“Well spoken,” Guardian replied at last, an undermelody of crude humor to her words. “You are aptly named, Little Talker.” She reached into a pouch at her side and removed a shining multifaceted datacube. Diplomat merely waited. He knew that he held status; had not the Hindmost Itself selected him for this mission? Diplomat shook his midsection slightly, causing the gems in his intricately groomed backcoat to jingle, a reminder of Diplomat's rank.
Another pause.
“Many pardons, O Wise One. I have your prerendezvous briefing datacube here, Diplomat.” She waited, apparently to see if Diplomat would rise to the bait of her irony this time.
“How long until we dock with the Outsider vessel, Guardian?” Diplomat repeated, working very hard to seem unperturbed.
“You have just enough time to review the contents of the information crystal, O Wise One. And digest the language programs into your communication module.” Again, the Guardian's heads flipped up for a moment and looked eye to eye. “Though I suspect you will not like what you see and learn.”
She held out the datacube to Diplomat with her left mouth.
Just out of reach, of course, to make him bridge more than half the distance.
Diplomat idly noticed that the pilot's right mouth never strayed from her disrupter holster, even inside the supposed safety of the Wisdom of Retreat.
He nervously licked his finger-lips with a forked tongue and… made a long neck to the Guardian. More than halfway. He took the glittering geometrical solid which contained Diplomat's fate.
And perhaps the fate of much, much more.
Confusion. This local-and-other node cannot identify the hotlife irritants in this wracked geometric volume. Searching modalities are nil on all vibrational harmonics.
Attentiveness. This local-node sieves the plasma turbulence with great care. There is no trace but debris of the hotlife usurpers. The two battling motes are not present.
Thought. One. Perhaps, then, the hotlife vermin have all been destroyed? There has been no opportunity to interrogate the plans of the vermin for analysis and decision. The Nexus must be preserved from threat.
Suspicion. This local-and-other node are One. This local-node detects a disturbance in the ‹#@@#@›. It is more than the resonance from the unleashing of destructive forces. Something beyond the abilities of the hotlife vermin has been present. Prepare to receive relevant data-packets.
Anger. Received. Analysis complete. The heretic Feral Ones have indeed moved through this space-time locus, and fled! Perhaps the Feral Ones have taken the hotlife specimens — for purposes surely in opposition to the intentions of the Holy Radiants.
Confusion. One. What action shall this local-and-other-node take? The Treaty limits action near this geometry.
Determination. The Treaty has vertices and contour which are definite. The Nexus assembles, from local-and-other nodes, into Node. Node will determine the vector of the Feral Ones in the other ‹#@@#@› space and pursue.
Caution. What of the Treaty?
Righteousness. Treaties serve a Higher Purpose. Do the Holy Radiants approve? Their silence is license enough for action.
Shock. That direction of thought leads the other-node to the way of the Feral Ones.
Amusement. The other-node japes. Following the directives of the Holy Radiants does not lead to heretical modes of action.
Concern. Can the other-node be certain?
Impatience. Enough. All local-and-other nodes join to Node, and certitude will be One. Pursue the forces sundered by the Feral Ones, to their source.
CHAPTER THREE
Guardian held out the glittering datacube to Diplomat. Part of her mission was to protect her frail passenger, true. Establishing rank, however, had little to do with protection. She made the little puppeteer stretch to take the information matrix. It forced him into an extended-neck posture of submission.
Such an act was tradition and test both, Guardian reminded herself. How would the little talker react?
Diplomat avoided Guardian's eyes in dutiful respect, taking the cube with his left mouth. No challenge there.
Still, Guardian noted, his posture was as brave as possible for a puppeteer of his bloodlines. She blinked twice in acknowledgment. Diplomat's act of polite esteem secretly pleased her, though she maintained her stern expression, still holding the other puppeteer in her gaze.
Diplomat was small and vulnerable and obviously very frightened — with good reason. She was delighted that he was trying to hide his emotions, to hold his necks a bit farther away from his body in a show of what was — to him — courage.
Despite all of Guardian's threats and insults to Diplomat, she enjoyed looking after the other puppeteer. A small puppeteer like Diplomat required Guardian's protection, and it warmed her to feel that needed duty. It would be a deep pleasure to die for her charge.
She would never admit as much to the little creature, of course. Guardian's facade forced other puppeteers to treat her opinions with respect and attention and more than a little fear. Her personal feelings did not enter into this or any other mission of behalf of the Hindmost.
To a Guardian of the puppeteer race, duty was All.
Such was the purpose for which Guardians had been born and bred over millennia. Duty to the Hindmost, always; such were the first words a foal of the Guardian caste heard in crèche. And it was the last thought to be prized, at the end of a long life of service.
Guardian glowered a bit more to reinforce the image she projected. Diplomat bowed to her with both necks and turned to his own control console. There was a slight crunching sound as he broke the Hindmost's Seal with his teeth.
Guardian was not looking forward to the next few minutes. It would have to be handled most carefully.
I am a Guardian, she thought, not a melody-mumbling Psychist.
But a Hindmost's Command was exactly that: a command.
As she watched from the corner of her left eye, Diplomat inserted the datacube into his console reader. He whistled up the hyper-icons with a minimum of flourish, looking cool and efficient. Not a surprise, truly. Warrior knew that Diplomat was a Field Operative, not some Homeworlds fop — despite the ornate grooming on his back pelt.
Still, she was not fooled by appearances.
Guardian allowed herself a tongue-flick of a wry smile at his studied sham of confidence as Diplomat's console screens began to flicker with data. She returned to her own control console, activating the forceweb. The static charge crackled pleasantly against her battle armor, firmly holding the soldier puppeteer in place.
Unless Guardian handled Diplomat's study of the datacube's contents just so, the little puppeteer would drop into another bout of catatonia. Guardian was secretly indulgent of her charges on such missions, yes, but there was little time available for out-of-breeding-season pelt-currying.
“Well, Honored and Wise One,” she asked with rough humor, “do you care to share your initial impressions?”
“I thank you,” Diplomat fluted deferentially. The tone was smooth and controlled. “I shall need some time to review the encoded information to give a proper reply.”