Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [127]
Answer and explanation arrived simultaneously mere moments later. Coulis swiveled around in her seat to address the two senior officers. Her expression effectively communicated her confusion.
“The vessels are indeed thranx, gentlemen. They are carrying a representative of the Grand Council of the Great Hive.” Her gaze traveled from one senior officer to the other. “It wants to come aboard.”
This was not the sort of decision either of the two men had expected to have to make when they had arisen at the start of the current shift. Yirghiz responded while MacCunn eloquently said nothing.
“This is your ship, Captain. Not being a strategic judgment, the decision whether or not to receive visitors is entirely yours.”
“I’m a starship captain,” Coulis replied. “This is a matter for diplomats.”
Now MacCunn spoke up. “Not when a vessel is on combat station. No, it’s your call, Captain.”
Coulis rubbed at an uncooperative eyebrow. “No ship of the armada has seen any action for several weeks now. The next tactics are still in the process of being schematized. I see no reason to refuse such a request from a neutral power.” She smiled laconically. “If it’s secrets of military technology the thranx are after there are far easier ways to steal them.”
“I’ve never met a thranx. Walked around tridee holos, but never encountered one in the flesh.” Yirghiz was curious. “Let’s see what they want here.”
MacCunn grunted softly. “To try and ascertain who’s winning, I would imagine. If that’s the case, they’ll need to use their imaginations.”
Both men and everyone else on the Tamerlane and within the armada who obtained a good look at the thranx craft were suitably impressed. The KK-drive type vessels were sleek and well fitted out, their design and construction bespeaking a technology as advanced as anything humankind could devise. Nor just because the alien dreadnought massed almost as much as the Wellington or the Tamerlane could it be assumed that it was the most powerful ship in the thranx arsenal.
Insisting that any formalities be kept to a minimum, the insectoid emissary transferred to one of the flagship’s locks via a small shuttle. There was some confusion resulting in a delay in the visitor being welcomed when it was discovered that he had a personal escort, but the matter was quickly resolved without rancor. As Coulis pointed out, it was natural to expect so high ranking an individual of any species to be accompanied by attendants. It was explained by the thranx that the emissary’s two escorts were necessary to look after her health and not her security, and those on board the flagship could well believe it as soon as that worthy was helped from the shuttle’s lock.
The thranx was very old. One of her ovipositors had been surgically removed, the consequence of a disease that was not mentioned. The other double-curled egg-laying appendage had lost so much of its natural spring that it lay nearly flat against her back. Instead of the familiar smooth blue-green, her exoskeleton was a rich, deep purple, the chitin worn rough and pebbly in places. The golden compound eyes did not shine as brightly as did those of her solicitous escorts, but the antennae were ever-moving and alert. The characteristically soft thranx voice was strong, spilling words and clicks and whistles without vacillation.
MacCunn and Yirghiz met her with translator in tow. That individual’s presence was not required. The emissary spoke very good Terranglo. For his part, Yirghiz looked forward to trying out his stock of memorized Thranx phrases. He was terrible at grammar and could not figure out how to properly integrate the requisite gestures into the conversation, but he was a good whistler and an excellent mimic. Becoming truly fluent in the combination of Terranglo words and Thranx expressions that was evolving into a kind of mutual patois among the young of both species was beyond an old soldier like himself, but he had felt bound to try. He had also memorized a cache of stock AAnn phrases and could