Booly was considered a player by then, a being to be reckoned with, which meant that he was forced to shake all manner of limbs, answer nonsensical questions, and dodge various types of supplicants, the worst of whom were arms dealers, eager to sell him everything from pocket knives to nukes. Finally, after what felt like a swim upstream, the officer heard music, managed to break through a screen of onlookers, and made it to the dance floor. It took less than a second to spot Maylo and recognize the man she was with, Senator Samuel Ishimoto Six.
They were dancing to something slow and stately. Maylo wore a bright red dress and positively glowed. Her teeth flashed when she laughed. They looked happy, as if made for each other, and the spectators thought so too. Comments came from all around. “Aren’t they wonderful together?” “Look at that dress!” “He’s so handsome!” “What a beautiful couple.”
Booly looked down, realized how plain his class two khaki’s were, and felt suddenly out of place. Maybe it stemmed from his upbringing on Algeron, maybe it was the result of too many years on the rim, but the entire atmosphere made him uncomfortable. This was Maylo’s world and one in which he would never be able to compete. Slowly, reluctantly, the soldier turned and forced his way back through the crowd.
Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, Maylo caught a glimpse of khaki. Her eyes followed, she saw his face, and then he was gone. Something, she wasn’t sure what, seemed to squeeze her heart. The music played, her feet moved, but the dance was over.
Chapter 13
Any and all available resources can and should be used while searching for the Thraki. The Hoon
General Directive 00003.0
Standard year 2502
Inside the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The Sheen fleet swept through the Istar Seven system with the slow sureness of an organism that knows where it’s headed but is in no particular hurry to get there. And with good reason. In spite of the fact that the Hoon had completed its inventory and destroyed all remaining vestiges of its other self, the computer intelligence had something new to concern itself with.
Scouts had come across signs that the Thraki armada had not only come that way—but done so within the relatively recent past. There were other portents as well. . . Ships that flashed into existence at the far end of detector range, the presence of computer controlled drones that exploded if tampered with, and hundreds of free-floating relay devices that “squirted” data to each other as the fleet drew near. The occurrences were interesting for any number of reasons, beginning with the fact, that, old though the Hoon was, the computer had never observed such phenomena before. They suggested coordinated activity of some sort and presented a 92.3 percent match with instructions the AI had never been called upon to use before
How had the creators been able to provide instructions regarding events that would transpire hundreds of years in the future? The machine neither knew nor cared.
The essence of the newly revealed directions were actually quite simple: Although the Sheen had pursued the Thraki armada for centuries now, the day would almost certainly come when the hunted would turn and make a stand. And, as part of that effort, they might attempt to lure the Hoon into some sort of trap. The AI would know that day had arrived “when signs start to thicken, when ships harry the fleet, and when mysteries appear.”
The first pair of parameters made sense, but the last didn’t. “Mysteries?” What did that mean? Ah well, what the computer didn’t or couldn’t understand it had been programmed to ignore. So, cautious as to the possibility of a trap, the Hoon doubled the number of units assigned to reconnaissance, ordered the rest of the fleet to the highest possible state of readiness, and stowed the overall rate of advance.
That’s how the Sheen discovered that a Thraki convoy had taken refuge on the eleventh planet out from a rather undistinguished sun and turned to investigate.
Veera was playing with Sam, something she did at least once a day, and Jepp was watching. Their cabins were too small for such activities ... so they had moved out into me long, sterile corridor. Well, mostly sterile, since the human’s quasi-religious graffiti added what he considered to be a much needed touch of color.
The game, which Jepp watched from the comfort of a chair that Henry had fashioned from metal tubing, was as old as man’s relationship with dogs. Veera, her iridescent underfeathers occasionally catching the light, would throw the crudely made ball down the passageway, and Sam, pleased to be the center of attention, would chase it. Not only chase it, but perform tricks while doing so, each calculated to outdo the last. Jepp watched the device scoot along the ceiling, drop from above, and swallow the ball. The robot’s reward for this activity, if “reward” was the right word, were trills of approval from Veera. Trills that Sam answered in kind and made Jepp jealous. He couldn’t “sing” her language, hadn’t even tried, and felt left out.
Still, some company was better than none, and he had vaguely paternal feelings toward the little alien. Though competent in many respects, and almost impossibly bright, she was vulnerable, too. Both her mother and father were dead, she was passing through a stage analogous to human adolescence, and was trapped aboard an alien ship.
Dealing with Veera, which also meant dealing with her moods, had altered Jepp’s life. When she felt good then he felt good—and when she felt bad then he felt bad. The back and forth of which nearly drove the human crazy but beat loneliness. Something he had experienced all to often over the last six months.
Sam did a series of cartwheels, disgorged the ball at Veera’s feet, and dashed away. The Prithian uttered a series of chirps, threw the sphere down corridor, and seemed to stiffen. Her crimson shoulder plumage rose slightly and stuck straight out. Though unable to converse with the alien without the assistance of a translator, Jepp understood some of her nonverbal communications. He sat up straight.
“Veera? What’s wrong?”
The Prithian cocked her head to one side. “The ship changed direction—and picked up speed.”
The human hadn’t felt a thing but believed her nonetheless. The teenager had mentioned such changes shortly after coming aboard, and Jepp, having doubts regarding the veracity of her claims, ordered Alpha to check them out. The results were amazing. The Prithian was right at least 95 percent of the time. Her senses were more acute than his. So, given the fact that the ship had maintained the same course and speed for the last week or so, why change now? He frowned. “Tap into the Hoon and find out why.”
What could have been phrased as a request was expressed as an order. Veera felt mixed emotions. Her father ordered the youngster around all the time. And, as someone who was older than she was, and presumably wiser, Jepp was entitled to the same level of respect due Prithian elders. Or was he? Veera’s father was dead, her companion was eccentric by human standards, and she was alone. It was tempting to say “no,” on principle. To take a stand and maintain some personal space. The problem was her own highly developed sense of curiosity. What was behind the change in course?
Where was the Hoon taking them? The teenager wanted to know.
Veera trilled an order, Sam cartwheeled in her direction, and followed the Prithian down the corridor. Data ports were located at regular intervals along the bulkheads. The Hoon’s mechanical minions used them whenever they had a need to access certain types of information. The Thraki device scuttled up the wall, created the necessary adapter, and plugged itself into the ship’s electronic nervous system.
The way in which Veera communicated with machines was different from the manner in which Jepp accomplished the same thing. Her songs were comprised of individual notes, each one of which could easily be translated into binary code, and manipulated by any device having the intelligence to do so. The resulting transfer was that much more efficient. Just the son of thing that the average machine is likely to appreciate.