them, for now. Should the Tandu seem about to prevail, there would be another chance to switch sides. It had happened a number of times already, and would happen again.
Buoult steeled himself for the meeting ahead. He was determined not to let show any of his dread of stepping aboard a Tandu ship.
The Tandu didn’t seem to care what chances they took with their crazy, poorly understood probability drive. The insane reality manipulations of their Episiarch clients let them move about more quickly than their opponents. But sometimes the resulting alterations of spacetime swallowed whole groups of ships, impartially snatching the Tandu and their enemies from the universe forever. It was madness!
Just let them not use their perverted drives while I am aboard, Buoult’s organ-of-prayer subvocalized. Let us make our battle plans and be done.
The Tandu ships came into sight, crazy, stilt-like structures that disdained armor for wild speed and power.
Of course even these unusual shapes were mere variations of ancient Library designs. The Tandu were daring, but they did not add to their crimes the gaucherie of originality. Earthlings were in many ways more unconventional than the Tandu. Their sloppy gimmickry was a vulgar habit that came from a poor upbringing.
Buoult wondered what the “dolphins” were doing right now. Pity the poor creatures if the Tandu or Soro got hold of them! Even these primitive sea mammals, clients of a coarse and hairy wolfling race, deserved to be protected, if possible.
Of course there were priorities. Pitiable or not, they mustn’t be allowed to hoard the data they held! It must be shared with the Abdicator faction or with no one.
Buoult noticed that his finger-claws had unsheathed in his agitation. He pulled them back and cultivated serenity as the shuttle drew near the Tandu squadron.
Buoult’s musing was split by a sudden chill that made his crest tremble … a disturbance on a psi band.
“Operator!” he snapped. “Contact the flagship! See if they verify that call!”
“Immediately, General-Protector!”
Buoult controlled his excitement. The psychic energies he felt could be a ruse. Still, they felt right. They bore the image of Krondorsfire, which none of them had hoped to see again!
Determination filled him. In the negotiations ahead, he would ask one more favor. The Tandu must provide one added cooperation in exchange for the help of the Thennanin.
“Confirmed, sir. It is battleship Krondorsfire,” the pilot said, his voice raspy with emotion. Buoult’s crest stood erect in acknowledgment. He stared ahead at the looming metal mantis shapes, steeling himself for the confrontation, the negotiations, and the waiting.
• • •
Beie Chohooan was listening to whale songs—rare and expensive copies which had cost her a month’s pay some time ago—when her detectors picked up the beacon. Reluctantly, she put down her headphones and noted the direction and intensity. There were so many signals … bombs and blasts and traps. Then one of the little wazoon pointed out to her that this particular beacon emanated from the water-world itself.
Beie groomed her whiskers and considered.
“I believe this will change things, my pretty little ones. Shall we leave this belt of unborn rubble in space and move toward the action? Is it time to let the Earthlings know that someone is out here who is a friend?”
The wazoon chittered back that policy was her business. According to union rules, they were spies, not strategists.
Beie approved of their sarcasm. It was very tasty.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us try to move closer.”
Hikahi hurriedly queried the skiff’s battle computer.
“It’s a psi weapon of some sort,” she announced via hydrophone to the crew working in the alien wreck. Her Anglic was calm and precise, accentuated with the cool overtones of Keneenk. “I detect no other signs of attack, so I believe we’re feeling a fringe of the space-battle. We’ve felt othersss before, if not this intense.
“We’re deep underwater, partly shielded from psiwaves. Grit your teeth, Streaker’s. Try to ignore it. Go about your duties in tropic-clear logic.”
She switched off the speakers. Hikahi knew Tsh’t was even now moving among the workers out there, joking and keeping morale high.
The psi-noise was like a nagging itch, but an itch with a weird rhythm. It pulsed as if in some code she couldn’t quite get her jaws around.
She looked at Hannes Suessi, who sat on a wall rail nearby, looking very tired. He had been about to turn in for a few hours’ sleep, but the psionic assault apparently affected him worse than it did the dolphins. He had compared it to fingernails scratching on a