nearly Hudathan in its simplicity. DomaSa’s expression changed only fractionally, but the human recognized the alien equivalent of a smile. “I would leave you till the last.”
ChienChu laughed in spite of the fact that the jest contained a strong element of truth. DomaSa had a large humanoid head, the suggestion of a dorsal fin that ran along the top of his skull, funnel-shaped ears, and a rigid mouth. His skin was gray, but would turn white should the temperature drop, and black were it to rise.
ChienChu glanced to his left and right, assured himself that they were as free from surveillance as one could be on the Friendship, and took the opportunity to share his news. “My niece came aboard three hours ago. The Thraki tried to assassinate her.”
DomaSa liked Maylo, as much as he liked any non-Hudathan, and his face grew hard. “Then they must die.”
“They already have,” ChienChu said gravely, “thanks to General Bill Booty. The larger problem remains, however. Who sent them? And why?”
“The cabal,” DomaSa answered with certainty. “The Thraki were used.”
“Yes,” the cyborg agreed. “Albeit willingly—as part of their own grand scheme. Even though you exposed their intention to use the Confederacy as a shield—they continue to move the plan forward. There was a time when we could have forced them to leave, but that was prior to the mutiny, and the subsequent rebellion. They have five thousand ships, not counting what the cabal can bring to bear, which leaves Earth badly outnumbered.”
The Hudathan offered a human-style shrug. “I am aware of these facts ... why review the obvious?”
“Because,” ChienChu said, “I have an idea. A solution nearly as dangerous as the threat itself... but one that.. .”
The human never got to finish his sentence. A body brushed past his, stepped forward, and sprayed what looked like red paint onto the front of the Hudathan’s robe.
ChienChu took a step backwards, realized who the interloper was, and heard the War Omo speak. The words had a rehearsed quality. “You have not only slandered the Ramanthian race, but sullied the house of Omo, and taken liberties with our private communications. Honor has been lost... and honor must be restored.”
Had the room fallen silent a fraction of a second before the challenge was issued? ChienChu thought that it had, which would mean that at least some of the bystanders had been warned, and were waiting for the confrontation to unfold A quick check confirmed that Senator Omo, flanked by Ambassador Ishimoto Seven and Grand Admiral Andragna, were watching from a hundred feet away. First Maylo, the industrialist thought to himself, now this.
DomaSa looked down at the stain on his chest then up into the Ramanthian’s hard insectoid eyes. The entire room held its breath as the Hudathan allowed the silence to build. Finally, when some doubted his capacity to speak, the diplomat gave his response. “Challenge accepted.”
There was a sucking sound as the oxygen breathers inhaled. The War Omo bowed and straightened again. “The choice of weapons is yours.”
The silence built once again. What would the Hudathan choose? What would any of them choose?
Energy weapons? Slug throwers? Dart guns? Each had merit.
DomaSa smiled but very few of them recognized the expression as such. Most saw what looked like a predatory grin. “Swords.”
There were gasps of surprise, the quick buzz of commentary, and a variety of stares. Horgo was taken aback. Though something of an expert with the sword, he had assumed that if the diplomat agreed to fight, it would be with something less personal. A weapon that would put some distance between the combatants and serve to even the odds. This was good news indeed The duel would be short. Pleased by his good fortune, the War Omo bowed for the second time and backed away. “The surface of Arballa—two days from now.” DomaSa nodded. ‘Two days from now.”
ChienChu sighed. The trap had been set and sprung.
Would the quarry escape? Only time would tell.
It was a small compartment, just off President Nankool’s living quarters, and frequently used for gatherings such as this one. Candlelight glinted from real silver, a Turr symphony could be heard in the background, and the meal was half over. President Marcott Nankool was a rather bland man who took too much pleasure in ceremonial meals, and looked a bit bloated.
The guests included Sergi ChienChu, Maylo ChienChu and Hiween DomaSa. The President gestured toward the Hudathan’s large and rather ornate bowl. “So, Ambassador, how are you doing? Ready for another serving?”
The Hudathan eyed his second bowl of cooked grain. It was hearty stuff—full of nuts and dried fruit. Not bad for shipboard cuisine. “Thank you, Mr. President, but no. This is more than sufficient.”
