The Ktor smiled. “You have an expression: ‘war to the knife.’ Only one of us may prevail.” Shethkador stared straight at Caine for a long moment, then around at the rest of the group’s glittering, somber eyes, and finally—with a smile and a shrug—looked out toward the stars.
Caine nodded to himself. And so that is our future: the fire that fights fire. And that fight will become Earth’s redemptive trial by fire. The struggle that will simultaneously expiate humanity’s past deeds and prove our future promise.
That macroscopic glimpse of humanity’s futurescape goaded Caine to reexamine and reconceive the “serendipitous” events that had helped humanity prevail in the war. Had the first, fortuitous meeting between himself and Darzhee Kut truly been a matter of chance? Had the Hkh’Rkh disdain and, ultimately, disregard for the Arat Kur been hormone-enhanced? Had similar hormonal tinkering amplified the humanophobia of the leading Arat Kur castes into a fatally dismissive blind-spot? Were any of these occurrences truly serendipitous—or merely instances of Dornaani manipulation?
Caine pulled pack from the steep slope unveiled by that thought. If you start thinking that way, soon you’ll see Dornaani covert control in every event, every random factor of human existence. But how do I—how does anyone—distinguish between the two? How do we go about sorting out the actual Dornaani intents and intrusions from the noise, the illimitable static, of routine human affairs? I guess Downing’s IRIS is still going to have plenty of work to do.
Sukhinin—during the two silent seconds that had compassed Caine’s thoughts—approached Tlerek Shethkador. He drew himself up straight, shoulders back, head high. “We would die before allying with you.”
The Ktor smiled, did not look away from the stars. “Your words may well be prophetic, Consul Sukhinin.”
Caine adjusted his grip on the handgun. “So tell me. If we’re so promising as allies, then why not try to recruit us from the start, openly, instead of trying to blast us back into the bronze age with an asteroid?”
That brought Shethkador’s head around. “Because we did not approve of the outcome of the events of the Twentieth Century. Two prominent forms of autocracy were routed. The impotent rot of pluralism and equality had almost completely perverted the natural order, of survival of the fittest. You were intent on protecting and preserving the weak, both nations and individuals, all in some fawning worship of these inane concepts you’ve derived from your laughable mystery cults.”
“What ‘inane concepts’ are you referring to?”
“Empathy. Justice. Compassion. Each one is a means of decaying the essential truth of strength and power.”
“So, was Nietzsche one of you?”
“No, but we hoped his wisdom would become predominant. Alas, it did not. Not in the last century, nor this one. So, seeing how quickly you were moving toward the stars, we deemed that you would be an impediment, rather than an adornment, to our plans.”
“So you decided to kill ninety-five percent of our population.”
“Our estimates were only eighty percent. But no matter. The cattle had grown soft and the herd needed culling. You would have recovered in two or three centuries. We made sure that the asteroid we directed toward Home was large enough to significantly damage but not destroy you. The resulting waves and geological perturbations would have wiped out the epicenter of the linked viruses you called ‘humanism’ and ‘paidiea.’”
Darzhee Kut’s claws clacked. “Paideia?”
“The virtue of civic duty and sacrifice, usually associated with Pericles’ funeral oration in the Peloponnesian War.” Caine looked at Sukhinin. “Pretty much spoken in the shadow of the Parthenon.”
Sukhinin nodded. “Da, and it was why Nolan chose that location for the meeting. To remind us all how much of that work is still left undone.”
Caine nodded. “And in order to do that work, we have to be in the Accord. And if the Accord is to endure, the price we have to pay right now is silence. We let the charade continue. We act as though the Ktor are not human.”
“So we lie?”
“No, Vassily. We follow the implied spirit of the Accord. It is not our business to reveal information about any race other than our own. But it’s also the smartest thing we can do, in this instance.”
The door opened. Hwang and a dozen security personnel entered, Bannor Rulaine at their head. “Is this the—gentleman—we are to escort to special quarters?”
Caine nodded. “That’s him. And good riddance.”
“A strange farewell,” observed Shethkador. He smiled as the two shortest commandoes—Miles O’Garran and Peter Wu—pulled a restraint jumper up around his ankles. “This would be a better parting platitude: ‘until we meet again.’”
“I hope not.”
“I predict otherwise.” With the Ktor’s arms wrapped tight against his body, the security detachment frog-walked him out of the room. Caine did not lower his sidearm until the door had closed behind the detail.
Even Alnduul seemed to relax slightly, then turned to the humans in the room. “There is one more item of importance. The final name by which the Accord is to address your polity. World Confederation was only a tentative term, was it not?”
Visser nodded. “That is correct, Alnduul. Since we were summoned to the Convocation, though, there has been much talk of settling upon a more species-specific, a more inclusive, term: Human Confederation.”
Alnduul’s lids nictated slowly. “I would suggest you consider a different term.”
Sukhinin stared at the Dornaani. “Now you will tell us what to call ourselves?”
“I merely offer a prudent suggestion. Consider, you are planning to call yourself the Human Confederation. Yet, what is the Ktor, but another human?”
Sukhinin shrugged. “So perhaps we are simply more precise. ‘The Earth Confederation,’ maybe?”
Caine thought. “What about the Terran Confederation?”
Vassily looked over, perplexed. “Terran? From the Latin? Why this?”
It was Visser who answered. “Caine is right. Latin is not any nation's language anymore, so any name derived from it is less likely to arouse cultural jealousies.”
Hwang nodded. “It is also wise not to use a name too closely associated with any one world. If we include ‘Earth’ in the title, we are emphasizing one planet above the others. What about the Moon, Mars, DeePeeThree, Zeta Tucanae? If we choose a title that fails to implicitly include all our worlds, I think you may be only one generation away from rebel groups chanting ‘no Confederation without representation.’”
Visser nodded. “I agree. But your point brings another issue to mind. We cannot know how our government will evolve, or if all of our peoples and polities will have equal, or any, representation within the blocs that comprise our state. Even now, some nations and groups choose not to. Can we truly claim ourselves to be a ‘confederation,’ then?”
“What would you suggest?”
Visser reflected upon Sukhinin’s question for a moment. “I think the closest English term is ‘consolidated.’ It would mean that we are all together—all one political entity—but it does not attempt to define or imply any universal set of political relationships: merely solidarity.”
“I agree,” Sukhinin said softly. “But if we make no statement of political accountability and equality, then what makes us different from a mob? ‘Terran Consolidation’ could be a fine title for the empire of a ruthless dictator, no?”
Caine felt something rise up from values learned at his family’s kitchen table, something which would have made his history-professor father proud. “Republic. We call it a republic.”
Visser frowned. “Not all states will like this.”
“With respect, that's too damned bad. A republic is representative pluralism, yes? So is the bloc structure, even if all the constituent states are not, themselves, republics. But one of the implicitly understood principles of a republic is that its social contract is the supreme authority, and may be fashioned and evolved on
ly by representatives of the people. It puts the rule of law above both the vagaries of the vox populi and the dicta of would-be tyrants. And isn't that what we want? Isn't that what Nolan was urging, on his last day? To take a stand—at least this one—to use a global government not merely as a mechanism for enhanced security, but as an instrument for social good?”
Sukhinin was smiling for the first time in the past hour. He put a hand—Caine had to actively dispel the hackneyed association with a bearish Russian “paw”—on his shoulder. “Nolan could not have said it better. He would be happy today, to have heard you say this.” Sukhinin squeezed his shoulder and his eyes grew shiny. “Nolan was right about you. Every bit. If there is a heaven—and, bozhemoi, I hope there is—he is surely smiling down on you right now.”
Caine gave a brief, and he hoped humble, nod, but thought, That assumes that Nolan is wearing wings above us, rather than in chains below. Just how many good-intentioned lies can you tell before even those prosocial prevarications earn you a one-way ticket to a personal, or mythological, hell? Probably equal to the number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin.…
“So we will recommend our polity to the Accord to be named the Consolidated Terran Republic?” As the first word of the title began rolling off Visser's tongue, it sounded tentative. It had been graven in stone by the time the last syllable emerged.
Caine looked at the persons in the room, committed their locations and facial expressions to memory. I will be able to say—and record—that this was the first time our collective name for ourselves was uttered. That this was the founding moment and vision that would become our touchstone and hope throughout the long trial by fire that now stands before us. And in so recording it, pen a rebuttal to the stylish cynicisms of the modern age: that not all declarations are banal; not all acts are futile; not all beliefs are pointless—and that I have lived the truth of that in this past minute.
And in the time it had taken to reflect upon the significance of the moment, the moment was past. That was, after all, the nature of moments. By the time we can reflect on events, they are behind us. The present is like a vertical line in geometry, with the past stretching limitlessly to the left, and the future immeasurably to the right. But existing upon the line of the present means we are eternally perched upon a single point, an imaginary unit of measure that has no width. Just the way a “historical” moment is so narrow a sliver of time that it appears and disappears in the same instant. It has no epic dimensions and so casts no epic shadow at the moment it passes us. Only when it becomes a momentous object of the past—or future—does it acquire shape, mass, opacity.
Visser approached Darzhee Kut. “Delegate Kut, might I invite you to accompany us to the captain’s ready room? It would be the most appropriate place for us to begin our attempts to recontact your government.”
Darzhee Kut chittered out a string of affirmatives, turned just before he, Visser, Sukhinin, and Hwang exited. “I will look forward to our next meeting, Caine Riordan.”
“As will I, Darzhee Kut.”
As the door closed, Alnduul moved in the opposite direction, toward the observation gallery and the star-littered expanse before them. Caine asked his back. “How much did you know?”
“Of what would occur?”
“That, and the identity of the Ktor.”
“Their stratagems and the flow of events we foresaw. Their identity was uncertain at best. We foresaw that the Ktor would attempt to destroy the Accord unless they could secure your cooperation. With you as a satrapy, the Accord could have been a legitimating structure for their ambitions. However, when you would not ally with them, they hoped you would either prove weak enough to be conquered, or savage enough to undertake atrocities that would make you pariahs. Like them. You have done neither, and they are not revealed. For the Ktor, the outcome is a stalemate.”
“So nothing has really changed.”
“Sometimes, when your adversary is trying to precipitate dramatic change, stability is the best victory. Besides, their stalemate is your gain. Your decision to desist from attacking the Arat Kur Homenest shall garner the humans of Earth the high opinion of the Dornaani and, I suspect, the Slaasriithi. Although provoked and holding apocalypse in your hand, you refused to unleash it. You are a promising species, after all. But history shows that you can also be mercurial at times, and wayward when it comes to following any single course for very long. Perhaps, this time, you will contemplate other species whose natural inclination is to quietly flourish in times of peace, rather than spectacularly soar in times of crisis. We shall see.”
“Well, you must have suspected, or at least hoped, we’d be capable of restraining ourselves,” observed Caine. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have invested so much effort and faith in Nolan. You watched him, helped his heart resist the damage he had received. Which means you knew how he received the damage. Which means you knew about the doomsday rock. Which means you knew the Ktor were behind it. Which means you knew the Ktor had a particular interest in and fear of Earth. Which means the identity of the Ktor really wasn’t so uncertain, that they were likely to be huma—”
“Be still, Caine Riordan.” Alnduul looked about furtively and in that second, appeared to be anything but a super-being. “The moment of revelations about the Ktor is past. Leave it so, and learn not to speak of it. One is never so alone as one thinks. And, yes, we knew of the damage to Nolan’s heart, and what had caused it. And so we surmised what he must have seen, to become so fixed and certain in his purpose to lead your people to the stars. But those of us Custodians who had further suspicions had no proof—and still have none we can share—as to the intents and actual identity of the Ktor.”
Caine gaped. “But today, just minutes ago, you saw—”
Alnduul’s eyes closed. “Understand, Caine Riordan, amongst my people, particularly amongst my elders, I am considered what you would call a hothead: impetuous, prone to unwarranted conclusions, willing to act as much upon instinct as evidence. What was revealed here today cannot even become official information within the ranks of the Custodians, let alone the Dornaani Collective.”
“But—why not?”
“Because this knowledge, and indeed, the entire outcome of your war, is the fruit of a much-poisoned tree. Consider the procedural violations we committed in handling this conflict. We did not announce ourselves to the Arat Kur as soon as we landed upon your world. We provided your people—long before the war commenced—with the device in your arm, foreseeing this probable course of events. We enabled you to carry out a sneak counterattack upon the Arat Kur by using deep-space shifts. And we were willing to stand aside—or so it seemed—as you hovered above the Arat Kur Homenest, with the fate of their entire race in your hand.” Alnduul closed his eyes wearily. “At best, what was revealed here today about the Ktor will be whispered in a the ears of those few volunteers who are willing to be more ‘proactive’ in their Custodianship. But it cannot be entered into the records, nor openly acknowledged.”
Caine felt nauseated. “Meaning that the Ktor are right in one regard. The Accord is founded, and runs, on lies.”
Alnduul closed his eyes. “If that is true, then you may say the same of being a parent. It is founded on the telling of lies.”
Again the paternalistic wisdom crap. “That’s just not—”
“Attend, Caine Riordan. Think of yourself as having an infant child—”
“I wish I could.” A vision of dying, pregnant Opal flitted through his mind, scissored at his heart.
Alnduul seemed to shrink inside himself. “Apologies. Profound apologies. Let me rephrase. Think of small children you have seen about you in Indonesia, and elsewhere. Children who are scared, are hungry, possibly even mortally wounded. And they ask their parent: ‘Progenitor, will I be safe? Will I be fed? Will I live?’ And the parent, knowing the truth to be in the negative—what do they say?”
Caine looked down. “They lie.”
“Just so. And they must. It
is a kindness to the child, no less so than a palm placed upon a fevered brow, or lips upon a face streaked with tears. And so, Caine Riordan, do not answer now, but think upon this. Is no lie a justified means to a good end? Is existence so black and white as that? It would be comforting and simple if such were the case—but is it?
Alnduul stepped back and his mouth puckered slightly: a melancholy smile? “Enlightenment unto you.”
Caine lifted his arms in response. “And unto you, Alnduul. I hope we shall meet again.”
Alnduul, who had started to turn after the farewell, half turned back toward him: “We shall. Indeed, we must.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Far Orbit, Sigma Draconis Two
Caine looked from Sukhinin to Downing as they rose. “Are you at least going to monitor the meeting?”
Downing shook his head. “The Slaasriithi specifically asked that their first contact with us be unrecorded.”
“And that it be with you alone,” Sukhinin said through his playfully malicious smile.
Caine found he was impatient for them to leave. It’s harder to act like I’m not nervous than it is being alone. He made sure his answering smile was lopsided, his tone ironic. “Yeah, that’s me: Speaker to Exos.”
Sukhinin picked up his briefing materials. “Better you than me, cheloveck.” There was a very slight tremor under their feet. Half out of the room, the Russian cast one eye back at the light over the airlock. The red light flickered, became yellow. “Well, they have arrived. Good luck. Don’t get eaten by aliens.”
“Hah, hah, Vassily. Go away.”
“I hear and obey, Gospodin Riordan.” A cough of laughter and he was gone.
Downing sounded more serious and more sympathetic. “Their representative should just about be ready. They breathe an almost identical mix of gases, so neither of you will need suits. When they signal that their representative has debarked and they have undocked from this module, our shuttle will leave as well. You’ve removed your transponder anklet?
“And my collarcom. I don’t like that requirement, Richard. Did they give any explanation?”
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