Free Honor of the Clan by John Ringo

one thing and another if you ran into a batch of them. Unfortunately, there were always too few humans to sweep through fast enough to keep isolated ferals from joining together into packs, occasionally even a damn God King. So this blue shit was new, at least. But ye gods, the smell! It was like hot copper mixed with sour milk. Oh, well. Nobody's blood and guts smelled very good, when you got right down to it. Better them than him. Lot less risk than killing Posleen, too.
    Of course some of them got away. The AID was surprised, even if Wheeler and Karnstadt were not.
    "They ran away," the machine stated unnecessarily.
    "No duh, box dude," Karnstadt answered it, breathing hard.
    "This was quite unexpected." The AID sounded perplexed.
    "Uh, yeah. That would be unexpected by you, " Wheeler told it.
    "The other targets are fleeing the building," it said.
    "It's your money. Where do you want us to go and who do you want us to kill next?"
    While Karnstadt took a tour of the room, finishing each living Indowy with a blade through the brain, Wheeler held the box, getting indigo blood all over it. AIDs were, of course, incapable of shuddering.
    There was a notable pause before the AID answered, "The intriguers in the meeting room are not yet leaving. A number of them are high priority. Go there."
    "Hey, I want you to notice I'm being thorough," Karnstadt told it. "No claiming later we didn't do our job. If their medics manage to save any of these midgets, it won't be because of us."
    "Noted."
     
    Three buildings over, a very agitated Indowy clan head had closeted himself away in a side office, currently co-occupied by one Cphxtht, here to inspect the progress on a particularly tricky order for an amphibious musical instrument. The Indowy Maeloo was begging.
    "O unfortunate but talented craftsman, I fail to see what this internal Darhel response to intriguers, while very bad, has to do with us?" The Tchpth jittered from a complicated dance with the feet to his left, to his right set of feet, and back.
    "Revulsion?" Maeloo, having no logic to offer, fell back on deep instinct and base emotion.
    Cphxtht considered, dance changing to forward and back, almost a rocking motion. "That argument . . . is acceptable. Most persuasive clan head, I will carry your plea."
    "Unnecessary." At the top of the ceiling, a Himmit detached itself from its smooth and seamless blend with the curved geometric design that ringed the top of the office walls, returning to its natural purplish-gray color. "I will carry the message and those who come. You and others who wish to leave Prall will be on the top floor of building—" The creature gave a string of designators, the equivalent of an Indowy street address, and named a local time some five Earth hours hence.
    The Maeloo agreed with alacrity, even though he knew that only perhaps twenty-five percent of the most critical Bane Sidhe personnel would be able to make the rendezvous, and even then the survivors would be crammed together at a density that would be uncomfortable even for his race.
    The Himmit was not indulging in charity. In exchange for the transport, it would want to hear the story of every refugee. In detail.
    Far more important than the transport itself, the Himmit would need to know where to take its passengers, and would wish to know if similar events were transpiring on other Galactic worlds. It would, therefore, take the rare step of using advanced communication to carry another race's message. In return, the Indowy Maeloo and any other clan head aboard would affect not to notice that the information traveled so much faster than it ought.
     
    The small cabin was empty except for himself and Himmit Harlas, their rescuer and host. Accomplishing this feat had required cramming the Indowy outside even more tightly together, but it was only for a few minutes. The resulting discomfort didn't matter to the refugees. They were Bane Sidhe, they were terrified, and in any case, Indowy did not