Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [19]
Nevertheless, the politician in him would not quit. He had dealt with difficult people all his life. Even when coping with fanatics there was often room to compromise.
“You’ve already made a strong statement simply by showing up here like this and successfully penetrating hive security.” He gestured with a shake of his head. “Go on then; go further. Set off some noisy explosions and make a lot of smoke. The media will lap it up and be all over you for your opinions. There might be some fines assessed for trespassing, but you’ll get your views splashed all over the tridee, and nobody will get hurt.” Silence greeted his proposal. “What do you say?”
If the group had a leader, and such fringe organizations usually did, that personage chose not to manifest at that time. The middle-aged man who had spoken first provided a response.
“I say that we’ll still have just as many bugs to deal with, and we won’t tolerate being fined for ‘trespassing’ on our own soil.” Using his rifle, he directed Adjami to move out of the line of fire. “You’re a putrid, contaminated bug lover, but you’re still human. Get out of the way.”
One of the most overlooked components of true heroism is an abiding stubbornness in the face of danger. Lifting his arms out from his sides, Adjami held his ground. As with many accidental heroes, who are the most honest kind, if he had taken the time to consider what he was doing he probably would not have done it.
“No. I won’t let you do this.” The shakiness had vanished from his voice.
“You can’t stop us,” a voice in the armed crowd declared.
“And you cannot do this,” he replied firmly.
“Sure we can.” Raising her weapon, the frail woman with the too-large eyes fired.
Adjami looked down at himself in disbelief. The old-fashioned but still effective projectile weapon had produced a small hole in his shirt. The stain that was spreading from it resembled the rapidly expanding penumbra of a sunspot. It did not hurt in the way the representative believed it might. There was no stabbing pain, no overwhelming throb. Instead, the wound burned as if he had been jabbed with a hot fireplace poker.
Weakness overcame him, and he fell to his knees. Behind him a mellow, calm voice was murmuring in Terranglo. “Thank you for trying, my friend. Intelligence knows no shape. Neither does compassion. Tchik ua! re!iq.”
The rest of what Hathvupredek the councilor said was lost in the ensuing staccato of gunfire. When it was over the two bodies, one mammalian, the other insectoid, lay on the ground. The intruders resumed their advance, stepping over and ignoring them both.
There were no weapons in the hive. As guests of an indecisive planetary government representing a mistrustful species, it would have been impolite to stockpile anything that could have been construed as offensive. No one foresaw a need for guns or their presence on what was presumed to be hospitable ground.
Breaking in through one of the lightly barred surface entrances that had been constructed subsequent to official recognition of the colony’s existence, the wrathful intruders met little resistance. Distributing grenades and bullets at every opportunity, they rampaged through the stunned hive firing indiscriminately at everyone and everything in their path, making no distinction between thranx “invaders” and human “traitors.”
Peaceful though they were, thranx history was a litany of battle, of hive striving for supremacy over hive. More recently, they had been forced to deal with a frustrating, seemingly endless confrontation with the more militaristic AAnn. So the species was not unfamiliar with conflict, either on an individual or racial scale.
As soon as the scope and ferocity of the incursion became known, internal barriers were closed to restrict the range and movement of the aggressors. Arming themselves with tools and kitchen implements, lines of silent,