Wolf Among the Stars-ARC (11 page)

Nevertheless, the commercial possibilities were obvious, once the Rogovon had forced the system open by means similar to those used by the Tizathon on EFP-controlled Earth (but rather less subtle, as was the Rogovon way). Not many non-Rogovon interests among the Lokaron had become involved at first, for it was too far from their normal areas of operation. It was, however, in precisely the region where humans, newly released from the dead hand of the EFP, were beginning to expand. Rivalry would have been inevitable even if a legacy of poisonous hate hadn’t already existed.

Then, in the midst of complex negotiations for concessions, the reigning Implementer had been assassinated, throwing the Kogurche society—already dissolving in a flood of new technology—into chaos. In such a setting, the human-Rogovon rivalry had grown increasingly cutthroat. In retrospect, the only surprise was that the conflict had festered for nine more years before erupting into open war in 2066.

Afterward, the peace settlement brokered by the other Lokaron powers had made Kogurche a recognized human sphere of influence, and the implementer now hosted a human “resident advisor” appointed by the CNE. But, to the disgust of humans of Franklin Valdes’s persuasion, those same Lokaron powers had prevented the Rogovon or any other Lokaron from being excluded altogether. So intrigue simmered under the system’s seemingly placid surface.

They emerged through a transition gate that had been built with human know-how and local Kogurin resources. Andrew chuckled to himself at the sight of Persath paying toll. Ahead lay the yellowish Sol-like Kogurche A. Off to starboard the dim Kogurche B, currently near perihelion, glowed ruddily. Perath wordlessly shaped a course in the latter’s direction and made various adjustments to his communications panel. All the while, his eyes periodically flicked toward the detector readouts, as they had been doing since the discovery that they were being shadowed.

For a long time, Andrew and Rachel held their peace, reluctant to disturb their pilot. Finally Persath swiveled his seat around and faced them.

“As you have probably surmised, we are headed toward the region of space where Reislon is to be found, if indeed he is currently present in this system. I have activated an automatic signaling device, operating on a special frequency, with which he provided me in case I should find it necessary to contact him in an emergency.”

“So we can only wait until he responds?” asked Rachel.

“Yes. But in the meantime, there is a development I find disturbing.” The translator performed the difficult feat of making Perath sound slightly crestfallen. “In the course of making transition . . . well, I was busy, and I temporarily lost sight of the vessel that had been following us in overspace. And now . . . I find I cannot locate that vessel.”

“Uh, maybe whoever they are just continued on in overspace and didn’t come through the transition gate,” Rachel offered.

“Rubbish!” snapped Persath. “Their course would make no sense unless they intended to make transition here, nor would the fact that they were following us.”

“Then where are they?” asked Andrew in what he thought were eminently reasonable tones.

“I don’t know.” In his perplexity, Persath momentarily forgot to be irritable. “They should show on my normal-space scanners.”

There seemed nothing more to be said on the subject, and they settled in to await Reislon’s acknowledgment of Persath’s signal while nervously speculating as to the nature of the mysterious intruders. They had not long to wait. A flashing light on the comm panel brought Persath scurrying up to the control console, where he performed various cryptic manipulations in silence.

“Uh, what does he say, Persath?”

“Nothing. The signaling device is precisely that: it sends an almost infinitesimally brief squirt of data on its peculiar frequency, announcing one’s presence. Reislon has no wish to actually engage in radio conversation that might be overheard, thus compromising himself and . . . his associates.”

“Persath,” said Andrew grimly, “there’s a
lot
you’re not telling me!”

“How does it feel?” Rachel was heard to mutter.

“What’s the story on these associates?” Andrew persisted, ignoring her.

“All will become clear in good time.” Persath placed both hands in front of his chest and tilted his head back, which Andrew recalled was the Lokaron equivalent of a human raising a hand palm-outward to forestall an anticipated outburst. “Suffice it to say that their presence in this system is not generally known—not known at all, in point of fact, any more than is Reislon’s—and they are rather particular about radio silence. Therefore Reislon is coming out to rendezvous with us. A physical meeting is far safer, as it will take place in the gravitational borderlands between the two components of the Kogurche system, where there is nothing except the occasional robotic ore-carrier.”

A glance at the nav plot showed Andrew that this was indeed the case. Their drive was pushing them outward from Kogurche A, which was falling astern, and into a hyperbolic course which, if carried beyond a certain point, would result in capture by the gravity of Kogurche B.

Further questioning extracted nothing from Persath, and they again had to draw on their depleted store of patience. Finally Persath cut the drive and went into a free-fall trajectory. Presently, a radar blip that Persath identified as Reislon’s ship appeared, matched vectors, and began to maneuver alongside. When it came into visual range Andrew saw that it was smaller than their own craft and of an altogether different design—a purely space-to-space shuttle, with no need for streamlining of any kind. Persath, at the control console, carried out a brief, low conversation via short-range communicator; Andrew couldn’t make out what he was saying, and his translator implant didn’t pick up what was emerging from the console at all.

The new arrival extruded a short access tube that affixed itself magnetically to their starboard entry port with a muffled clang. The lock wheezed open and their ears popped as air pressures equalized. A Lokar dressed in a form-fitting light duty space suit stepped into the saloon.

To anyone familiar with the Lokaron, Reislon’Sygnath was clearly a transmitter and probably early middle-aged. But in his amazement, Andrew noticed none of that at first. He had automatically assumed that a Harathon agent would belong to the subspecies of that
gevah
and its offshoot Gev-Tizath—the “default Lokaron” type as far as humans were concerned. So he wasn’t prepared for Reislon to be only a little over seven feet tall, less thin of build than the Harathon norm, and with skin that was not the standard light blue but rather a kind of greenish-blue, almost aquamarine . . .

Reislon, well acquainted with humans and their facial expressions, gave him a close-mouthed Lokaron smile. “You surmise correctly. I am a hybrid. The product of a Harathon primary male and a Rogovon transmitter, to be exact.”

In his embarrassment, Andrew had nothing to say.

To humans, the most alien thing about the Lokaron, compared to which the external differences were merely cosmetic, was their three-sex reproductive pattern. The egg-producing transmitter—larger, stronger and traditionally the sexual aggressor—was impregnated by the primary male and subsequently implanted the fertilized egg in the female, whose only function was to give birth. Both stages of the process were accomplished using organs analogous to human male equipment, which had given rise among humans to no end of bad jokes about the transmitters. Direct intercourse between primary males and females was reproductively pointless and was regarded as a perverse vice.

Almost equally frowned upon was intercourse between transmitters and primary males of the various genetically engineered planetary subspecies into which the race, never given to terraforming, had differentiated itself. This could produce offspring—but the offspring, like those of Terran horses and donkeys, were sterile. (There were exceptions like the Harathon and the Tizathon, which were essentially the same subspecies, but even in such cases social barriers existed.) In addition, for reasons that evidently made sense in terms of Lokaron biology, the offspring were almost always transmitters. Transmitters with nothing to transmit . . .

“The primary male,” Reislon continued imperturbably, “was a member of a Harathon trade mission, seduced by a socially prominent Rogovon transmitter who, for reasons best known to himself, saw fit to subsequently have intercourse with a female.”

Andrew nodded with understanding. Abortion was a nonissue for the Lokaron. A transmitter carrying a fertilized egg need only refrain from implanting that egg in a female, and it would die after a certain period. And the “females” were irrelevant to the nature of the offspring, which they merely carried. Even in present-day Lokaron society, they were hardly ever seen or mentioned.

“Rogovon society,” Reislon went on, “was not particularly open to me.” (A studied understatement, Andrew suspected.) “Afterward I departed for Gev-Harath and eventually found myself in the service of Hov-Korth. But that is enough about me. I imagine the presence of the two of you accounts for this unexpected visit. Is this true, Persath?”

“Indeed, indeed.” Persath fussily performed belated introductions. “Captain Roark and Ms. Arnstein are both connected to the late Admiral Nathan Arnstein—the former as his chief of staff and the latter as his daughter.”

“The late Admiral Arnstein?” Reislon’s aspect grew expressionless. “I regret to learn that. I communicated with him less than a year ago. How did he die?”

“That is what we are trying to ascertain,” Andrew lied, “as the CNE government is not being candid.”

“But why come to me?”

“Because we have good reason to believe that the Black Wolf Society is somehow connected with his death.”

Reislon’s expressionlessness became absolute.

“I’ve told them everything, Reislon,” said Persath quietly.

“I see.” Reislon grew brisk. “And you were right to do so. This brings matters to a head. We must—”

The strident squeal of an alarm shattered the air.

Persath bounded up to the control bridge with Andrew just behind him. He slapped at various controls, and a harsh voice filled the saloon. “You will lay to and stand by to be boarded. Any attempt to uncouple your vessels will result in your destruction.”

It took a second for Andrew to realize that he hadn’t heard it through his translator implant. It had been a human voice, speaking English. A voice he somehow thought he ought to recognize.

He had no time to dwell on it, because at appreciably the same instant a radar blip flickered into existence on the screen—a very nearby blip that hadn’t been there before, so nearby that it simultaneously appeared on the viewscreen, feebly reflecting the distant light of the two Kogurche suns.

“Where did it come from?” Rachel whispered.

“It must be the ship that was following us in overspace,” said Persath. “But how has it approached so closely undetected?”

Andrew said nothing, but he suddenly recalled what Svyatog’Korth had told him about the advanced stealth features the Harathon had briefly glimpsed in 2055, and his eyes met Reislon’s in a moment of shared understanding.

Persath activated the magnification feature, and the intruder filled the screen. It was a lifting body, apparently a commercial vessel small enough to have surface-landing capability, but at least three times the size of their own ship. And it had been modified. Andrew’s practiced eye recognized laser-weapon blisters—short-ranged ones, but quite adequate under the circumstances.

Reislon spoke to Persath. “Our two craft, besides being unarmed, are incapable of maneuvering while locked together. We are quite helpless. Do not attempt to resist.” He seemed to be taking it very calmly.

“Very well.” Persath spoke into the communicator. “Come ahead.” Then, with a defiant flash of his usual asperity, he glared at the blank comm screen. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

The screen came to life. A human face looked out, wearing a tight smile of vindictive triumph.

It was the face of Amletto Leong.

CHAPTER NINE

The hostile ship remained
watchfully on station in its matching orbit as it deployed an interorbital car—little more than a life-support bubble for two with a very low-powered drive unit. As it approached them, Andrew excused himself momentarily. When he returned, Rachel noted, but did not comment on, a small bulge under his pullover shirt at the small of his back.

The car maneuvered alongside and sealed itself to their port-side airlock, opposite Reislon’s shuttle. Persath, with a great show of put-upon dignity, opened the lock and two figures emerged.

Both were dressed in the same sort of light-duty vacc suit that Reislon wore. It was standard garb for anyone riding a spacecraft as flimsy as the interorbital car: a form-fitting jumpsuit of flexible nanofabric with a slight bulge in the back holding a concentrated oxygen supply and short-term temperature-control unit. To become an emergency space suit, it was only necessary for the wearer to don gloves and pull over a hood like helmet made of a transparent version of the same nanofabric. That fabric had the additional virtue of automatically adjusting itself to whoever was wearing it, over a fairly wide range of sizes and forms and even races.

That was unnecessary in this case, for both of the boarders were human. One carried what Andrew recognized as a laser weapon about the size of a turn-of-the-century submachine gun—a lower-powered version of a military laser rifle, doubtless currently on its stun setting, which could be used safely inside a spacecraft. He obviously wanted to use it, as he looked at the greenish tinge of Reislon’s skin with unconcealed loathing.

The other was Leong, armed with a commercial version of Andrew’s gauss pistol—not as good, but it could kill you just as dead. He wore the same expression they had seen in the comm screen, but even more tightly controlled than before. The ingratiating functionary they had known on Tizath-Asor was nowhere to be found.

“Don’t try anything foolish,” he said without preamble. “I am in continuous communication with my ship.” He tapped a standard earpiece communicator he wore. “If anything happens to us—which I doubt, because we will shoot you without hesitation if you make trouble—it is under orders to open fire.”