by Timothy Zahn
For a long moment he stared at the main display across the room. Then, abruptly, he turned to Paul. “Well?” he demanded.
“Well, what?” Paul said. “The Caelians have always been a stubborn lot. They’ve also always felt that they were ignored, disliked, or marginalized. Obviously, something has pushed them past the breaking point.”
“But Qasama?”
Paul shrugged, a slightly awkward gesture now that his servos no longer functioned. “A small group of Qasamans came to their aid during the Troft invasion. Uy returned the favor by sending Isis to Qasama, which ultimately brought the war to an end. I’d say both worlds have finally found the respect and understanding that neither of them has ever had before.”
Santores snorted. “He can’t possibly believe this will work.”
“I’d say that depends largely on you,” Paul said. “What are you going to say to him?”
Santores scowled back at the display. “I don’t know,” he said, the fire fading from his eyes. “I told him there were protocols for this. In fact, there aren’t. Nothing I’ve ever read, nothing I’ve ever explored in a war-game session, has ever touched even remotely on this situation. I’m going to have to research my options. Carefully, and very thoroughly.”
“And until you have a plan?” Paul asked. “Do we return to Aventine?”
“No,” Santores said flatly. “The Dominion needs to maintain a presence here. If we’re lucky, Uy and his people will realize they can’t possibly win and take a long step backward.”
Paul nodded. He could hope that, too. But he didn’t expect it to happen. He didn’t know the Caelians all that well; but from what he had seen, he knew they didn’t draw lines in the sand casually. “What about Aventine?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“It’s having some serious drama of its own,” Paul reminded him. “I’d feel better if you checked back on it while you sort out the Dominion response to Caelian. It’s not like Uy or those five thousand people are going anywhere.”
“We stay,” Santores said firmly. “And don’t worry about Aventine. Captain Lij Tulu is more than capable of handling matters there.”
* * *
The news report came in while Lorne, Werle, and de Portola were still driving toward Capitalia. “As of oh-one-hundred-hours this morning,” the emotionless voice came over the car’s speakers, “the planet of Aventine is hereby declared to be under martial law. Dominion forces under the direction of Captain Lij Tulu are moving to secure all government offices, strongpoints, and vital services. Citizens are instructed to remain calm and listen for official news and information. Questions by government officials should be directed to the Dome in Capitalia.”
Werle turned off the radio and turned to Lorne. “Well,” he said. “What do you think of that?”
Lorne took a deep breath. “I think,” he said, “that the war has now begun.
“I also think the Dominion is going to be very, very sorry they started it.”