Bozakov heard the offi?cer mutter in his sleep and understood, because he had nightmares of his own, dreams so bad his squad mates had to wake him at times. But the bio bod knew it was important to let the offi?cer rest. Because the entire team agreed that if there was any one individual who could get them off Jericho, that man was Captain Antonio Santana.
16.
Wars are fought in many ways—and in many places.
—Clone Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven
Standard year 2840
THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47) The Drac embassy consisted of a ten-story-tall block of windowless concrete that seemed to crouch between the high-rise buildings that rose all around it. But though not especially interesting to look at, the structure’s fl?at roof was the perfect place for VIPs to land and take off. And, given that Triad Hiween Doma-Sa qualifi?ed as such a person, his air car was immediately cleared for landing. There was a solid thump as Runwa Molo-Sa put the Hudathanmade vehicle down on the well-illuminated pad. Heavily armed Drac security offi?cers hurried forward to meet the Hudathan dignitary and his aide as they stepped out onto the surface of the fl?at roof. The Dracs wore headto-toe black pressure suits. And, because their faces were obscured by breathing masks, it was almost impossible to tell them apart. Not that Doma-Sa wanted to become better acquainted with the treacherous breed. Though offi?cially neutral, it was well-known that the Drac Axis was at least psychologically aligned with the Ramanthians, which put them in the same lowly category as the Thrakies insofar as Doma-Sa was concerned.
But the methane breathers had a navy, and therefore the ability to project power, so it would be foolish to ignore them. Especially given the fact that Doma-Sa’s race had been forced to forgo having ships of their own in order to gain membership in the Confederacy and thereby escape their dying planet. Which had everything to do with Doma-Sa’s presence. Because if the triad could do or say anything that would help prevent the Dracs from actively entering the war on the Ramanthian side, then the painfi?lled evening would be worth the sacrifi?ce. Having confi?rmed that the Hudathans were invited guests, the seemingly interchangeable Dracs led the giants into a featureless elevator that fell so fast the 350-pound triad wondered if his feet would come up off the fl?oor. The platform slowed quickly and coasted to a stop. The door opened onto a public area already crowded with partygoers. Most of the guests were Thrakies, which made sense, given that Starfall belonged to them. The rest of the crowd consisted of humans, a couple of Finthians, four exoskeletonequipped Dwellers, and a handful of other aliens. They all stood around and pretended to like each other as they sipped, snorted, and siphoned intoxicating liquids into their bodies.
Like the building’s exterior, the interior had a utilitarian feel, and because Dracs were color-blind, there was nothing to brighten the atmosphere. The human partygoers were sure to notice, but it was of little interest to Doma-Sa, who could perceive color but wasn’t especially interested in it.
Being a head of state, as well as the Hudathan representative to the Confederacy, Doma-Sa was one of the highestranking individuals present and therefore in great demand. But rather than circulate, the way most diplomats did, the Hudathan put his back to a wall and allowed the asskissers, lie tellers, and social sycophants to come to him, which they quickly lined up to do. And, predictably enough, the topic everyone wanted to talk about was Marcott Nankool. Was the chief executive dead? Would Vice President Jakov assume the presidency? And if he did, how would that impact the war?
The answers to such questions were obvious—or so it seemed to Doma-Sa. Yes, Nankool was probably dead. Yes, Jakov would assume the presidency. And yes, that would have an impact on the war. Because as with so many squats, the human politician was a spineless piece of dra, who would rush to cut a deal with the bugs so that dreamy-eyed elites on Earth could sleep better at night. But the triad knew there wasn’t any place for the truth in a roomful of liars, so he told everyone who asked that there was a very good chance that Nankool was still alive and might very well be rescued. Not because Doma-Sa was in love with what he often thought of as the Confederation of Stupid Beings, but because the Hudathan people would be vulnerable without a strong star-spanning government, and his fi?rst duty was to them.
And that’s what the Hudathan was doing when his conversation with the Finthian ambassador came to a close, and the brightly plumed diplomat stepped away. The noise level in the room suddenly decreased as a female Ramanthian appeared in front of him. “This is the Egg Orno,” Molo-Sa said by way of introduction. “Mate to ex-ambassador Alway Orno—who was assassinated a few weeks ago.”
The mention of the name, plus the relationship, took Doma-Sa back to the day when he and the Egg Orno’s other mate had faced off on the surface of Arballa. It had been hot that day, with high, puffy clouds that seemed to sail across a violet sky.
There were rules against dueling aboard the orbiting Friendship—so the fi?ght had been scheduled to take place on the arid planet below. No one lived on the surface of Arballa, least of all the wormlike Arballazanies, who dwelt deep underground.
But everyone wanted to see the fi?ght, so all manner of shuttles had been employed to ferry dozens of diplomats, politicians, and senior offi?cials down to Arballa, where the would-be spectators were forced to don a variety of exotic breathing devices in order to move around on the planet’s inhospitable surface.
By mutual agreement, a bowl-like depression had been chosen as the site of the contest. Horgo Orno entered the natural arena fi?rst. Doma-Sa remembered feeling the fi?rst stirrings of fear as the Ramanthian stood there with his well-oiled chitin gleaming in the sun. And now, as the enormous Hudathan looked down into the Egg Orno’s shiny eyes, he suspected that the female was frightened but still had the courage to face him. The question was why. The Egg Orno had been on Hive the day that her beloved Horgo fought the big ugly Hudathan. So this was the fi?rst time she had seen him. The alien had a large humanoid head, a low-lying dorsal fi?n that ran front to back along the top of his skull, and funnel-shaped ears. His skin was gray, but would turn white if the temperature were to drop, and black were it to rise. “It’s an honor to meet you,”
Doma-Sa said gravely. “However, I would be lying if I told you that I regret the ex-ambassador’s death. Or that of your other mate, although he fought bravely and died a warrior’s death. Of that you can be proud.”
The Hudathan had been truthful, and the Egg Orno was strangely grateful for that. “Thank you, Excellency,”
the Ramanthian replied gravely. “Both for your honesty and the words of respect for Horgo. But I’m not here to discuss the way my mates died but to avenge them.”
Those words were enough to bring Molo-Sa forward to shield Doma-Sa’s body with his own. But the triad put out a hand to restrain him. “Thank you,” the Hudathan said gratefully. “But I don’t believe the Egg Orno will attack me.”
“No,” the Ramanthian agreed. “I won’t. . . . Although I would if I could. I’m here to discuss the relationship between the late ambassador and the Jakov administration. Which, if I’m not mistaken, will be of considerable interest to you.”
That alone was suffi?cient to start a buzz of conversation, and Doma-Sa knew better than to hold what could be a sensitive discussion in a public place. “That sounds interesting,” the triad responded noncommittally. “Would you be available to talk about it in an hour or so? Or would you like to make an appointment for another day?”