crackled around her like electricity, her movements were quick and precise, and fire filled her eyes. This was what she had fought for! To fill her lungs with pure unrecycled air! To feel the sun’s slowly growing warmth on her face —and call a planet home.
And here it was, all around her, just as she had imagined that it would be. If she could hold the coalition together, if she could counter doubters like Admiral Andragna, (I she could coax two or three more years from her steadily aging body.
Reenergized, Nool Nortalla, also known to her people as “Sector 4.” whistled for her pet robot, waited for the device to climb up onto her shoulder, and took walking stick in hand. It would take the better part of an hour to walk down into the city of glass. A journey she would relish. The Chamber of Reason was lined with real stone, said to have been quarried on the Thraki home world, though no one was sure, since there were very few records that predated the fleet. Originally maintained aboard one of the moon sized arks that functioned as both habitats and battleships, the Chamber had been painstakingly disassembled, transported to the surface, and installed in a dome of rose-colored glass. The sun flooded the interior with blood-warm light as Andragna nodded to the sentries, entered through a tubelike door, and emerged into a formal reception area. Like the rest of his species, the military officer had a natural tendency to respond to certain colors in certain ways. The soft pink light made him feel good, a fact which though innocent enough, might be of concern. Could such a phenomena impact the quality of the Committee’s decisions? And was the placement part of a plot conceived by Nool Nortalla and her home-crazed Facers? Or, and this seemed more likely, had he become so immersed in his job that politics colored all his perceptions? There was no way to be sure—but Andragna feared that it was true.
The admiral’s boots made a clacking sound as they hit dark heat-fused glass. A group of Sectors, alerted by the sound, turned to greet him. There was Sector 12, a short somewhat pudgy female known for her bombastic ways, Sector 27, who was tall and something of a wit. Sector 9, a rather conservative Runner, and a half-dozen more.
Handcrafted “forms,” or robots, scampered about their feet, peered out of carrying cases, or lay cradled in their arms. Andragna greeted each of them by name, exchanged the usual pleasantries, and continued on his way. His form made little noises and scooted from one shoulder to the other while exchanging data with its peers.
It was the admiral’s right to enter the Chamber first. . . and to make the long somewhat humiliating crawl from the perimeter of the stone table to its center without the embarrassment of anyone looking on. Eager to conclude the process, Andragna dropped to his knees, crawled toward the splash of rose-colored light, and surfaced in front of his chair. Doing so brought with it the usual sense of pride, awe, and, yes, fear. Fear that he might fail.
The Thraki took his chair and eyed the recently completed enclosure. The roof of the Chamber was shaped like a dome, which, as the result of luck or divine providence echoed the native structure above. It was pierced by thirty- seven slit-shaped windows, each arranged to admit a single shaft of light, which thanks to the use of servo- operated reflectors, was quite steady. Artificial light up in orbit... sunlight here on the surface. All the beams of light converged on the table’s granite surface, just as the Sectors were supposed to meet and guide their race.
Having allowed the admiral an adequate amount of time to take his place, the Committee filed into the room and set their pets loose to roam the top of the table. Andragna’s form was quick to join them. The machines tumbled, rolled, and jumped, all vying for attention. Nothing was said, but each machine was awarded points for appearance, flexibility, and charm. Functionality, or a base level thereof, was assumed. Nortalla entered, still smiling as a result of her walk, followed by Sector 19 who liked to be last and usually was.
Once all of them were seated, the chamberlain called the meeting to order by administering a single blow to a large metal disk. It was known as the Shield of Waha. The sound echoed between the stone walls as it had so many times before. That’s when the forms were recalled, deactivated, and removed from the tabletop.
Under normal circumstances, Andragna would have waited for one of the Sectors to speak rather than open the session himself, but the situation was anything but normal. He took the initiative. “Assuming that no one objects, I would like to open today’s session by discussing our strategic position.”
Andragna paused, scanned the faces around him, and saw that he had their attention. “Thank you. The first thing to talk about is the political situation within the Confederacy. Based on intelligence provided by the Ramanthians, it appears that certain factions have used the threat posed by the Sheen to not only pull the organization together but make it stronger. The reality of this can be seen in the way that the once hospitable Clone Hegemony has begun to distance itself from us, and the fact that the Hudathans, once confined to their home system, are now referred to as ‘allies.’ “
“So, what’s your point?” Sector 12 demanded querulously. “The stronger the Confederacy is the more damage they will inflict on the Sheen.”
“Possibly,” Andragna replied carefully, “assuming they behave as the Ramanthians predict that they will. But how likely is that, given that our Ramanthian friends told us the Confederacy was about to crumble?”
“An excellent point,” Sector 9 put in. “I believe it was our friend Nool Nortalla who suggested that we use the locals as a screen, allow them to bear the brunt of the Sheen attack, and deal with the survivors at our leisure. A silly plan with a predicable outcome. Enough time has been wasted. It’s time to run.”
There it was, the very idea Andragna wanted the Committee to consider. Now it was out in the open. And, given that the meeting was available to the entire armada, the idea would circulate But not without opposition.
Nortalla came to her feet. Her eyes probed the room like laser beams, her body was rigid with the intensity of her emotions, and her voice was hard as hull metal. “Run you say? For what? So we can keep running? So our cubs can be born in the blackness of space, live their lives in fear, and run till they die? Is that what you want? Is that worth the price? Is that who we are?”
Nortalla let the question hang there, not just in the Chamber of Reason, but throughout the fleet. Then, with a perfect sense of timing, she broke the silence. Her voice was low now—little more than a whisper.
