Wing Commander Action Stations Chapter Five

Chapter Five
Book	Wing Commander Action Stations
Parts	2
Previous	Chapter Four
Next	Chapter Six

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THE HELL HOLE—CAPITAL OF THE LANDREICH

CONFEDERATION DATE 2436.170

Hans Kruger cautiously entered the room, surveying the patrons carefully. It had taken over a week to limp back to Landreich space and dock at the orbital base above the Hell Hole. The appropriate bribes had immediately been placed, registration numbers and titles altered and Phantom, rechristened Lazarus, was now officially his…officially, that is, as far as the local government went. It was an entirely different issue with some of Kevin's old friends. Buying the first couple of them off seemed easy enough, but with each buy off, someone else showed up. There was now another death on his hands, again self-defense, and though he had never considered himself to be a killer, he felt deeply troubled by the last encounter, for there had been that strange sense of detachment as well. He was coming to realize that he was able to face death and walk away not only successful but unshaken.

If there was a fear still lingering in him it was not of going back against the Kilrathi, but rather of the Sarn clan, who would track him down sooner or later.

He examined the clientele of the bar. The appointment seemed legitimate enough; some damn fool wanting to charter a smuggling run into Kilrathi space, but it could always be a setup. Funny, he realized that he wasn't even all that sure about what he should be looking for.

After all, just what did a hired assassin look like? All he really had to go on was the vids. An assassin could always be told by the way he narrowed his eyes, wore a hat pulled down too low over the brow, and of course, by the sinister music and slightly burnt smell.

Unfortunately there were no sound and smell tracks to help him out and, beneath his outward calm, he still knew just how green he really was. There was actually some genuine regret that Kevin had not lived. Granted, he wouldn't be rich now, the owner of a ship, but Kevin at least had experience and could have shown him the ins and outs of the business.

He finally saw what he figured were his contacts, sitting in the corner of the bar and looking quite out of place. He slowly walked over and stopped by their table.

"Mr. Jackson?"

Winston Turner looked up, startled by just how young the owner of the ship looked. He could sense that the boy was nervous. He had seen that type of nervousness often enough when a young fleggie was facing the dreaded senior oral exams. That was clearly evident, and yet there was another quality as well that Turner found interesting—the boy seemed to almost be functioning on two levels at once. He was engaged in business with them, and yet there also seemed to be a strange detachment from it all. Some of the best fighter jocks he had ever met had that quality, the ability to stay detached in a crisis, to analyze the flood of information dispassionately, and then almost inevitably make the right decision. He knew Vance Richards had the quality, Tolwyn would most likely acquire it as well…and this boy seemed to have earned it the hard way.

Winston motioned for Hans to sit down and noticed that Kruger turned his chair so that he was facing the rest of the bar rather than the wall.

"Wanted by somebody," Turner ventured. "Let's see, your name was Meyer?"

Hans smiled. "I think we're all lying here about names, but let's just say I'm being cautious."

"We understand your ship has had quite an upgrade."

"The best money can buy," Hans replied proudly. "Engines are Reverberator Three Thousand C series, I've had an extra half inch of durasteel laminated onto the pressurized hull, a quad auto-tracking laser in a retractable belly turret added on and a complete overhaul of the jump engine."

"You've lost a lot of cargo-carrying ability with all that additional weight," Vance interjected, "even with the upgraded engines. And besides, the Reverberator is in the E series now."

"Listen, buddy, it's getting in and getting back that counts. Better ten runs without a scratch and just a couple tons of cargo, versus twenty tons down in your hull and a Cat frigate on your tail."

"Which is what happened to you last time," Turner said smoothly.

Hans looked around the room and again there was the flicker of a scared youth.

"Yeah, that's what happened."

"I already know the story. I looked over your ship earlier today," Turner replied, "saw a vid one of the repair crew shot of it when you brought it in. Lucky to still be breathing air. Too bad about your friends."

Hans took in what Turner had just said. If someone had shot a vid of the ship, there might be evidence floating around and perhaps getting into the wrong hands.

"I think, Mr. Kruger, that we can strike a deal here. For your own health I think you should get out of the Hell Hole for awhile. You've got a rep now, a lot of folks respect you for being crazy enough to do a run into Kilrathi space and bring your ship back alone. But that information might get into wrong hands, such as certain shipping firms that have been inquiring about you."

Hans again felt the sense of calm. These three weren't a threat, or they'd have already tried to waste him.

"And you three," Hans replied smoothly. "You sure don't belong in the Landreich. Good God, your haircuts alone have Confed Fleet written all over them. So, what's the game? A little trip into Cat space for a look-see?"

Turner's features hardened.

"Son, you've got reasons not to answer questions, so do I. Let's just keep it that way. We got a shipment of Gotherian glasswork that the cats are wild about. We want to get to one of the trade points inside their territory, the deeper in the better. Standard consignment contract is that the ship owner gets half the profits."

"Seventy-five percent," Hans replied calmly. "Since that report about their losing a frigate, it's gotten rather hot over there."

Turner smiled. "And of course you had nothing to do with that frigate."

Now it was Hans' turn to smile. Granted, he had nothing to do with the destruction of the Cat frigate, but he was, after all, the only survivor and the glory had to go someplace. Though it was doubtful that the Cats would fall for a second run-in with a nuke mine, the fifty thousand he had spent to acquire one was, to his thinking, a very wise investment. After all, he was already a dead man in some people's books. Confed wanted him, with all the fuss the Cats had kicked up about the loss of a ship, so what was another capital charge more or less?

"All right, seventy-five percent," Turner replied.

Hans nodded and leaning over the table he extended his hand.

"No contracts out here in the Landreich," Hans said confidently. "Your word's good or you're dead. It's that simple."

Turner smiled and took the young man's hand.

"I'll be ready to ship in twelve hours. Get your cargo on board, I'm still at dock station thirty-three."

Hans stood up, surveyed the room one more time and stalked out.

Turner watched him go, carefully watching the other patrons at the bar and in the dark, recessed niches that lined the walls of the establishment.

"Well, Mr. Tolwyn, your impression?"

"Cocky character, but, sir, he strikes me as awful green."

Richards snorted derisively. "You are obviously a judge of such qualities."

Tolwyn bristled.

"He's got an interesting story," Turner said, not wanting to endure another go around between the two. In their respective roles as pilot and administrative assistant he was well pleased with his choices. But the two boys were like oil and water. Both wanted to be top dog and the whole display was striking Winston as rather boring.

"You know he should have been accepted at the Academy," Turner continued. "In fact, Geoff, he would have graduated with your class."

"So why didn't he go?"

Turner shook his head. "Had the brains and then some. Good aptitude, problem was he wasn't officially a citizen of the Confederation."

"So what? We've taken candidates from outside the Confederation."

Turner chuckled. "Son, you sure are naive when it comes to politics. Every senator is entitled to two slots for patronage. There's a certain number reserved for sons and daughters of those who died while in service, the usual number who get in just through sheer ability. That leaves precious few slots for those outside the Confed. We take a handful for window dressing, and so we can thump our chests and say how democratic we are. But Mr. Kruger there fell through the cracks. Too bad. I have some memory of his application from when I was on the selection committee. He would have made a good officer. But you're right, Mr. Tolwyn, he is rather green as you put it."

"So why hire him?" Richards asked.

"The upgrades on his ship are rather impressive for this far out into the frontier. Plus, I'd rather a green one like him than some of the old hands around here."

"Why?"

"Because, gentlemen, there isn't that much love for the Confed in these quarters. Remember, the fleet's responsible for controlling smuggling and I'm willing to bet that at least one of the fellas in this room has lost a cargo to our patrol ships. Beyond that, they think we're nuts for not going after the Cats first. So, all things considered, we might hire ourselves a ship, get halfway out there, and then get spaced."

Tolwyn looked around the room again.

"Come on, let's get our cargo transferred," Turner said, standing up and heading for the door.

Geoff fell in behind him, noticing that he was walking slower than usual. Just as they reached the door, Winston turned with a quick, almost catlike movement, drawing a small blaster from his pocket. The report from the gun was muffled, the round impacting the chest of one of the patrons. The man sagged up against the bar and then slowly collapsed, a blaster dropping from his hand. Tolwyn looked at Turner and back to the dead man with wide-eyed surprise. It wasn't just the killing, it was the smooth, graceful ease Turner had displayed, as if he had been training for years for just such a moment.

Turner, his gaze fixed on the other patrons stood silent, weapon pointed straight up at the ceiling.

"Anyone else from the Sarns?"

Everyone was silent.

"Keeper, do you see the weapon in the man's hand?"

The owner of the bar slowly leaned over the counter-top to look at the body and then back at Turner. "I see it."

"And you saw him drawing it?"

The barkeeper nodded.

"Two other witnesses?"

"We seen it," a couple who had been standing next to the dead man announced.

"Then according to the laws of the Landreich the issue is settled," Turner replied, The other patrons nodded in agreement.

With his free hand Turner reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and tossed it to Geoff.

"Take out two hundred, that should cover damages and burial, and put it on the bar."

Tolwyn did as ordered. He looked down nervously at the dead man. There was a hole big enough to put his fist into dead center over the man's heart. He caught a sharp, almost metallic, smell and realized it was blood and felt a slight giddiness. It was, in fact, the first violent death he had ever witnessed. He had seen fellow cadets killed in training accidents, but in those situations it was simply a machine disintegrating, or bursting into flames, or slamming into the ground. It had always been distant, remote, followed a couple of days later by a polished coffin in the chapel. There was no smell of charred flesh and blood, or that shocked, wide-eyed look of a corpse gazing up at him.

He could sense the fear in the bar. Someone whom they had most likely assumed was nothing but a walking target had proved to have fangs. He stepped back from the bar and was surprised as Turner just turned his back and walked out into the main corridor. It hadn't been like the vids at all, where after the shoot-out the winner slowly backed out the door.

Turner did not even bother to look back.

Tolwyn came up by Vance's side.

"Damn, did you see that?" he whispered.

Richards simply nodded.

"That was old Winnie Turner in there," Geoff said. "Hell, I thought he was about as dangerous as a first year fleggie."

"You idiot," Richards whispered. "You never heard the rumors?"

"You mean about some sort of commando stuff? Come on, not Winnie," but even as he spoke he realized just how dead wrong they had all been. "I thought he was nothing but an old prof." Tolwyn looked at the hunched back of Turner as he continued down the corridor.

"Amazing."

Turner was glad that his back was turned to the two young cadets so they couldn't see his bemused smile. Spotting the Sarn hit man was easy enough; he was surprised Kruger hadn't picked up on him as well. The boy certainly was green. The only reason the hit man had not dropped Kruger right in the bar was that he probably wanted to keep it private and was simply waiting for them to leave. It had been a foolish act on the hit man's part to decide to take out Kruger's business associates. Something had triggered him and the damn fool had gone for his gun. Most likely it was that brief instant of eye contact when the Sarn hit man realized that Turner had recognized him.

Turner cursed inwardly; now the damn Sarn clan would be on his case as well.

FAWCETT'S WORLD

Walking through the open-air compound, Jukagu nar Vakka looked around warily. It was, first off, the scent which was so damned disturbing. Since it was a new smell, and one not yet placed as that of prey or rival, his reaction was mixed. The humans, standing listlessly beyond the double strand of electrified wire stood silent, watched him pass. He could hear their whispers, high pitched, disconcerting. He had studied the holo tapes his father had forced him to watch and he tried to distinguish what they were saying.

One word caught his attention, illegitimate offspring. He stopped and whirled about.

None of the humans on the far side of the wire were looking at him.

A soft chuckled rumbled next to him.

"Ah, so you do know a few words of their standard speech."

Jukaga looked over at Harga, his father's oldest friend and most loyal retainer, who was responsible for running this outpost world, granted to the Vakka clan.

"Aren't we going to do something?" Jukaga hissed.

"What?" Harga replied. "Find who said it and kill him? Young Jukaga, if we did that, there wouldn't be a single human left on this world."

"I don't see why my father suffers a single one of them to live."

"Call it an indulgence," Harga said, motioning for Jukaga to step under the shade of a wide spreading ulanna tree, imported all the way from the home world in a small attempt to provide something familiar in this alien landscape.

Jukaga sat down on the silken blanket spread beneath the tree and accepted the ceremonial cup of greeting from Harga. Though Harga was not of the royal blood Jukaga knew enough to defer to him, first since he was a renowned warrior for the Vukka clan, and also because he was his father's closest friend.

Jukaga looked back at the human compound. Most had drifted away from the wire, returning to the fields to till the crops. As Jukaga took in the scene there was a certain pleasantness to it all; soaring blue-gray mountains on the horizon, a cooling breeze coming down from the hills, the only disconcerting note the alien scents.

"I rather like this place," Harga announced. "Never thought I'd one day be master of a world. Much preferred standing by your father's side. How is he?"

Jukaga relayed the latest gossip from court and the final preparations for the forthcoming campaign, Harga slowly shaking his head as he refilled the young lord's cup.

"Strange to be here rather than going out on campaign again, but your father is right, I serve better here."

Jukaga looked back at the humans. How could anyone declare that standing home, watching slaves work, was better than going forth on campaign? Harga, as if sensing Jukaga's thoughts, chuckled.

"Do you know why your father sent you here?"

"He said he wanted me to see you. After all, this world is now part of our family holdings."

Harga smiled indulgently. "This world is far more. You know, this was the first place of contact between us and the humans of the Confederation?"

"Yes."

"Rather interesting. Apparently the Confederation is not even aware of it. The vastness of space, the multiplicity of worlds, the strange connections of jump points that can, at times, spring you past eight times eight systems before ending. The Confederation does not even fully know just where all its people are. The people that settled here, a mistake actually. Their ship was most likely reported as missing when, in fact, it had accidentally jumped to the edge of our forward outposts and shortly afterwards a ship of your father's clan arrived here and conquered them. They would have been slaughtered out of hand if your father had not intervened to save them."

Jukaga looked over at Harga. There was something about his father's friend that had always been strange. He was renowned as a fierce fighter, but he also liked books. Jukaga had to admit to a certain fondness for old Harga, the warrior had even served for a while as his tutor.

"Your father knew war was inevitable but he sensed something about this prey," and Harga motioned towards the fields.

"They work like slaves," Jukaga said.

"They work to feed themselves."

"Nevertheless, that is slave work."

Jukaga sensed something approaching from behind them and whirled about. A human stood behind him, and Jukaga's mane bristled. The human had approached silently, upwind and he instinctively coiled, ready to pounce if the human made the slightest indication of attack. The human looked straight at him, then shifted his gaze away, lowering his eyes.

"My lord Harga. You sent for me?" the human said, surprising Jukaga because he spoke the tongue of Kilrah, the words sounding strange, lisping and high-pitched.

"Abram, I wanted you to join us for jirak"

"I am honored," the human replied, and walking over to the simmering pot boiling on a charcoal brazier, the human poured himself a drink and, acting as if he was an equal, sat down on the edge of the silken blanket.

Jukaga bristled, ready to snarl out an angry comment at a slave who would be so impudent as to drink of the ceremonial herbal brew and beyond that sit in the presence of a royal member of the clan.

Harga chuckled at Jukaga's surprise.

"How dare he?" Jukaga snarled.

"Because I was invited," Abram replied calmly, looking straight at Jukaga.

Harga roared with delight, slapping his hands on his knees.

"The Baron Jukaga thinks I have taken leave of my senses," Harga announced, looking over at the human.

"Well, from what I know of you, I dare say relative to others of Kilrah you have," Abram replied calmly.

"What do you know of us?" Jukaga snapped, forgetting himself for a moment and speaking directly to one who was not even of the blood.

"Oh, much, very much. I've read your Ikgara Kutgaga, I know the lineage of the clans and the Story of the Eight, I can even tell you that I suspect that there's a war coming."

Jukaga looked at the human in wide-eyed surprise. The Ikgara was the sacred history of the clans, tracing the lineage to the mists of creation.

"A bit like our own Bhagavad Gita, and sections of Genesis," Abram said. "Comparative cultures can be rather interesting."

"Abram here is what the humans call a doctor, a teacher actually. He was one of the leaders of the colony ship which wound up here."

Abram nodded and sighed.

"A bit off course it seems. If you hadn't caught us by surprise I would have made sure everything was destroyed. For that matter, I would have most likely autodestructed our ship and everybody with it."

His tone suddenly took on a cold, hard edge and Jukaga sensed a dark, lingering anger.

"Lucky for you it was Vakka and me rather than someone from any of the other clans, or even other retainers from the clan of Vakka who found you first," Harga replied calmly.

"Lucky for me?" Abram replied shaking his head. "You found out far too much about us from our ship's library. You took as prisoner anyone with our group who had served with the Fleet. Tell me, where are they now?"

Harga looked at Abram, saying nothing.

"Dead most likely, after your Emperor extracted all that could be learned from them," Abram replied.

"Why do you allow this?" Jukaga asked, looking over at Harga and shifting to the dialect of the Imperial Court.

"He even knows some of that," Harga replied and there was a moment of hesitation. "I guess you could say because I consider him to be something of a friend."

"A friend?" Jukaga replied, stunned by the admission.

"Yes, you could call us that," Abram interjected. "Though I dare say my days are numbered. Once the war begins, our usefulness will be at an end. Your little lab here for studying the rats you've captured will be finished."

"I already told you the Baron Vakka has placed you under my protection," Harga replied.

Abram laughed. "You know, Harga, I actually do like you. You remind me of the stories of our old Earth, the samurai of the Tokugawa Shogunate. Trained killers, but killers educated in the arts, music, poetry. I only wish all you Cats were that way. Hell, we might even have found a way to get along."

"Cats?" Jukaga asked.

"Slang term they have for us," Harga interjected. "Seems they have a breed of pets that are a bit like us."

"Pets?" Jukaga bristled and his response drew a laugh from both the human and Harga

"I do not see the purpose of this," Jukaga announced coldly.

"Simply this," Harga replied and his tone was now serious, as if he was once again the elder tutor speaking to a young noble. Though the student might be superior in blood, there was still no question of who was superior in wisdom and would administer a sound thrashing if he was provoked.

"In a short time we and the Confederation will be at war." As he spoke Jukaga was stunned by the fact that Harga openly discussed this point in front of an enemy. The human said nothing, casually watching Jukaga while sipping his tea.

"The Crown Prince is a fool if he thinks this will end in eight or eight eights of days. A few weeks here with these humans would teach him that, as your father learned. This war will go on for generations and you, young Jukaga, will one day rule our clan. Your father wants you to know what you are fighting."

He motioned towards Abram, who put his cup of tea down.

"Given who you are, patriotic duty suggests that I should try to kill you," Abram announced calmly.

"Go ahead and try," Jukaga retorted.

Abram laughed softly.

"For my race I am old and you could snap my neck with ease. I doubt if one human in a hundred could hope to stand up to one of you in a physical fight. So my gesture would be futile."

"Human, if you are so aware, then why do you continue to cling to life?"

"Ah, suicide? Actually against my personal religious principles, but also I do rather like living, even if I am a captive."

"Why?" The thought of a captive wanting to stay alive without honor was beyond comprehension.

"Let's just say I want to see how things turn out. Harga and I have reached an understanding of sorts. You already got most of our secrets when you took my ship. Amazing how much stuff gets loaded into a ship's computers through the years and you forget to clean it out of the core memory. Once you got that you had eighty, maybe ninety percent of the picture of who we were, what we could do, our strengths and weaknesses. So, after that, we just agreed to chat. A quid pro quo as we say in one of our ancient tongues, I believe in yours it's huma ta humas."

Again there was a moment of surprise for Jukaga, the human had intoned an ancient saying in the royal tongue.

"Just how much have you shared with him?" Jukaga asked, looking at Harga.

Harga laughed. "Well, when you're alone out here, when you live in a society where learning is viewed with suspicion, of not being warriorlike, conversations with a learned alien can be rather stimulating. It helps to pass the years."

Abram smiled and nodded in agreement.

"We avoid things military," Abram said, "though given what's coming I dare say all things are military. I know Harga, here, is trying to figure us out, but for my friend I think it's just more of an intellectual exercise to pass the years. As for me, well, maybe, just maybe, I'll somehow survive and can report what I have figured out."

"And that is?"

"You'll lose."

"How?" Jukaga asked, incredulous at the audacity of the statement and also the matter of fact way in which it was delivered.

"You really don't know us," Abram replied. "Oh, you have the data, the numbers, the coordinates of jump points, the schematics of ships, the analysis of weapons. In that respect you have us, we're an open society, you a closed one. In a strictly military sense you should win."

Again there was the smile. "But you don't know what's in here," and he pointed towards his heart.

The gesture struck Jukaga as curious. The human was pointing to the place where the Kilrathi believed the soul resided and he wondered if it was a human gesture or simply one mimicked by a slave.

"You are most likely planning a Jak-tu, the springing from surprise. Wise move for any hunter tackling a prey, make it clean and quick, no chance of getting hurt. But the wrong move with us."

How the human even knew that was troubling. He looked over at Harga and saw the bemused look. No, this human had reasoned it out on his own.

"Go on."

Abram hesitated for a second.

"Funny, I start to relax and chat with you Cats and can almost forget that we're blood enemies, that we're destined for a fight and that whatever I say might hurt my race. But what the hell, you're all so fixed in your ways—" he smiled and looked over at Harga and nodded, "—present company excepted, that it really doesn't matter."

"Continue."

"We've got a strange sort of code. Two people meet, have a fight, maybe one gets killed, but there's a code, you shot him in the front, not in the back. Now I know throughout our own history that's usually not been the case, but nevertheless it gets us upset. You see the Jak-tu as proper, we see it as cowardly, a springing from the dark."

Jukaga began to stand up. To tolerate the accusation of cowardice from an alien was beyond all acceptance.

"Remain seated," Harga snarled. "Let him speak."

Abram looked straight at Jukaga, as if half wanting him to strike, to end it. Struggling for control, Jukaga settled back down.

"Maybe it's racial memory for both of us," Abram continued. "You were carnivorous hunters, while we most likely evolved from creatures who, before we discovered tools, were the hunted."

Jukaga looked at the human in surprise. To so casually admit being descended from prey beasts was beyond comprehension. There was no shame in the human's voice, no humiliation. Surprised, he looked over at Harga, who again smiled.

"I told you there was something to learn here," Harga said.

"Did I say something interesting?" Abram asked and Jukaga realized the human actually had no comprehension of the humiliation he had just admitted to. Curious, an alien thought process. If this point was alien, beyond comprehension, then what else was beyond understanding?

Something stirred within Jukaga, a dim glimmering of realization, as if a weighty thought, barely perceived, was starting to open up. He leaned forward, looking straight at Abram.

"Continue."

"Well, as I was saying. You'll trigger a primal reaction in us. For you, the hunter, the mere sight of us, the fact that we exist, triggers the desire to hunt us to death."

He fell silent staring straight at Jukaga, who wondered if the human was even now coming to new realizations.

"As for us, the springing from the dark will trigger certain reactions as well. There will be terror, yes, I'll admit to that. Damn, I struggle with that even now, sitting across from you, your talons half bared."

Jukaga looked down at his hands and realized that the razor-sharp talons were indeed exposed, and to his own surprise he retracted them.

"You see, there are fears worse than death for us humans. Fear that loved ones, especially our children, might be harmed."

"We share that," Jukaga interrupted, a bit annoyed that what he thought was an interesting insight had become banal. Any creature of intelligence, even the dumbest of prey, protect their young.

"No, there's something more though. We fear almost beyond all other things being devoured," Abram said quietly. "To not just be killed but to be eaten alive, to have talons, fangs, tearing into us. Ask a human to sit quietly and contemplate such a death and they are filled with dread. Now let me ask you, do you devour those whom you defeat?"

Jukaga did not answer.

Abram forced a smile.

"Even if you didn't do all that your form implies, your thinking, your manners, your rituals, the way you fight speaks of the carnivore, the devourer of flesh. Now, why do you practice Jak-tu ?"

"What?"

"In the hunt, why do you practice Jak-tu?"

"To overpower a prey with a single blow."

Abram shook his head.

"No. It is more. For if you do not overpower your prey with the first strike, if you don't break its neck or back to render it defenseless, it will thrash about. Even as it dies it will flay at you out of sheer terror. It then becomes dangerous, perhaps even killing you.

"There is the core of what I'm speaking of," Abram said softly. "You think us weak. Yes, we as individuals are weak when compared to you. Perhaps even militarily we're weak, but we will fight with the terror of despair. I don't think the Varni had that in them. From what I've heard they had maybe ten or twenty million more years of evolution behind them and it was gone. You see, it wasn't that long ago when all we held in our hands was a club or rock against cats that were a damn sight bigger than you. You haven't run into prey like us before and I tell you, when it's done your Empire will be dead."

The casual way in which the human spoke sent a chill down Jukaga's spine.

"Your father learned this," Harga interjected. "He wanted you to learn it too before you go to fight."

"Your father, his blood flows well?" Abram asked.

"His blood is thick," Jukaga automatically replied and then was startled that the human knew the standard ceremonial question regarding the health of a friend.

Abram chuckled. "I rather liked him. Hell. I guess we'd all be dead here if it wasn't for him. Unusual character for your race, thinks with this—" and he pointed towards his head, and then back to his heart, "—rather than with this."

Abram finished off his drink and, taking the pot off the brazier, he motioned towards Tukaga's cup and Harga's, refilling both of them and then his own.

"So it will be war then." Abram asked quietly.

"Yes."

"I heard something about the Confederation moving to declare war as well."

Jukaga looked at him in surprise.

"No reason not to talk," Harga replied. "Your father's kept me appraised of the intelligence reports coming in from our listening stations."

Jukaga stirred uncomfortably and looked back over at the human.

"There were bound to be incidents," Abram said. "Your Emperor's decision to not establish any formal connection with the Confederation after the first accidental contacts might be logical to you but would be confusing to our side. It was an indicator of belligerence.

"Beyond that, our nonmilitary communications are wide open and you're listening to them all the time. You cracked our language code by taking my ship and all its computer files, listening in is no problem for you now."

"There are reports of their launching a limited attack," Jukaga said.

Abram laughed. "Just like us. Again, a major difference between us. They figure if we bloody your nose a bit, let you know we aren't to be pushed around too much, that will settle it. Damn stupid bastards." Abram never raised his head as he delivered his conclusion.

Jukaga was surprised by the casual utterance of the foulest of oaths in regards to the leaders of the Confederation. Such blasphemy towards the Imperial line was cause for immediate execution.

"They think that what they call a limited action will dissuade you and that peace can then be made if too much damage has been avoided. Bizarre."

Jukaga nodded.

Harga sighed and there was a moment of eye contact between him and Abram. The human stood up. "I'd like you and Jukaga to talk some more. He only has a few days here before returning."

"As you wish," Abram replied.

"You might find him interesting. I think he'd enjoy reading your Sun Tzu, or Machiavelli."

"Ah, two masters. Though discussing them with someone who might one day be a leader in your war effort may be a compromise I'd prefer not to make."

Harga smiled. "We've been over that before, my friend. It was all in your ship's computers anyhow, though I dare say no one in the Imperial family gives a good damn about it. But Jukaga, here, might make a difference someday."

"A difference in defeating us?" Abram asked. "Know your friends, but know your enemies better."

"Maybe knowing your enemy might one day result in saving him and you."

"I'll think about that," Abram replied, and without any ceremonial bow the human turned and walked away.

"He troubles me," Jukaga said.

"He should. Your father is rather fond of him. No, that's the wrong word. Rather, he admires him."

"A slave?"

"No," Harga said forcefully. "A foe worthy of respect, an intellect as good as our own. That's always been the problem for us. We don't admire intellect, only brute strength and courage. We let our slaves do the thinking when it comes to the making and running of our machines. Abram told me there's been more than one clan in the history of humans who were like that. Do you know what happened to them?"

"They were destroyed?" Jukaga asked nervously.

Harga nodded and, reaching over to the young heir's cup, he poured another drink then settled back, fixing Jukaga with his gaze.

"Your father and I are friends of blood. He saved my life at the Battle of Turing in the Varni War. I remember the day you were born, the joy and triumph he felt. I once taught you and saw in you an intelligence even beyond your father's. I never had young of my own, so, young Jukaga, in some ways I pin my dreams on you."

Jukaga lowered his gaze, unable to reply.

"Thus I ask that you listen to me. I pray that the Gods will that I am wrong, and that the day after our own attack begins you will simply remember my words as the ramblings of a foolish old one."

"You do not believe we will win?" Jukaga asked.

"I believe this war will be a disaster. I know your father told the Emperor and the Crown Prince this but they will not listen."

"The Varni were but ten worlds and the fight they put up was a dangerous and surprising one, even though we had total surprise. This Confederation is hundreds, thousands of systems. The simple mathematics make it evident that we can not strike all places at once."

"The plan of the Crown Prince is brilliant," Jukaga replied.

Harga chuckled. "Come now, remember the fourth maxim of Xag?"

"No attack plan ever survives first contact with the enemy," Jukaga replied, reciting from rote the fourth of the eight maxims of the legendary warrior who had established the First Empire.

"There is one most important element the Crown Prince has ignored and I beg you, Jukaga, to remember this."

The use of the word beg was startling to the young warrior since it implied a desperate plea from an inferior to a superior.

"The humans have kaga, the warrior spirit. Their history and tradition is replete with it.

"Someday, Jukaga, it might fall upon you to shape the events of this war. I beg you, study these humans well. Learn their literature, hear their music, examine their history. It might shape how you feel. Do so at first with the intent of thus deciphering who they are in order to gain victory. Perhaps then you shall learn something more. Perhaps you might even grow to like them, frightening though that concept must now seem to one like you who is eager for blood."

Harga looked back towards the fields where the humans labored. Abram had rejoined them, several of the humans gathering around him looking curiously back towards the pavilion under the tree.

"You know I have orders from the Imperial Court to kill all of them," Harga said quietly.

Jukaga felt a sudden mix of emotions. An hour ago it would not have troubled him in the slightest, but now? He had spoken with one of them, shared drink, been challenged to think.

"This is our fiefdom," Jukaga replied. "The Imperial edicts do not directly apply here."

"This world is to be converted into a military base once the war begins. The jump points here might be of strategic value, therefore the Emperor has laid claim to this planet in exchange for another world in another sector."

"And will you?"

Harga smiled sadly.

"The Emperor speaks…" and his voice trailed off.

"A curious human. A good friend. We shall see. I guess he suspects it as well. After all, he tells me he has been on borrowed time since the day we discovered them here. As he puts it, he lives now mainly out of intellectual curiosity to see what happens. Many a night we've sat up till dawn, telling each other our histories, sharing thoughts. Funny, how similar we are, but how different. He's why your father sent you here. Spend what time you have with him. He might be the only human you'll ever really know, especially after the war begins; for when it does we will slaughter each other on sight."

Harga closed his eyes and Jukaga realized just how old his father's friend really was. His mane had gone nearly to white, the ripples of muscle on his limbs were melting away into nothingness.

Harga opened his eyes and looked back at Jukaga and his voice suddenly sounded distant and old, as if already whispering from the beyond.

"I fear that all that the Crown Prince shall succeed in doing is awakening the sleeping giant."