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.”