Star Wars_ The Black Fleet Crisis 01_ Before the Storm - Michael P. Kube-McDowell [41]
“Of course, Princess.”
The Yevethan ground skimmer that picked up Nil Spaar in the bowels of the Imperial City administrative complex discharged him a few minutes later in the bowels of the embassy ship Aramadia.
There was no one there to greet him, but that was no surprise. Nor was the fact that the driver waited inside the skimmer for Nil Spaar to climb out on his own and walk the few steps to the airtight exit hatch on the front wall. As soon as the hatch closed behind him, a thick yellow gas began to fill the chamber where the skimmer hovered. Shortly afterward a scalding spray poured down on the skimmer from thousands of tiny jets, chasing the yellow mist down vents and drains.
Behind the hatch, Nil Spaar found himself in a sanitary entry station. The drill had already become familiar to him, but that day there was more urgency to his motions. Quickly removing his clothing, he dropped it into a sterile incinerator. There was a reassuring pop and hiss when he sealed the loading chute. The face of the incinerator grew warm to the touch.
Then Nil Spaar stepped into the scrub chamber. With eyes closed, he invoked the needle-spray showers—first the gentle rain of the fumigant, then the agonizing bite of the scrub jets. As the water pelted his body, his expression softened to one approaching bliss. He lingered in the scrub chamber, willingly enduring a second cycle of cleansing. Then he passed through the inner door, where waiting hands draped his body in a fire-blue gown.
“Viceroy,” the attaché said, bowing.
“Thank you, Eri,” he said, accepting the heavy silver viceroy’s neckguard and fastening it in place. “I must resign myself to it—their stink never leaves my nostrils, no matter how long I stay in the scrub chamber.”
“You carry no taint to my senses,” Eri said.
“I will trust that is more than politeness,” said Nil Spaar. “Is Vor Duull expecting me?”
“Yes, Viceroy.”
“Good. See that abstracts of today’s reports and examinations are waiting for me in my quarters. I’ll be there shortly.”
An aircart whisked him up eleven levels to the domain of Vor Duull, proctor of information science for the Aramadia. Nil Spaar was greeted with a quick bow. “Welcome back, Viceroy.”
“More welcome for me than for any of you,” he said. “Were you able to receive a signal?”
“Without interruption,” Vor Duull said. “A recording was made per your instructions and placed in your library.”
“Did you watch?”
“Only enough to make certain that the decoders and stabilizers were functioning.”
Nil Spaar nodded. “What do you think of them?” When Vor Duull hesitated, the viceroy prodded, “Go on, I excuse you.”
“They seem to me weak, gullible—eager to please. She is no match for you.”
“We shall see,” Nil Spaar said. “Thank you, Proctor. Continue your fine work.”
The aircart carried him swiftly up the central spiral of the ship to the third level, above which only command personnel could go. He accepted the salutes of the honor guard and a kiss from his darna, then disappeared behind locked doors.
In the privacy of his quarters, Nil Spaar sat in front of a cryptocomm. His brief message was beamed to N’zoth, capital of the Duskhan League, as a scrambled string of bits mixed into the stream of ordinary open dispatches.
“I have had my first meeting with the vermin,” Nil Spaar said. “All is going well.”
The datacard Admiral Hiram Drayson dropped into the datapad on his desk looked for all the world like a standard Universal Data Exchange card.
But the cards used by Alpha Blue for sensitive data used a nonstandard encoding, which made the card appear blank when placed in a standard datapad. The little plastic rectangle could even be erased and reformatted without destroying the information it bore—in this case, excerpts from a recording made earlier that day by a tiny audio telescope concealed in the ornate scrollwork on the ceiling of the Grand Hall. The excerpts had been selected for Drayson