Timeweb Trilogy Omnibus (79 page)

“Oh, you spoil my fun,” Lorenzo said as he tossed the clippers aside. “You’re just like.…”

He paused when he noticed the blond Princess Meghina in the doorway, watching. She glared at him, her eyes dark and angry.

“I’m disappointed in you,” she said. “You know how I feel about this.” Meghina could hardly contain her fury.

“What do you think dungeons are for?” Lorenzo asked. “To sing lullabies to our prisoners?” She watched as he wiped blood off his hands with a cloth.

“There are galactic conventions against this sort of thing,” she said.

“There are also galactic conventions against blowing up enemy planets. Or there should be. We lost four worlds to these bastards, and billions of people! Surely, you can’t begrudge me a little revenge.”

“They did a horrible thing, but I don’t like what the war is doing to you,” she said. “This is not good for you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking suddenly like a child who had just been scolded.

Behind him, Meghina saw the pitiful Mutati rolling over its own severed bloody parts, incorporating them back into its shapeshifting body. Despite its suffering, the Mutati focused on her for an instant with its bright black eyes, before she broke gazes with it.

Had the creature recognized her true form? She had taken a calculated risk coming down here, because some Mutatis—albeit only a small percentage—had the ability to recognize another of their kind no matter the disguise, by detecting aural and electrical signatures that were unique to the individual. She faced another risk as well, the new requirement that everyone get a medical examination and an implanted device certifying that they were Human. Because of her high status as a noble lady, she and others had not been required to undergo the process. But that could change.

Nonetheless, she stood her ground. “I would like you to discontinue this barbaric practice,” she said, following Lorenzo as he left the chamber.

The beautiful Princess Meghina, while born a Mutati, had remained in Human form for so long that she could not change back. She hated Mutatis herself, but could not condone the sort of treatment she had seen today, for any reason. Not knowing his courtesan wife’s dirty secret, Lorenzo was devoted to her and valued her advice, and her opinion of him. It was only out of noble custom—Meghina understood this—that he had trysts with numerous other Human (and even alien) women. She did the same herself with men, in her own fashion.

Deep in conversation, the royal couple traveled a short distance by groundjet, to the Doge’s cliffside villa. By the time they reached his bedroom suite and she was nibbling at his ear, he finally acceded to her request. She had more than his apology now; she had his promise that he would not torture any more Mutati prisoners.

But Lorenzo had his own mind about such matters. He had learned to tell important people what they wanted to hear, without really altering his behavior. From now on, whenever he had an urge to torture a shapeshifter, he would still do so, but would take care to conceal the act from her. In this time of war, with all the stresses of leadership, he needed to maintain his diversions.

Chapter Thirty-Two

It is curious that two of the oldest races in the galaxy—the Parviis and the Tulyans—both rely upon paranormal methods to gain control over sentient podships. But in this context, what is “normal,” and what is not?

—Tulyan Wisdom

As their podship approached the Hibbil Sector, Eshaz spoke like a tour director to the boys sitting beside him. Dux and Acey alternately chattered excitedly and listened to him.

“Wild podships migrate here at this time of year,” Eshaz said, “for breeding. They’re like herds of whales on Lost Earth, but cover vast distances of space. We Tulyans understand the ancient patterns of the deep-space pods, and chart them. I expect we’ll see some action soon.”

The podship bumped gently against the exterior bumper of a pod station, and Eshaz said. “Just a brief stop for a permit. Then we’ll go on to the Wild Pod Zone. It’s still a good distance away, with very dim, collapsed suns. Not like this.” He pointed up, at a rather ordinary-looking yellow sun.

Tesh guided the sentient craft to a dock inside the station, where furry little Hibbil workers secured the vessel with lines.

Moments later the hatch opened, and a dozen Hibbil policemen marched aboard, dressed in black -and-gold uniforms. The men’s bearlike faces twitched irritably, and their dark eyes glanced around, as if they were looking for contraband. Their gazes focused first on the Tulyan, then on the burnished wood cases that lay on the floor, still strapped together.

“Doing a little podship hunting?” the lead policeman asked. His nametag read, YOTLA.

“Seen any wild ones lately?” Eshaz asked, stepping toward the officers.

“Not for some time,” Yotla said with a grin, “but it’s a big zone out there and they’re probably hiding somewhere. I’ll take your permit fee now.”

With a nod, Eshaz passed him a golden cylinder. “Our fee and application are inside.”

Dux saw that the cylinder contained precious jewels. With a furry hand the Hibbil officer activated a button on the side, and a complex series of blank holo-pages popped into the air. “You haven’t filled out the forms,” he growled.

“My answers are the same as the last time I was here,” Eshaz said, with a yawn, “so I included enough extra payment for you to complete the documentation for me.” He glanced at Dux and grinned, “Saves a lot of time.”

With a grunt the officer resealed the cylinder, and departed with his companions.

The podship got underway, and proceeded slowly away from the orbital station, then accelerated, but not to web speed. An hour passed, and they reached a region of space that was dotted with half a dozen white dwarf suns, and two that were brown, and even dimmer. Eshaz chattered about how they had once been bright orbs, filled with nuclear energy, but over billions and billions of years they had collapsed. “Most races think there is very little life out here,” he said. “But we know better. It is a prime hunting region.”

Eshaz pointed out a porthole at black-and-gold ships patrolling a sector that he called the entrance to the Wild Pod Zone, vessels with unusual, angular hull designs and bright search beams that illuminated space around them. One of the beams focused on them, causing Dux to squint.

“Hibbils wield considerable military power and are fiercely territorial,” Eshaz said, “so we have found it most convenient to simply pay them off.”

“Their ships look fast,” Acey said.

“None faster, for intra-sector bursts,” Eshaz said. “The Hibbils are a totalitarian society, run by a corrupt military junta. They claim jurisdiction over a broad region, far beyond the traditional boundaries of their Cluster Worlds.” With a sneer, he added, “They pulled the planets out of orbit and linked them together mechanically. Hibbils fear a chaotic breakup of the galaxy, and think this will save their civilization from destruction.”

“I’d like to go to their homeworlds sometime,” Acey said. “I’ve heard they’re tech masters.” “An interesting race, perhaps,” Eshaz admitted, “but they are among the worst industrial polluters

in the galaxy. They provide supposedly low-cost machines for the merchant princes and for the leaders of other races, but there are hidden costs—damage to the planets they raid for raw materials, and more depleted worlds than the Guardians can ever restore.”

As Acey and Dux looked through portholes, the podship headed slowly out into the darkness of near-space, leaving the Hibbil ships behind.

Chapter Thirty-Three

There can be great beauty in change, even if propelled by violence.

—Mutati Saying

In his natural state he was the most dashingly handsome of Mutati men, with great folds of fat around his midsection, a perfectly symmetrical triple chin, and overlarge eyes on his tiny head. As he made his way through the crowd, in a golden outrider uniform decked with medals and ribbons, terramutati women swooned at his feet, and aeromutati females darted overhead, blowing him kisses as they flew by. Many Mutati men had applied for this glorious position, and Kishi Fapro had been chosen over all of them, not only for his good looks but for his enthusiastic willingness to die for the sacred cause of his people.

For weeks his holophoto had been shown everywhere on Paradij, and in grainy nehrcom video transmissions to other worlds throughout the realm, so that everyone envied him. Surely he would occupy a special place in heaven after his heroic sacrifice, even higher than his earlier counterparts who had given up their lives flying Demolio torpedoes into enemy planets. Fapro represented a new beginning, with the Mutatis working even closer with God-on-High than before, relying upon him to guide the holy bomb to its target. It was “a mating of religion and technology,” the Zultan had said, displaying his proclivity for turning a phrase. After this success, the Mutatis would rain holy bombs on every merchant prince planet, and the long war would be won.

No one would ever see Kishi Fapro again, except in the holo-images that would live beyond the expiration of his flesh and in a variety of curios that were sold bearing his likeness. He would also live on in the endearing memories of everyone who watched him now as he marched steadily toward the gleaming black schooner, smiling and waving to the crowd, showing no fear whatsoever.

To enthusiastic cheers, he stepped inside the vessel and fired up the engines. In a matter of moments he lifted off, and streaked up to the orbiting pod station. As holocameras watched him all the way and projected the images to screens all over the Mutati Kingdom, the outrider guided his craft into the cargo hold of a laboratory-bred podship.

Excitement mounted as the podship taxied out of the pod station and moved into position a short distance away. Then, bearing the black schooner and its deadly bomb, the lab-pod accelerated into the sky. In a bright flash of green light seen on the surface of Paradij, the Mutati doomsday weapon left the atmosphere and disappeared into space, pointed toward the merchant prince world of Siriki. On the other end, there would be no arrival at a pod station. This time, the entire podship, with its precious cargo, would strike the planet directly, triggering the deadly explosions.

On a platform amidst the cheering onlookers, the Zultan Abal Meshdi uttered a prayer from the
Holy Writ.
He was convinced that God-on-High would guide the lab-pod to destroy their hated enemy—and that it would occur in a matter of seconds.

Following the prayer, he raised his arms and shouted to the crowd, “Our doomsday weapon is on the way!”

* * * * *

A day passed.…

At a nehrcom station on Siriki, the Human operator received an odd signal. His instruments revealed that it was from the Mutati homeworld of Paradij, but he knew that was impossible, since the Mutatis had no nehrcom units.

The signal was first weak, then stronger. It repeated several times. The operator checked the source, and was astounded. Quickly, he relayed it to another operator on Canopa, a woman. She in turn went personally to the Office of the Doge on Canopa, where she handed a one-page report and a slender plax recording tube to the Royal Attache, Pimyt.

“An odd transmission came in, sir, purportedly from the Mutatis on Paradij.”

After scanning the report and listening to the signal, Pimyt looked up and said, “I’ll take care of this from here. You are to mention it to no one.”

“That is my sworn duty, sir,” the operator responded, with a slight bow to the furry, much shorter Hibbil. “I brought it directly to you.”

“You understand, of course, that this is a hoax? It could not possibly have come from Paradij, because the Mutatis have no nehrcom system.”

“That is my understanding, sir.”

“We’re putting the Doge’s best investigators on this, and they’d better not learn that you discussed it with anyone.”

“You can count on my silence, sir.”

“Tell the Siriki station to destroy all records of this. Then destroy yours, too. I want no copies of this to exist, not in your memory or anywhere else. It is a matter of utmost security to the Merchant Prince Alliance.”

“I understand, sir. With your leave, I’ll take care of it right away.”

Pimyt waved a hand dismissively.

When he was alone in his office, the Royal Attache muttered, “What is this? What is that fool Zultan up to now?” He stared at the report. “Sending a signal here?”

Pimyt’s reasons for being upset ran through circuitous pathways. Secretly, he and his Hibbil people were allied with the Adurian race under the HibAdu Coalition, with the goal of bringing down both the Merchant Prince Alliance and the Mutati Kingdom. The conspirators, after infiltrating themselves into key positions such as his own, had not yet seen the right time to make their move. They were still laying groundwork, getting control of weapons and personnel, setting things up.

For a long time Hibbils and Adurians had been treated in a condescending manner by two races that considered themselves superior to them. His own Hibbil people, ostensibly an ally of the Humans, had actually been under the collective boot heel of the merchant princes during all that time: politically, economically, militarily, socially, and in every other imaginable way. It had been much the same story for the Adurians, except that it was the Mutati Kingdom keeping them down. Finally, unable to endure any more mistreatment, the Hibbils and Adurians had aligned themselves into what they called the HibAdu Coalition. In large measure this secret alliance was so that they could exact revenge against their tormentors, taking everything that was of value away from the merchant princes and the shapeshifters—their worlds, their profits, and more. In the coming war, the Coalition intended to wipe out ninety percent of the populations of the two offending races, and enslave what was left.

But the Mutati Zultan was a madman and a wild card. Pimyt’s secret collaborator, the Adurian Ambassador VV Uncel, had been stuck on Paradij by the podship crisis, and must certainly have made attempts to influence the Mutati leader. Pimyt knew that the ambassador had convinced Mutatis to use gyrodomes and minigyros, devices that weakened their brains in subtle ways and made them easier to conquer. However, unable to stay in touch with Uncel during the most recent crisis, Pimyt didn’t have updates. Neither of them could risk sending nehrcom transmissions back and forth between enemy planets, so Pimyt could only hope for the best.