Seconds ticked away. The bridge crew stood like statues, hesitant to breathe lest the action somehow trigger an attack, yet determined to appear fearless.
Tyspin felt fear gnaw at her belly and struggled to ignore it Five, maybe ten seconds had passed, and her heart continued to beat. That was good wasn’t it? Careful lest her voice betray how she actually felt, she raised an eyebrow and glanced at Hashimoto. “Well? What are we waiting for? You know the drill... Tell the servo heads that we’d like to parley.”
The words, plus the knowledge that they were still alive, acted to free the bridge crew from their momentary paralysis The admiral was pulling the old man’s chain’ Situation normal. Hashimoto, who was fully aware of the role he’d been given, looked appropriately stem, “Ma’am, yes, ma’am. You heard the admiral... send it out.”
The message was sent in Thraki and standard: “Greetings on behalf of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings. This sector of space is controlled by outmember states. Please state your intentions.”
President Nankool and his advisors had invested a considerable amount of time and energy in constructing the text. The phraseology was cool but short of hostile. That was the intent anyway, and how they would interpret such a message, but what about the machines? Could they? Would they read between the lines? Tyspin regarded the possibility as unlikely—but what did she know? At least two AIs had been part of the process, and if they believed the text would work, then maybe it would. The reply was not only expeditious but unexpected. A corn tech watched a holo bloom, listened to the audio that accompanied it, and raised his hand. “Over here, ma’am ... the machines replied ... or at least I think they did.”
Tyspin stepped over to the corn tech’s console and eyed the video. No wonder the rating was confused. In place of a machine, or some sort of graphical interface, a human being had appeared. He was in obvious need of a haircut, his face looked slightly cadaverous, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. They seemed to bore through Tyspin’s head. Judging from what the man said he had more than a passing familiarity with naval insignia. The tone was arrogant. “I see they sent an admiral to greet us ... kind of an insult wouldn’t you say? President Nankool would have been more appropriate.”
A memory tickled the back of Tyspin’s mind. Something the loquacious Willy Williams had discussed during the intelligence debriefings Something about a human who had been present during the attack on Long Jump, and of even more importance, had directed at least some of the ensuing violence. Was this the same man? A renegade with blood on his hands? Yes, Tyspin had a feeling that it was, which meant she was eyeball to eyeball with a psychopath, war criminal, or both. Knowing that, or being reasonably sure of it, raised a very important question: How should she deal with him? The most obvious strategy was to appease him, assuming such a thing was possible, in hopes of gaining his favor. But something cautioned the officer against that approach, something she couldn’t quite articulate, but which stemmed from his motivations. What were they? Perhaps that was the key, what Jasper, no, Jepp really wanted was a sense of legitimacy, of respect for what he saw as his accomplishments. The thoughts flickered through her mind at lightning speed, and while it wasn’t much to go on, Tyspin decided to gamble. She could, the officer reasoned, back off, should that become necessary. “President Nankool is rather busy,” Tyspin said coldly. “Give me a message, and I’ll pass it along.”
The exprospector found himself torn between his desire to impress the Hoon with how tough he was and the somewhat unexpected need to win Admiral Tyspin’s respect. He tried another tack.
“Look, I’m sorry if I seem a bit over the top, but we’re on the same side. My name is Jorley Jepp. You’ve heard about the attack on Long Jump by now ... so you know what the Sheen can do. Their main objective is to find a race known as the Thraki. If the Thrakies are around, and the Sheen say they are, then you’re in contact with them by now. The best thing the Confederacy can do is to provide the Sheen with information, plus some fuel for their ships, and get out of the way.”
“And then?” Tyspin inquired skeptically, glad that the entire interchange was being recorded, “what happens after that?”
“That depends,” Jepp said evasively, “on any number of things. The Sheen trust me ... and I may be able to influence them. I know the President is busy—but I would appreciate his advice.”
Tyspin didn’t believe that the last part of the comment was sincere... but took note of the less truculent tone. Could the earnest looking man in the soiled jumpsuit influence what the Sheen did next? The initial answer seemed to be “yes,” given the events on Long Jump, the fact that he was still alive, and was allowed to speak. But how far did that influence extend? And what would Jepp want in return? Those questions and dozens more begged to be answered. The key was to buy time—time Booly could use to prepare, time Nankool could use to perform maintenance on the alliance, and time she could use to learn more about Jepp. The naval officer forced a smile. “Of course . . Let’s see what I can arrange. Would you or your, er companion?,, have any objections to my dispatching a message torp?”
Jepp looked offscreen, seemed to converse with someone, and turned back. “No, so long as you and your ship remain.”
Tyspin nodded. A battle of sorts had been won. The message torp would carry a copy of the interchange, a request for instructions, and more important than that, data regarding the Sheen fleet. Valuable data that could help Booly win.
The Hoon monitored the exchange, assigned a probe to follow the message torp through hyperspace, and processed something akin to a feeling of satisfaction. The soft bodies were gratifyingly stupid, data would be gathered, and the mission furthered. Life, or what passed for it, was good.
Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
A clutch of nervous looking advisors stood and waited while President Marcott Nankool read the message for a second time. It was warm with so many bodies packed into the chief executive’s office, and the ship struggled to
