Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [126]
“Don’t you mean the smell?” someone who wished not to be identified interjected. General whistling followed, eventually to be suppressed by Debreljinav’s four-armed gesturing.
“I myself am rather more concerned with the eventual disposition of human muscle than their scent.” Respectful quiet again filled the chamber. “If we cannot induce the humans to become our allies, then we must strive to make them our friends. Since we can do nothing about our shape and ancestry, which is what appears to constitute the principal basis of human dislike for us, we must find other ways of convincing them that we are worthy of their trust.” Antennae spread and at the ready, she gazed around the chamber. “As a tri-eint among you, I am open to suggestions.”
There were almost as many positive suggestions as there were opposing views. Unlike in ancient times, those in the minority did not suffer to have assorted limbs amputated as a consequence of losing an argument. In place of jaws and teeth and primitive weapons, only sharp words were employed. In many instances, these cut deeply enough.
Field Marshal MacCunn was conversing with Admiral Yirghiz when a comtech interrupted them. Yirghiz accepted the missive, perused it briefly, and then passed it on to MacCunn. The field marshal’s face featured the protuberant, bony brows of a very early Cro-Magnon. It saddled him with an unfortunate countenance that was the source of many jokes among those within his command. Having risen from the ranks himself, he was delighted to so painlessly be of service to his troops.
“What’s this about an alien task force entering Pitarian space?”
Yirghiz rose as general quarters sounded. “I haven’t a clue, Hamish—but I have a feeling we’re about to find out. I only hope that it’s neutral, or if not, that it isn’t materializing in response to a coordinated effort with the Pitar.”
The bandy-legged MacCunn had to employ a longer stride to keep pace with the lanky admiral. “That would imply some sort of offensive gesture on the part of the Pitar, something totally out of character for them.”
“I concur.” Yirghiz nodded sharply. “Which doesn’t mean we can afford to take the possibility lightly. Hence the automatic call to general quarters.”
Long before the two senior officers reached the bridge at the center of the Tamerlane, the great warship and the rest of the blockading fleet on this side of the Dominion’s sun were on full battle alert, ready to extend a polite, formal welcome to the as yet unrecognized newcomers, or to blow them out of the firmament, as the occasion demanded.
MacCunn took up his position alongside the admiral. Yirghiz was barking orders before his backside contacted the contoured command chair. “Incoming—identification!”
Captain Coulis was ready with a response. “Not ours. Not Pitar.” A generally subdued murmur of relief sighed its way around the bridge at this announcement. “Thranx.”
Both senior officers frowned. Their confusion had plenty of company among the rest of the bridge complement. “What are the bugs doing here?” MacCunn wondered aloud. “And with a task force, albeit a small one.” He glanced in the captain’s direction. “It is a small one?”
Coulis was studying a fully dimensional tridee replete with brightly hued embedded analyses. “One dreadnought. Not Wellington-class, taking into account that thranx design differs from ours. Nothing else appears to be bigger than destroyer-class. No cruisers, no smaller escorting craft.”
“Odd configuration.” Yirghiz frowned. “Too weak to participate in a serious fight, much more impressive than is required for a social call.” He raised his voice as he again addressed Coulis. “Hail them, Captain, and find out what they’re doing here. They’re aware of the quarantine. See if you can find out what they want.”
“Initial intership communications protocol is already being delimited, sir,” the captain