last! Here was the opportunity he had dreamed of, . . An opening to exploit. But at what cost? The Thrakie hoped to use the entire Confederacy as a shield—and ChienChu wanted to employ his people as a spear. Oh, how he hungered for something clean and pure. The diplomat chose his words with care.
“The governor’s assumption is correct. Though not permitted to leave the surface of Hudatha, my people have been able to maintain a high state of military readiness. A fact that in no way violates the terms of our surrender and subsequent imprisonment.
“As for our willingness to fight the Sheen, well, anyone who has carried out even the most superficial analysis of our racial psychology knows that we have a strong, some would say overdeveloped sense of survival. Given the opportunity to neutralize a threat, we will always seek to do so.
“Such decisions lie beyond the scope of my authority, but, I believe the answer would be ‘yes.’ If we were allowed some additional freedoms—and the right to settle new worlds. Hudatha grows less stable with each passing year, and time grows short.”
“And then?” Nankool demanded. “If we defeat the Sheen? What could we expect then?”
The silence built as DomaSa considered his answer. He could lie, or try to, but doubted his ability to carry the deception off. Not with ChienChu present. No, the Hudathan decided, the truth was best. “I cannot honestly say that my people will ever be able to fully merge with the Confederacy. Given too much freedom, and the opportunity to build a fleet, our instincts would take over. If the Confederacy allows my race to fight, (I we are allowed some additional freedoms, it would pay to be vigilant. We are what we are.”
There was another moment of silence followed by Nankool’s nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you Ambassador DomaSa. I have come to rely on your honesty. No one could represent you race or its interests more ably. Come, let’s eat, the food grows cold.”
It took the better part of an hour to finish the meal, complete the usual pleasantries, and prepare to leave. Nankool saw them to the hatch. It was he who raised the topic again. “Thank you for coming . .. Terrifying though Sergi’s proposal is, I promise to give it some thought.
“In the meantime I suggest that all three of you direct your energies to the upcoming vote. The attempt on Maylo’s life is a sure measure of how desperate our opponents are. Once admitted, the Thraki would represent more than another vote—they would demonstrate how powerful the cabal has become. Many beings would align themselves accordingly, and a great deal would be lost, including any chance of approval for a scheme as wild as the one Sergi put forward.”
Nankool turned to the Hudathan. “They intend to kill you... I wish you had refused.”
The Hudathan shrugged. ‘Thank you, but such a course is impossible.”
“But why swords?” the President insisted. “Have you any experience?”
“I hope to give a good account of myself,” the Hudathan answered mildly. “Please notify my people should I fail to do so.”
Nankool’s guests left after that—but the politician was far from alone. Ghosts haunted his dreams. Many screamed in anguish. In spite of the fact that it would have been more convenient to conduct the duel on board the ship, there were laws that prevented the combatants from doing so, which left Arballa’s hot rather unpleasant surface. A fleet of high puffy clouds sailed across the land. Each threw a separate shadow. They drifted like night over broken ground.
And so the politicos arrived, their shuttles shattering the silence, landing in sloppy groups. There wasn’t much vegetation, which meant that oxygen was in short supply. Many of those who had chosen to come, and that was almost everybody, required supplemental air. They hiked in from wherever they happened to touch down with all manner of exotic breathing gear attached to their mouths, snouts, beaks, and other related organs.
All except for DomaSa that is, whose body could handle a wide range of atmospheric conditions, and who walked unencumbered from his shuttle. A fact that attracted no small amount of notice and fueled the speculation. Would the War Omo win? He certainly looked dangerous ... Or would the Hudathan carry the day? Opinions were offered, odds were given, and bets were placed. DomaSa’s robe snapped in the breeze, dust exploded away from his boots, and he walked with purpose. Bystanders scattered at his approach, wondered about the bundle tucked under his arm, and some even felt sorry for him. Had anyone else been challenged seconds would have accompanied him down to the planet’s surface, but the Hudathan was all alone. The onlookers followed, marveled at the size of the alien’s footprints, and felt a delicious sense of anticipation. The arena consisted of a bowl-shaped depression, scoured by the relentless globe-spanning winds, and rimmed by a circle of heavily weathered rocks. Someone, it wasn’t clear who, had seen fit to stick long whip-style poles into the soil, each topped by a colorful pennant. They seemed oddly gay, given the nature of the occasion, and flapped back and forth.
The rocks offered a sort of rough and ready seating and were half occupied by the time the Ramanthian party made its way down from the hill on which they had landed and entered the crater. The War Omo had been there before, on three different occasions, to test the surface on which he would fight. Yes, he knew each dip, each patch of gravel, and each pocket of sand. Critical knowledge, given the fact that good footing is one of the most critical components of good swordsmanship. The Hudathan was big, very big, and that meant slow. Slow and potentially clumsy. There was power in those shoulders, however, the kind of power generated by an internalized skeleton, and a mistake could be fatal.
Senator Alway Omo removed his counterpart’s cape, took pride in the way he looked, and stepped out of the way.
