Te’Anna looked at him and then reached out, touched his arm. “Oh! Oh, no.”
PART IV:
Home Is the Sailor, Home From the Sea
Sam
Somewhere . . .
Pain. Searing, rippling, incandescent pain. Pain that bubbled up from inside him and came out as watery yellow vomit flecked with blood. Water sprayers hosing his naked body down, flushing the shit and vomit and urine down the drain in the low part of the floor. Sounds—strange sounds—inside his head or outside fighting to get in? Skin on fire, voice long since gone from screaming, muscle spasms that snapped him backwards, arching his back, bending him double.
The room never changed. Same light, same temperature. How long? Days? Weeks? Years? Naked and bruised, exposed except his left arm locked into the support machine. That must be what kept him alive. Nutrients. Fluids.
Drugs.
Sleep impossible. Instead, periods of partial lucidity alternated with wild hallucinations.
“S’Bitka,” a voice said from all around him. “S’Bitka.”
Was the voice real or another hallucination? He knew the voice.
What? he mouthed without making a sound from his ruined throat.
“S’Bitka.”
What?
“S’Bitka, I am going now to destroy everything you have ever known and loved. Before I destroy them, I will tell them I do this thing because of you, and they will die cursing you.”
No.
“S’Bitka, before I go, I want you to understand. You believe fulfillment lies in the others of your species, that you are strong when you work together, sacrifice for each other, take joy in each other’s company, comfort each other, caress each other. You think this is the highest attainment of sentient life.
“S’Bitka, that is nothing more than arrested development on a species-wide scale. You are young animals, litter mates, rolling around and playing with each other. Your civilization is built on the logic of the litter and on the desperation of the prey. You huddle together and pretend that makes you safe, but the hunter circles, strikes, and then there is one fewer in the litter.
“S’Bitka, you are a child from a race of children. Only the solitary hunter is adult. I go now to do an adult’s task.”
No!
But the voice was gone. The pain returned, more violent than ever.
Time passed, or stood still, or came uncoupled. Then hands lifted his body, wiped him dry and clean, laid him on a soft pallet. Different drugs flowed through him, warm drugs. Finally, he slept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Two months later, Outworld Coalition Headquarters,
the planet K’tok
15 September 2134
Commander Cassandra Atwater-Jones, Royal Navy, listened to the droning questions and glib answers and she wondered if anyone on the Board of Inquiry other than her wanted to scream. This Ka’Deem Brook, this pompous puffed-up little nothing of a man, had left Bitka behind, had left him to a fate literally worse than death, because it would go on forever. Now he was second-guessing Bitka on one of the most difficult decisions she could imagine a commander having to make, the decision how to respond to a brutal and unprovoked attack by an alien civilization. He was analyzing and dissecting and deconstructing arguments and possibilities in the sort of detail a commander on the spot never had the luxury to do,
And half the board was nodding as if this all made perfect sense.
The Board of Inquiry had started out routinely, had looked as if Ka’Deem Brook’s patent disloyalty to Bitka, and his timidity bordering on cowardice once in command, would end his career. Then after a single day of testimony, the Guardian P’Daan had arrived in the K’tok system with four Troatta battleships. While the Coalition presence in the K’tok system had been drawn down with the ceasefire, there was still a substantial force. But P’Daan had not come to fight; he had come to negotiate, possibly integrate the Cottohazz into the Guardian Realms, or perhaps P’Daan’s realm. He wanted something, but no one quite knew what yet. He was still in the blustering phase.
There were a lot of things to talk about, but the big one was the “unprovoked attack on a peaceful planet” by the Cottohazz. Yes, the “unprovoked” business was patent claptrap, but the “peaceful planet” was true enough. But the main card P’Daan held, and it trumped everything else, was the secret to immortality. Not for everyone, of course, that would never work out. But for the best minds, to preserve them . . .
That was when, without anyone ever saying it in so many words, the insidious, despicable drift toward the easy solution to everything had begun, that solution being: blame Bitka. If everyone could just agree on that, then everyone could get along and maybe the lucky ones would get to live forever.
The lucky ones. Somebody sure needed some luck; there wasn’t much good news in the Cottohazz since the Bay had returned. The news spread by jump courier and most Varoki nations had already denounced the whole incident as a Human fraud, cooked up to discredit the large trading houses and the intellectual property covenants. Varoki news feeds declared that even the Varoki passengers were either brainwashed or in on the scheme: zombies or blood traitors. Everywhere else, though, the reaction had begun to unleash what Cassandra thought was a century or more of pent-up resentment. All this time the Varoki had lorded it over the other species, and now it turned out it was a lie! There was going to be blood and there was going to be fire, and Cassandra saw little chance of avoiding it. Oddly, she couldn’t seem to care very much about it all. Almost all that mattered to her now—all except her daughter—was going on in this room, even though it was beginning to look a bit like rearranging the deck chairs on the RMS Titanic.
“If I may clarify a point, Leftenant Brook,” Cassandra said, keeping her voice calm and level, trying to sound as bland and detached as had Captain Lucinda Karlov, the U.S. officer who had been all but guiding Brook through his testimony. “I see here you have presented your formal objection to Captain Bitka’s decision to launch the Marine rescue insertion, arguing that precipitated hostilities.”
“I wouldn’t call it a rescue mission, Commander,” Brook said, and Cassandra looked up from the virtual folder cataloguing the little weasel’s carping disagreements with his commander.
“What would you call it?” she asked mildly.
“It was clearly a revenge mission. He wanted to hit back and the Marines were handy.”
“He later destroyed the complex with a bombardment strike. Why send the Marines first, then extract them, and then launch the strike?”
“Well . . . he had to go through the motions.”
“The motions?”
“Of a rescue. But that wasn’t his intent.”
Cassandra sat back in her chair and folded her hands. “You seem to have a unique and special understanding of the psychological makeup of your captain. Please, tell us more.”
He shifted in his chair before speaking. “I see what you’re implying. You think you understood him better than I do, because of your . . . relationship. But I actually knew him longer than you did, worked with him more closely. He wasn’t the man you thought he was.”
“And what sort of man was that, Mister Brook?” she asked. She tried to look uncertain of herself, afraid of the answer. She didn’t want to frighten the fool away from the edge of the cliff he was about to step off.
“I don’t see how this is relevant to anything,” Karlov said, the beginning of anger in her voice. Of course she was angry; she was smart enough to see where this could go, but she’d stepped in and saved her callow pawn from disaster.
Cassandra turned to Karlov and looked at her for a moment before replying. “He is testifying not as to what Captain Bitka did or said, but what he thought. As I think it safe to assume this board does not countenance the notion of mind reading, we might profitably explore what other foundation the witness can provide for this claim.” She turned back to Brook but she knew already that line of attack was futile now. Dull as this rabbit wa
s, he had seen the snare. But before she could try another approach, Rear Admiral Goldjune spoke.
“That’s a fair point,” he said, “but I’m danged if understand what all this talk about Captain Bitka’s intentions means. We aren’t here to inquire into Bitka’s actions, and I don’t see why you keep pushing this witness that way, Lucinda. We may not agree with every decision Captain Bitka made, but that’s one smart, brave officer out there in a terrible situation, and some of this is coming pretty close to pissing on his grave. Yeoman Williams, let’s change that to ‘spitting’ in the official record. If this were an inquiry into Captain Bitka’s actions, Commander Atwater-Jones wouldn’t be sitting on the board, and that is not a negative reflection on her integrity or judgment. It’s just not a position anyone would put her in, or any other officer similarly situated. For what it’s worth, Commander, I commend you for the restraint and composure you’ve displayed.”
He really was an old dear of a southern gentleman, and she still couldn’t understand what had gone so wrong with his son.
“I appreciate that very much, sir,” she said. “But with your permission I would like to follow this line of questioning just a bit further as I believe it does bear on our main issue.”
The admiral eyebrows ticked up no more than a few millimeters, but he nodded. She leaned forward and rearranged the contents of the virtual folder displayed on the smart surface of the conference table.
“As I was saying, Mister Brook, I have here a considerable document trail demonstrating the extent to which you disagreed with the judgment of your commanding officer. For decision after decision, I see formal letters of protest. The decision to drop the Marines. The decision to use a bombardment munition. The decision to use nuclear warheads to take down the Destie-Four satnet.” She looked up from the folder with what she hoped was a look of honest curiosity. “These formal protests are dated some time after the actual events.”
“There wasn’t opportunity to draft a formal letter of protest at the time,” he said. “We were in the middle of a battle—an unnecessary one.”
“Of course,” she agreed. “It is perfectly acceptable to file a formal record of a protest once things have calmed down. You did actually issue a verbal protest at the time?”
He hesitated, thought for a moment. “Something like that, to the best of my recollection.”
“You were at general quarters on the auxiliary bridge, and he was on the main bridge. Your only means of communication would be by commlink, and all communications would be recorded and part of the battle log. I’m sure we can find the protest.”
Brook shifted in his chair uncomfortably, but his complexion was so dark it was impossible to see if he was blushing. “I’m not certain there was a verbal recorded protest at the time, but the captain knew how I felt about that decision.”
She sat back in her chair. “Ah, so Bitka could read your mind as well as you could read his?”
“Cass,” the admiral warned.
“I apologize, sir, and I withdraw the question. I’m done for now.” She folded her arms over her chest and smiled at Lieutenant Brook. She was going take this little wanker apart the way she would break open a lobster, and she would enjoy it every bit as much. He left Bitka in that Dante-esque nightmare.
He left Bitka.
They’d already heard testimony from the communications officer Bohannon, the tactical officer Alexander, Doctor Däng Thi Hue, and the Varoki diplomat Haykuz, all via holoconference from Cam Ranh Bay, unlike Brook’s physical presence at the board proceedings. The picture was clear enough: Bitka had run out of options. He only had one thing important enough to trade to the On-Living Engineers in return for fixing his ship, and that was himself. There had been some objection from P’Daan, a desire to capture all of the passengers and crew, but the Troatta had ended up deciding the matter. They were tired of fighting Bitka, and they had no way of knowing how badly crippled Cam Ranh Bay really was, so the two battleships returning to Seven Echo laid down the law: take Bitka as a prisoner for P’Daan, fix the ship, let the other aliens go.
Brook had been reluctant to take Lieutenant Ma and the infected Marines back on board, for fear of contamination, despite the assurances of the two Guardians, but Bitka had ordered him to do so, his last official act as captain. Once all his people were aboard the Bay, Bitka turned over command to Brook, turned himself over to the On-Living Engineers, and then they fixed the drive. They had walked right into the drive compartment, opened it up, and adjusted it. Whatever the Guardians did to them to make them on-living, the microbial colony that made up the drive core recognized them as Guardians and did not attack them. Then Brook and Cam Ranh Bay had left.
The two Guardians had stayed behind: K’Irka because P’Daan had made her participation a condition of his acceptance, and Te’Anna for reasons which were unclear to the people on the Bay. Maybe she had never really intended to accompany them, or maybe she had had a change of heart. It would be hard to go without contact with anyone of your own species, even if everyone treated you with kindness and consideration.
What must it be like for Bitka? The On-Living Engineers at least had a small group of acquaintances they shared the experience with, but Bitka was so completely alone, three thousand light-years away.
Now Brook’s testimony was coming to the very heart of the matter: leaving Bitka behind. Karlov was again walking him through it, making sure she posed the questions everyone wanted answered, but leading him to the right answers.
“Isn’t it true that some of the crew wanted you to break the agreement and just go in and rescue the captain?” Karlov asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Brook answered calmly, “but I couldn’t do that without breaking the second truce Mister Haykuz had negotiated with the Troatta, or without violating Captain Bitka’s direct order to me.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Brook,” Karlov said. “I think that answers every question I have.”
She turned to Cassandra with a smile. Gawd, Cass thought, the fool believed she had won.
“I have just a few more, I’m afraid,” Cassandra said, “with your permission, Admiral Goldjune.” The admiral nodded. Cassandra took a moment to be sure her feelings were absolutely under control. The slightest show of anger or contempt would distract from the truth of what she was about to make clear. She must submerge her inclinations, lest they compete for attention with what was more important.
“You have already told us that you objected strenuously to the first truce with the Troatta, the one negotiated while in Destie Seven orbit.”
“Yes, we had them on their backs. The captain should have finished them when he had the chance.”
“You counseled this even after the truce was agreed to.”
“It still wasn’t too late,” he said. “The ordnance was still out there. All we had to do was push that detonation button.”
He said this with the sort of relish which someone who has never actually taken a life often exhibits, undoubtedly because they believe it makes them appear a ferocious warrior—as opposed to the depraved adolescent they actually resemble. She knew she tread on dangerous ground with her next question, but she could not resist.
“Have you ever actually killed someone, Mister Brook?”
“No, Ma’am, I have not. Have you?” he added with a slight smile.
Cassandra looked up and studied the ceiling of the conference room and thought for ten seconds, possibly longer, and she was aware every eye in the room had fastened on her. Then she looked at him. “I am afraid I am not at liberty to say.”
She saw his eyes grow slightly wider, saw the veneer of cocksure self-confidence calve away like the face of an ice shelf sliding into the ocean, and she spent a moment enjoying this absurdly easy victory. She was military intelligence, had been deployed under cover, and of course she was not at liberty to say whether she had or had not ever killed someone in those circumstances. Of course she was not! But it was the time she spent thinking about the answer t
hat was the artistry in the scene, and she had known he would give her that opportunity as surely as if she had been allowed to see the future.
“Why did you decide to leave Captain Bitka in the hands of the Guardians?”
“It . . . it wasn’t my decision,” he said, still obviously shaken and off balance.
“You had recommendations from your officers to launch your remaining combat-ready Marines and bring him back, with a high likelihood of success.”
“I couldn’t do that. The truce—”
“But truces are things to be broken, aren’t they? If there is a clear advantage to be gained? That’s what you just told us.”
“It’s not that simple,” he protested.
“No, being the actual captain is never that simple, is it? And you were the captain, finally sitting in the command chair—”
“This has gone on long enough,” Captain Karlov broke in.
“You had your turn, Lucinda,” the admiral said with quiet patience. “Carry on, Commander.”
“Mister Brook, you were then officially in command of USS Cam Ranh Bay. Captain Bitka had turned command over to you. It was your decision what to do, and you decided to not intervene, to not save Captain Bitka, even though it was apparently well within your ability to do so. Why?”
“He gave me an order,” he said, his voice now almost pleading. Cassandra sat back in her chair and shook her head.
“Mister Brook, he gave you command. After that, the orders were entirely your responsibility.” She turned to Admiral Goldjune. “Sir, I have no further questions for this . . . this officer.”
Nine million kilometers away, on USS Puebla, between the orbits of K’tok and Mogo, Larry Goldjune could feel everything slipping out of his control. He didn’t know what to do about it, but he knew the cause: Sam Bitka. That career-killing fitness report was bad enough, but Larry could have gotten past that. The disappearance of Cam Ranh Bay made things more complicated, made it harder to undercut Bitka’s credibility. No one wanted to hear anything bad about someone who couldn’t defend himself, especially if it might turn out that he was a hero. And damned if he wasn’t! Got his ship and crew back and sacrificed himself to do it. Not just a hero, a fucking martyr! Politicians would be getting into fistfights to give his eulogy. And what was the last official correspondence of the late, great Samuel M. Bitka before he disappeared into legend? That fitness report—like a last will and testament. The damned thing was, Larry couldn’t figure out why he did it. He and Bitka never really got along, but he’d never done anything to undercut him, not really. A few cross words—no reason to ruin a man’s life. And it looked more and more like Bitka had ruined it, meant to ruin it, was willing to damage his own career just to be sure he ruined it. That kind of hatred was just plain evil—or crazy, like an obsession. Maybe that’s why he sacrificed himself—just to make damned good and sure that fitness report stuck, just to be certain he ruined Larry Goldjune’s life. Jesus! If people only knew that. they wouldn’t think he was such a hero, would they? Just a bitter, spiteful mediocrity who got a little lucky once and used it to destroy someone with more promise. That was it, wasn’t it? Jealousy. Bitka had his fifteen minutes of fame but he was going nowhere. He was just a nobody and he couldn’t stand that Larry was somebody. Somebody who would wear stars on his collar someday. Bitka would never have that, so what did he do instead? Ruin Larry’s chance. Like . . . like not being able to paint, so slashing pictures instead. Bitka was lucky he hadn’t come back. If he had, Larry would have killed him. He’d never killed anyone, but as he sat there, feeling everything he’d ever wanted slip away, he knew if he had the chance he would kill Sam Bitka. But now he couldn’t even do that, and it made him want to weep. He was losing everything else, and now he’d even lost his chance for revenge. Nobody had ever had as raw a deal as this. Nobody. It wasn’t fair.
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