu’s niece can be killed then no one is safe. Not his wife, not his associates, and not him.”

“Good it is,” Noother concluded. “Next what?”

Omo glanced at the viewscreen. Special electroactive contact lenses took hundreds of separate images and combined them into one. The Friendship looked small and potentially vulnerable against the great blackness. “Isolated though he is, the Hudathan has proven far too effective for his own good. I plan to eliminate him… and do so in a very public manner. With DomaSa dead—the votes we require will hurry to find us.”

“How?” the Drac demanded.

“Patience,” the Ramanthian counseled. “You must have patience. Isn’t that right, Horgo?”

The War Omo stepped forward into the light. Like all of his kind, the Ramanthian’s vital organs were protected by an extremely hard brown-black exoskeleton. He possessed an elongated head, short antennae, a parrotlike beak, and a pair of seldom-deployed wings. He wore black body armor secured by bright metal links. A sword had been strapped across his back, and Horgo wore two hand weapons, butts forward. His rarely heard voice was deep and menacing. “Yes, lord. That is correct.”

The Starlight Ballroom could handle up to one thousand guests, all protected by an immense transparent dome. The planet Arballa hung like a jewel beyond the armored plastic. Only one comer of the vast space was currently in use. About sixty beings, who represented more than a dozen different races, stood in conversational clumps where they sipped, sucked, snorted, and otherwise ingested a wide variety of mildly intoxicating substances, snacked on a variety of exotic hors d’oeuvres, and told each other lies.

All except for one lonely figure who knew he should mingle—but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. He stood with his back to a durasteel bulkhead, his feet planted firmly on the deck, wishing he were dead. Ambassador Hiween DomaSa had rendered many services to his now beleaguered race—but none involved more personal sacrifice than his presence at President Nankool’s cocktail party. He not only hated such occasions but hated them with every fiber of his 350pound body.

The food was disgusting, by his standards at any rate, and the conversation was highly political, which was to say full of poorly disguised flattery, outrageous gossip, and carefully calculated untruths. All of which went against the Hudathan’s instincts.

Still, that was the price that had to be paid if he ever hoped to gather the support necessary to lift the blockade that currently confined his people to their home world. A chaotic place where a Trojan relationship with a Jovian binary caused the planet Hudatha to have a wildly unpredictable climate, and threatened the survival of the race. Just as humans threatened it, Ramanthians threatened it, and every other sentient race threatened it. Not because of anything they had done, but because they existed, and might cause harm.

All of which explained why Triads long dead had considered it necessary to attack and destroy the very races with which DomaSa now mingled. Stupid races for the most part, who, had they truly understood the nature of his race, would have killed every Hudathan they could find and sterilized the planet from which they came. But they were incapable of such pragmatism, which was good for him.

“So,” a voice said, “which ones would you like to kill most, and in what order?” The joke, because the Hudathan had learned enough about humans to recognize it as such, demonstrated an almost scary understanding of the way he felt. Was he that transparent? The possibility frightened DomaSa as he turned to face Sergi ChienChu.

The industrialist’s biological body had expired many years before. That’s why his brain and a length of spinal cord were housed in an otherwise synthetic body. A vehicle quite similar to the original. The face had a rounded, slightly Asian cast to it, the body was pleasantly plump, and the clothing was simple verging on plain. A look that was nearly Hudathan in its simplicity. DomaSa’s expression changed only fractionally, but the human recognized the alien equivalent of a smile. “I would leave you till the last.”

ChienChu laughed in spite of the fact that the jest contained a strong element of truth. DomaSa had a large humanoid head, the suggestion of a dorsal fin that ran along the top of his skull, funnel-shaped ears, and a rigid mouth. His skin was gray, but would turn white should the temperature drop, and black were it to rise.

ChienChu glanced to his left and right, assured himself that they were as free from surveillance as one could be on the Friendship, and took the opportunity to share his news. “My niece came aboard three hours ago. The Thraki tried to assassinate her.”

DomaSa liked Maylo, as much as he liked any non-Hudathan, and his face grew hard. “Then they must die.”

“They already have,” ChienChu said gravely, “thanks to General Bill Booty. The larger problem remains, however. Who sent them? And why?”

“The cabal,” DomaSa answered with certainty. “The Thraki were used.”

“Yes,” the cyborg agreed. “Albeit willingly—as part of their own grand scheme. Even though you exposed their intention to use the Confederacy as a shield—they continue to move the plan forward. There was a time when we could have forced them to leave, but that was prior to the mutiny, and the subsequent rebellion. They have five thousand ships, not counting what the cabal can bring to bear, which leaves Earth badly outnumbered.”

The Hudathan offered a humanstyle shrug. “I am aware of these facts … why review the obvious?” “Because,” ChienChu said, “I have an idea. A solution nearly as dangerous as the threat itself… but one that…”

The human never got to finish his sentence. A body brushed past his, stepped forward, and sprayed what looked like red paint onto the front of the Hudathan’s robe.

ChienChu took a step backwards, realized who the interloper was, and heard the War Omo speak. The words had a rehearsed quality. “You have not only slandered the Ramanthian race, but sullied the house of Omo, and taken liberties with our private communications. Honor has been lost… and honor must be restored.”

Had the room fallen silent a fraction of a second before the challenge was issued? ChienChu thought that it had, which would mean that at least some of the bystanders had been warned, and were waiting for the confrontation to unfold A quick check confirmed that Senator Omo, flanked by Ambassador IshimotoSeven and Grand Admiral Andragna, were watching from a hundred feet away. First Maylo, the industrialist thought to himself, now this.

DomaSa looked down at the stain on his chest then up into the Ramanthian’s hard insectoid eyes. The entire room held its breath as the Hudathan allowed the silence to build. Finally, when some doubted his capacity to speak, the diplomat gave his response. “Challenge accepted.”

There was a sucking sound as the oxygen breathers inhaled. The War Omo bowed and straightened again. “The choice of weapons is yours.”

The silence built once again. What would the Hudathan choose? What would any of them choose? Energy weapons? Slug throwers? Dart guns? Each had merit.

DomaSa smiled but very few of them recognized the expression as such. Most saw what looked like a predatory grin. “Swords.”

There were gasps of surprise, the quick buzz of commentary, and a variety of stares.

Horgo was taken aback. Though something of an expert with the sword, he had assumed that if the diplomat agreed to fight, it would be with something less personal. A weapon that would put some distance between the combatants and serve to even the odds. This was good news indeed The duel would be short. Pleased by his good fortune, the War Omo bowed for the second time and backed away. “The surface of Arballa—two days from now.” DomaSa nodded. ‘Two days from now.”

ChienChu sighed. The trap had been set and sprung.

Would the quarry escape? Only time would tell.

It was a small compartment, just off President Nankool’s living quarters, and frequently used for gatherings such as this one. Candlelight glinted from real silver, a Turr symphony could be heard in the background, and the meal was half over. President Marcott Nankool was a rather bland man who took too much pleasure in ceremonial meals, and looked a bit bloated.

The guests included Sergi ChienChu, Maylo ChienChu and Hiween DomaSa. The President gestured toward the Hudathan’s large and rather ornate bowl. “So, Ambassador, how are you doing? Ready for another serving?”

The Hudathan eyed his second bowl of cooked grain. It was hearty stuff—full of nuts and dried fruit. Not bad for shipboard cuisine. “Thank you, Mr. President, but no. This is more than sufficient.”

Nankool looked at Maylo. “And how ‘bout you my dear? Some more of the fish perhaps?”

Maylo flashed back to the illicit swim that she and Senator Samuel IshimotoSix had shared in one of the onboard aquaculture tanks, and wondered where he was. Why did she care? And what about Booly? The silence stretched uncomfortably long, and she hurried to fill it. “No, thank you.”

“Well,” Nankool continued, dabbing at his lips, “let’s get to it. So, Sergi, what’s on your mind?”

ChienChu had very little need of nourishment, and what he did require was delivered by other means. He toyed with his wineglass. The dinner was his doing … so the question made sense. He looked from one face to the next. “I would like to submit a proposal, a proposal that many of our colleagues would consider to be insane, but, given our present circumstances, may represent the only real chance we have.”

Nankool finished one glass of wine and poured himself another. Light gleamed as he raised the glass. “To Sergi ChienChu! Author of the outrageous! Please proceed.”

The most fleeting of smiles touched ChienChu’s plastiflesh lips. “You may feel differently in a moment. My proposal is this: Given the fact that the Sheen are hunting for the Thraki, and we lack the clout to force them to leave, the Confederacy is in need of allies. Allies with military clout.”

“Yes,” the President agreed. “But who? All the players have chosen sides. None remain.”

“Ah, but that’s where you are wrong,” the industrialist insisted. “One player remains, and he’s here, sitting at this table.”

Nankool frowned, looked to DomaSa, and back to ChienChu. “I’m sorry Sergi… I don’t understand.”

“It’s really quite simple,” ChienChu replied. “After the last war ended, in an effort to prevent still another, a blockade was established. Since that time Ambassador DomaSa and his people have been free to do whatever they pleased so long as they remained on the surface of the planet Hudatha.”

Maylo wondered what her uncle was driving at, looked at the Hudathan, and took note of his expression. Though no expert, the businesswoman had spent a considerable amount of time with the diplomat, and thought she detected a strange sort of intensity … As if the alien thought he knew where ChienChu was headed… but was afraid to hope.

“I have no way to know,” the industrialist continued earnestly, “but it’s my guess that the Hudathan military has been anything but inactive during the last fifty years, and are at the very peak of readiness. All of which points to a reserve of warriors, fierce warriors, who have every reason to fight the Sheen and nothing to lose.”

Nankool went pale. His hands started to shake. “My apologies to the Ambassador—but have you taken leave of your senses? Have you forgotten the death of your own son? The deaths of more than two million Confederate soldiers? The deaths of a billion civilians? All at the hands of the Hudathans? I’m sorry, Sergi… but what you propose is out of the question. Even if the Hudathans agreed, even if they fought the Sheen to a standstill, they would turn on us in the end.”

Though not as responsive as his flesh and blood face had been, the highly malleable plastic did its best to reflect what the cyborg felt, and there was no mistaking the extent of his emotions. A hand slammed down onto the surface of the table, and wineglasses jumped in response. Maylo, who had never seen her uncle lose his temper in all the years she had known him, felt suddenly afraid.

“You think I haven’t considered those things? Damn your impertinence! Not a day passes that I don’t think of Leonid, of the fact that I sent him to Spindle, where the Hudathans killed him.

“But what of the billions for whom we are responsible? How many will the Sheen slaughter? Once dead, we have no means to bring them back. Should we defeat the Sheen, and go on to face the Hudathans, they have a chance. No offense to Ambassador DomaSa—but we defeated his race on two previous occasions. I believe we can do so again.”

Though confused by conflicting emotions Maylo came to her uncle’s assistance. “Sergi has a point… Perhaps the Hudathans could change, if they wanted to change, and integrate themselves into Confederate society. Still, even if they can’t, limits can be imposed.”

“Yes!” ChienChu added gratefully. “Limit the size of their navy! Troops mean nothing without the means to move them around.”