The Course of Empire(156)

The last expression was murky, although Aille understood the gist of it. Nor was he surprised. But still he pressed onward.



"It is essential to avoid insult to Narvo in this situation. I cannot emphasize—"



To his surprise, Yaut interrupted him. "Leave it be, youngster. You can no more prevent this than you can control this planet's orbital cycle. And, besides, you are worrying too much."



Aille stared at him, confused. It was normally a fraghta's duty, after all, to be the guardian of custom and propriety.



Yaut's whiskers bristled, his ears upraised and his stance proclaiming ferocity. "The Bond will arrive here before the Naukra. The Harriers are less concerned with propriety than the old kochanau. Much less. So let them see the hatred and rejection Narvo has created—and the alternative you have provided for association. It will do no harm, be sure of it."

* * *



A bit uncertainly, Aille deferred to Yaut's judgement. In any event, other and more pressing issues immediately came to the fore.



First, Tully sent a message. Wiley is willing to come to negotiate in person, if you will provide him a guarantee of safe conduct.



Again, Aille had to settle Yaut's outrage at the implied insult. Aille had studied more of human history than his fraghta, and understood that humans did not necessarily follow long-established Jao principles of honor in this matter. Not surprising, really. A species that could come up with the expression "killing the messenger" would hardly have the Jao automatic respect for envoys and negotiators.



But, no sooner did Aille assure Tully—and through him, Wiley—that his safety would be assured, than it was necessary to change the arrangements. As soon as Aille instructed Kralik to make the arrangements for the parley with Wiley, Kralik informed him that a new development had just occurred.



"We've got a problem, sir. Might be a major one. The Resistance in Texas has launched an uprising in Dallas and Fort Worth. I can't determine yet how much popular support they're getting from the citizens of the area, but they've got a number of combatants and seem to have seized at least part of both cities. My recommendation is . . . ah, perhaps a bit bold."



Aille's ears pitched forward in forthright-invitation. "Yes?"



"I think we need to smash this, immediately and as hard as possible. In other to do that, however, I'd have to order the entire Central Division into northern Texas—which would mean pulling the Second and Third Brigades out of Colorado and Utah. That would leave Wiley and his people unrestrained—and over half the shelters are located in that area of the continent. In the Rocky Mountains, I mean."



Aille saw immediately the logical end point of Kralik's proposal. So did Yaut.



"I agree," said the fraghta. "We may as well discover immediately if this Wiley human can behave honorably."



Aille nodded, a part of his mind interested to see how automatic that human gesture had become. "Do as you see fit, General Kralik. As a member of my service, you can speak with my authority."

* * *



After Kralik ended the holo transmission, he stared for a moment at the empty tank. "I'll say this for the Jao," he mused. "Pluthrak, anyway. They sure don't waste a lot of money on red tape."



He smiled crookedly and ordered the tech—a human one, this time, since it required human technology—to transmit a message back to Tully.





Change of plans. Resistance in Texas has launched a major assault in Dallas-Fort Worth. I intend to crush it, using the entire Central Division. With the authority vested in me by Aille krinnu ava Pluthrak, I am reinstating Colonel Rob Wiley back into military service, with the brevet rank of major general. He is now in command of the new Mountain Division, which consists of whatever forces he has. I will expect General Wiley to maintain order in the area and see to the safe and speedy transfer of as many children as possible into the Jao shelters in the Rockies.

Don't screw this up, Rob.

Tell him, Tully. Tell him.



Ed Kralik, Lt. General



* * *



In sultry Pascagoula, Rafe Aguilera found himself pacing the rows of the black submarines long after midnight. The immense building rang with the sounds of last-minute work. His shoulder still ached from the bullet he'd taken in Salem, however small caliber, but the base doctor said it was healing nicely. He stared up at the massive cradles, while the refit went on at a feverish pace that made the previous rate look like loafing.



Spotlights glared as another disemboweled tank was lowered onto a boomer by a massive overhead crane. The tank's drive engines had been removed and heavy-duty air-conditioning units hurriedly installed in the space left open.