Read Online Warhorse by Timothy Zahn - Free Book Online Page A

filter mask, Roman keyed the door to open.
    Beyond it was another world.
    For a minute he just stood there, still inside the lock, taking it all in. The lighting was muted, indirect, and restful; the air cool and dry, with wisps of movement that reminded Roman somehow of forest breezes. Various art-type items—small sculptures as well as flats—were scattered at irregular intervals across the walls and ceiling. Irregular; yet despite the lack of symmetry, the whole arrangement still somehow managed to maintain a unified, balanced look. Every square centimeter of wall and deck space not otherwise used was covered with soft-looking green carpet. The latter, at least, Roman recognized from Amity ’s spec sheets: a particularly hardy variety of moss which had been adopted by the Tampies as a low-tech air filtration and renewal system. But even here, expectation was incomplete—instead of something with the faintly disgusting appearance of terrestrial mosses, the Tampy version looked far more like just some exotic synthetic carpeting.
    The pro-Tampy apologists often claimed that the aliens’ aesthetic sense was not only highly developed but also entirely accessible to humans. If this was a representative sample, Roman thought, that claim was an accurate one.
    â€œRro-maa?” a grating voice came from outside the lock.
    This was it. Steeling himself, Roman stepped out onto the moss—it yielded to his feet just like carpeting, too—and turned in the direction the voice had come from.
    And for the first time in his life was face-to-face with a Tampy.
    It was, actually, something of a disappointment. What with the conflict between races that had slowly been building over the past ten years—and with the contentions of people like Ferrol that the Tampies were a looming threat to humanity—Roman had apparently built up a subconscious image of Tampies as creatures who, despite being shorter than humans, nevertheless projected an aura of strength or even menace.
    The short part he had right; but the rest of it was totally off target. The Tampy whose misshapen face was turned up to him was thin and delicate-looking, his narrow shoulders hunched slightly forward in a caricature of old age, his hands crossed palms-up at his waist. His skin was pale—a sickly, bedridden sort of pale—and the cranial hair tufts poking out at irregular intervals looked for all the world like bunches of fine copper wire.
    The overall image was one of almost absurd frailty, and in that first moment it seemed utterly incredible to Roman that such creatures should even be taken seriously, much less considered a threat.
    And then he remembered Prometheus…and the half-comical picture vanished in a puff of smoke. No, the Tampies were indeed creatures to be taken seriously.
    Belatedly, he focused on the yellow-orange tartan neckerchief knotted loosely around the Tampy’s neck. That particular color combination belonged to—“Rrin-saa?” he tentatively identified the other.
    â€œI am,” the Tampy acknowledged. “You are Rro-maa?”
    â€œYes, I’m Captain Roman,” Roman nodded. “I wasn’t expecting to be met here.”
    The Tampy made a quick fingers-to-ear gesture—the aliens’ equivalent of a shrug, Roman remembered. “Do you wish to see all?”
    It was, actually, a tempting offer. If the rest of the Tampies’ decor was as unusual and imaginative as that in the corridors, it might well be worth taking the complete tour. But that would have to wait for another time. “No, thank you, Rrin-saa,” he said. “For now, I’d just like to see your command center.”
    â€œI do not understand.”
    â€œCommand center. Control room?—where you keep track of the Amity ’s movement and issue any necessary orders.”
    â€œI do not issue orders, Rro-maa,” Rrin-saa said. “I do not rule.”
    For a moment Roman was