disappointment. A rare moment of somewhat awkward silence fell over the chamber. Those who sought to block the proposal relished their moment of victory—while those who favored it stared defeat in the face. ChienChu wished he had the right to speak—and DomaSa struggled to hide his rage. Ishimoto Six felt himself stand was surprised to find that he had. “The Clone Hegemony seeks to be recognized.”
Senator Omo looked for Ishimoto Seven and wondered where he was. Not that it made much difference. Ishimoto Six had every right to speak. The Ramanthian ran his tool legs back along the sides of his beak. “The chair recognizes Senator Ishimoto Six.”
Six saw his image appear at the front of the chamber. Most of his peers settled for that—but a few turned to look. He established eye contact with those that did. “I suggest that in addition to the proposed restrictions on the Hudathan navy, that their ground forces be integrated into the Legion, so that there will be little to no possibility that an entire unit could or would revolt. Thank you.”
Slowly, inexorably, every ocular organ in the room turned, swiveled, and in one case slithered toward Ambassador Hiween DomaSa. Every single being in the room knew how xenophobic the Hudathans were. Would the race submit? Agree to take orders from those they had long sought to annihilate?
DomaSa felt the scrutiny and knew what they were thinking. In spite of the fact that the thought was new to them, he had already considered the possibility and hoped it would never come up. But now it had, which forced him to confront a terrible choice: Accept the clone proposal, thereby ceding control of the Hudathan military to the Confederacy, or—and this was equally unthinkable—open his people to an attack by the Sheen. He ignored Omo and spoke without benefit of a mike. The words were bitter—like poison. “My people stand ready to accept the clone proposal if we receive a full membership in the Confederacy, if all trade restrictions are lifted, and if the Hegemony agrees to a joint command structure.”
There was a hiss of in drawn breath as everyone turned to stare at Ishimoto Six. Here was a brilliant counterstroke. A piece of political legerdemain that would be discussed for months if not years to come. Though a member of the Confederacy, the Hegemony had always been very independent. A unified command structure would limit that... How would the clone respond?
Ishimoto Six wondered the same thing. How would his government want him to respond? But more importantly how should he respond? Because this was one of those moments, the kind he had once dreamed of, when a single person could make a difference. If he had the courage. Whatever he said, whatever he did, would be hard if not impossible for the Hegemony to retract. The politician looked at Maylo, saw the question in her eyes, and got to his feet. Like DomaSa, he decided to ignore Senator Omo. The almost perfect silence was permission to speak. “The Sheen are on the way ... It will take every bit of our strength to stop them. The Hegemony will place its forces under a unified command for the duration of the crises. What happens after that will be subject to negotiation.”
Stroke and counterstroke! Every single one of them understood the qualification. It gave Six a way out, an escape hatch, should his superiors take issue with the decision. Not immediately—but down the line. It was a smart, gutsy move.
President Nankool released his harness, stood, and started to applaud. The rest of the senate did likewise, or, in the case of those who lacked hands, made an assortment of celebratory noises. ChienChu felt a sudden surge of hope. He looked from DomaSa to Ishimoto Six. Both were close enough to hear. “Thank you—thank you both. We have a chance now, a slim one, but a chance nonetheless.”
The Hudathan offered a human-style nod. “My people have a saying . . ‘hope lights the way.’ “
Arballa had grown from little more than a pinprick of light to a luminous brown ball. The elation that had accompanied Willy’s victory over Captain Boone had faded to be replaced by a growing sense of concern. What had he been thinking anyway? Shooting his mouth off that way . .. Yes, he needed Molly, but only if he was alive, not spread all over the surface of some godforsaken dirtball. Pride prevented the smuggler from saying anything, however—which accounted for his silence. Perhaps Boone was playing a game with him, waiting to see if he’d crack, or, and this seemed more likely, the miserable swabbie was off on a coffee break, sipping Java and trading scuttlebutt while he ... The voice sounded bored. “Stand by CVL9769. We intend to seize control of your vessel with two, repeat two, tractor beams. You may feel a bump.”
Willy ran his tongue over dry lips. “And if I don’t?”
There was a momentary pause. The woman was amused.
“Then either we did one helluva good job or we missed.”
“And if you miss?”
“Say hello to the Arballazanies for me. I love the computers they make.”
Willie could almost hear the swabbies laughing, forced himself to smile, and leaned back in his seat. He’d hold that position all the way to the surface if necessary, to the point when the Molly B drilled her way into the planet’s crust, and the worms came to ...
The bump was more of a violent jerk, and Willy’s head flew forward then back. The drive screamed, edged into the red, and shut itself down. “Congratulations,” the voice said cheerfully. “You’re going to live. The first round is on you.”
Chapter 9
