Being a head of state, as well as the Hudathan representative to the Confederacy, Doma-Sa was one of the highestranking individuals present and therefore in great demand. But rather than circulate, the way most diplomats did, the Hudathan put his back to a wall and allowed the asskissers, lie tellers, and social sycophants to come to him, which they quickly lined up to do. And, predictably enough, the topic everyone wanted to talk about was Marcott Nankool. Was the chief executive dead? Would Vice President Jakov assume the presidency? And if he did, how would that impact the war?
The answers to such questions were obvious—or so it seemed to Doma-Sa. Yes, Nankool was probably dead. Yes, Jakov would assume the presidency. And yes, that would have an impact on the war. Because as with so many squats, the human politician was a spineless piece of dra, who would rush to cut a deal with the bugs so that dreamy-eyed elites on Earth could sleep better at night. But the triad knew there wasn’t any place for the truth in a roomful of liars, so he told everyone who asked that there was a very good chance that Nankool was still alive and might very well be rescued. Not because Doma-Sa was in love with what he often thought of as the Confederation of Stupid Beings, but because the Hudathan people would be vulnerable without a strong star-spanning government, and his fi?rst duty was to them.
And that’s what the Hudathan was doing when his conversation with the Finthian ambassador came to a close, and the brightly plumed diplomat stepped away. The noise level in the room suddenly decreased as a female Ramanthian appeared in front of him. “This is the Egg Orno,” Molo-Sa said by way of introduction. “Mate to ex- ambassador Alway Orno—who was assassinated a few weeks ago.”
The mention of the name, plus the relationship, took Doma-Sa back to the day when he and the Egg Orno’s other mate had faced off on the surface of Arballa. It had been hot that day, with high, puffy clouds that seemed to sail across a violet sky.
There were rules against dueling aboard the orbiting Friendship—so the fi?ght had been scheduled to take place on the arid planet below. No one lived on the surface of Arballa, least of all the wormlike Arballazanies, who dwelt deep underground.
But everyone wanted to see the fi?ght, so all manner of shuttles had been employed to ferry dozens of diplomats, politicians, and senior offi?cials down to Arballa, where the would-be spectators were forced to don a variety of exotic breathing devices in order to move around on the planet’s inhospitable surface.
By mutual agreement, a bowl-like depression had been chosen as the site of the contest. Horgo Orno entered the natural arena fi?rst. Doma-Sa remembered feeling the fi?rst stirrings of fear as the Ramanthian stood there with his well-oiled chitin gleaming in the sun. And now, as the enormous Hudathan looked down into the Egg Orno’s shiny eyes, he suspected that the female was frightened but still had the courage to face him. The question was why. The Egg Orno had been on Hive the day that her beloved Horgo fought the big ugly Hudathan. So this was the fi?rst time she had seen him. The alien had a large humanoid head, a low-lying dorsal fi?n that ran front to back along the top of his skull, and funnel-shaped ears. His skin was gray, but would turn white if the temperature were to drop, and black were it to rise. “It’s an honor to meet you,”
Doma-Sa said gravely. “However, I would be lying if I told you that I regret the ex-ambassador’s death. Or that of your other mate, although he fought bravely and died a warrior’s death. Of that you can be proud.”
The Hudathan had been truthful, and the Egg Orno was strangely grateful for that. “Thank you, Excellency,”
the Ramanthian replied gravely. “Both for your honesty and the words of respect for Horgo. But I’m not here to discuss the way my mates died but to avenge them.”
Those words were enough to bring Molo-Sa forward to shield Doma-Sa’s body with his own. But the triad put out a hand to restrain him. “Thank you,” the Hudathan said gratefully. “But I don’t believe the Egg Orno will attack me.”
“No,” the Ramanthian agreed. “I won’t. . . . Although I would if I could. I’m here to discuss the relationship between the late ambassador and the Jakov administration. Which, if I’m not mistaken, will be of considerable interest to you.”
That alone was suffi?cient to start a buzz of conversation, and Doma-Sa knew better than to hold what could be a sensitive discussion in a public place. “That sounds interesting,” the triad responded noncommittally. “Would you be available to talk about it in an hour or so? Or would you like to make an appointment for another day?”
“This evening would be fi?ne,” the Egg Orno replied gratefully. “Please let me know when you’re ready to leave.”
“We will,” Doma-Sa assured her. “And one more thing . . .”
The Egg Orno looked up at him. “Yes?”
“I meant what I said about the War Orno, but I had no desire to hurt you, and I’m sorry that I did.”
There was a long moment of silence during which the beginning of a strange bond began to form. And after they left the party, and spent more than two hours talking within the security of the Hudathan embassy, the bond grew even stronger. That was something that might well have been of interest to both Vice President Leo Jakov and the Ramanthian Queen. Had either been aware of it.
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
The funeral pyres crackled as the orange-red fl?ames rose to enfold the dead nymphs, and the rich, fatty odor of cooked meat fi?lled the air, as six columns of black smoke rose to stain an otherwise-pristine blue sky. Efforts to repair the security fence were still under way, and Ramanthian outposts all around the camp remained on high alert, as Maximillian Tragg crossed the compound to the administration building. There was no way to know exactly why he had been summoned, but the overseer assumed the Mutuus were going to assign more of the reconstruction work to the POWs. That was fi?ne with the renegade because the prisoners were easier to control when they were busy.
As Tragg approached the headquarters building, he noticed that four Ramanthian troopers had been posted outside the front door rather than two as in the past—one of many changes resulting from the nymph attack. The human had to surrender his weapons and remove his boots before being allowed to enter the richly decorated throne room. It was a ritual the renegade had performed dozens of times before. Except this time there was something different in the air, a tension that could be seen in the way that the impeccably dressed commandant held himself, the fact that the War Mutuu’s sword was symbolically unsheathed, and the presence of six heavily armed soldiers. All because of the nymphs? Or was there another reason as well? The mercenary felt cold lead trickle into his stomach. Tragg lowered his eyes and bowed respectfully. “Greetings, Excellencies—”
That was as far as the renegade got when a baton struck him across the kidneys. The pain was excruciating, and he went down hard. “Don’t strike the animal’s head, and don’t break any of his bones,” the War Mutuu
