Guardian glanced at Diplomat. She could tell nothing of his mood or reaction from his tone or posture. Swallowing right-to-left-to-right in thought, she began to choose her words carefully.
Gently, the Guardian puppeteer told herself. But quickly…
Without music in her voice, she spoke in flat, unpuppeteer-like tones for emphasis. “I know something of the mission before us, Diplomat. I was very far in front of the Hindmost when the Outsider message was first received. Later I was in Herd with the Deepest Council, and helped prepare your briefing contained in the datacube. This is a task for Guardians only, not for puppeteers too enamored of their own burrows.”
Perhaps Guardian's false air of superiority would prick the little puppeteer's own substantial pride. Such an approach often resulted in the insulted one forgetting fear — and getting on with the task at hand.
In any event, Guardian had issued an old, old insult, but one which carried little real sting. Puppeteers had not inhabited burrows and caverns since the dawn of recorded history. Guardian paused, waiting for Diplomat to respond to the crude song-phrase.
The little puppeteer said nothing, his posture giving away nothing.
Good, she mused. This one is as skilled as the Deepest Council argued.
“Still,” Guardian continued, “I and my caste follow the Hindmost's Song Called Out from Far Behind. You are to act as the Hindmost's Representative to the helium beasts, and perhaps do more.” Guardian's heads stared at one another for a split second in a dry chuckle of puppeteer humor. “I only hope that you acquit yourself with honor, for your mouths speak for all puppeteers this day.”
Diplomat's right head lifted from one of his console screens, the stream of data freezing in place as he looked away.
“Guardians are not known for their elegant conversational ability,” Diplomat sang with just the slightest edge of reproach. “You are attempting to placate and groom my thoughts. The currycomb of your words and manner is not necessary, truly.”
Guardian cocked her right head, impressed. “Well spoken, Little Talker. I do seek to maintain your calm.”
“That is why I carry mood modifiers,” the other puppeteer reminded her. “I am afraid, yes, but I acquitted myself well with the Q'rynmoi, did I not?”
“You acted like a Guardian that day, Little Talker.” Warrior clicked her teeth together, squinting in respect.
Diplomat's heads faced one another, then blinked twice at her graciously. “I sense and accept the spirit of the compliment. Though few of my caste would see it as such with both eyes.”
Warrior snorted.
“Prepare me, then, for this mission of ours,” hummed Diplomat, all humor evaporated.
Guardian turned both her eyes to face Diplomat.
“There are new threats in space, near our own domain.” Warrior's words again lacked music, jarring the Herd-conditioned air in the lifebubble with intensity. Her right head weaved slightly, and her left tongue touched knobbed lips for a moment.
Even Guardians can feel fear, she reminded herself, It simply does not rule us, as it does the Little Ones.
“The helium beasts,” Guardian continued, “have brought us news from a sector outside the realm of our race. Evidence of two new species, aggressive and threatening to puppeteer business and well-being.”
Diplomat rolled his left eye with the beginnings of impatience. “I do not understand the countermelody implicit in your song, Guardian. The Outsiders have done us a service with this doubtfully free information, I assume.”
She said nothing.
“But the Outsiders are allies,” Diplomat sang in a falling tone of disbelief. “Our arrangements have been profitable for centuries.”
“True enough, Little Talker,” she replied.
“What are you not singing to me, Guardian?”
Guardian pointed with a right forked tongue at Diplomat's console. “You will find the answers there.”
“I repeat myself, with all due respect to your station and grooming: prepare me,” chided the little puppeteer.
Guardian whistled like a teakettle, then stood stock-still. “The Hindmost,” she clipped, “does not entirely trust these particular Outsiders. There is some new agenda present.” Her left head dipped down to a leg holster containing what appeared to be a tightbeam disruptor, touched it for reassurance, and returned to station.
She watched Diplomat shudder and droop his necks, both eyes slightly closed. The first step toward withdrawal. At length, he mastered his fear, raising necks with still-twitching neck muscles. Guardian was impressed.
“You are to be the Hindmost's Voice,” she reminded him.
Diplomat blinked agreement. “I understand my duties, Guardian.”
“Perhaps medication would be useful,” Guardian suggested.
The little puppeteer chirped agreement. He reached into his supplies and tongued a blunt triangular lozenge of drugcud into his left mouth.
Guardian understood Diplomat's confusion about the Outsiders. The coldlife sentients had helped lift the puppeteers from their pre-technological society over one hundred thousand years past; had sold the puppeteer race the gravity planer, the hyperdrive, and endless safety devices.
Even the Mover of Worlds.
Most importantly, the Outsiders had allowed the puppeteers to act as their agents among warmlife sentient races, for a very modest percentage. But the Outsiders always had their own agenda, and it was one that no non-cryogenic creature could possibly appreciate.
It pleased her to see Diplomat square his heads. His posture was subtly more vibrant. Perhaps the drugs were helping after all.
“I shall review the datacube for more details, though I reserve the right to ask further questions,” he declared. “May I ask how long until we rendezvous with the Outsider ship?”
“Less than an hour,” Warrior replied. “Prepare for maneuvers. The helium beasts have set up a number of force curtains around their vessel. I do not know why.”
Guardian chirped a command to her console, and activated Diplomat's forceweb.
She paused, then snaked her left head around to look at Diplomat. He met her gaze with a chemically enhanced calm.
“You had better chew more drugs, Little Talker. You will need them.” She turned back to her console, adjusting schematics. But she kept one head inclined slightly toward her passenger.
The datacube's contents scrolled across the twin screens in front of Diplomat, one for each head. Within a few minutes, he stopped the screens, opened his supply pack again, and swallowed another, larger drugcud. Diplomat whistled, and data resumed its inexorable flow across his screens.
Guardian had kept silent while Diplomat popped the second mood regulator oval. Now her heads whipped up and faced one another, eye to eye. She growled without her usual roughness.
“Yes,” she crooned, “now you grasp the Hindmost's concern firmly with both mouths. Two warlike races with interstellar capability, and weapons of mass destruction.” She paused for effect, waiting.
“They have intruded into contested Outsider geometry with reaction drives and nuclear explosives?” Diplomat asked, not believing.
“Just so. And not so very long after the Pact.”
The little puppeteer drummed a hoof. “I am expected to communicate with these captives.”
Guardian blinked agreement. “The datacube contains the two downloads to your translator module. You will be able to talk to them, Little Talker.”
Diplomat continued to look at the information scurrying across his screen. He scrabbled in his pack, swallowed another regulator of drugcud. “One of them is a… carnivore.” He had difficulty with the word, which was a puppeteer obscenity, unused in polite society.