by David Weber
“Makes sense,” Sean agreed after a moment, then shivered. It hadn’t felt nice to realize how close they’d come to dying, but it felt even less nice to know eighty thousand people had died as a casual by-product of an effort to murder him and his sister. The hatred—or, even worse, the cold calculation—of such an act was appalling. He shook himself free of the thought and hoped it wouldn’t return to haunt his nightmares.
“All right. If that’s what happened—and I think you and Sandy are probably right, Harry—then we shouldn’t run into any more ‘programs from hell’ in Israel’s software. On the other hand, the trip’s going to take long enough I don’t mind spending a few days making certain. Do any of you?”
Three human heads shook emphatically and Brashan curled his crest in an equally definite expression of disagreement. Sean grinned crookedly.
“I’m glad you agree. But in the meantime, it’s been over six hours since everything went to hell. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”
The others looked momentarily taken aback by his prosaic remark, but all of them had young, healthy appetites. Surprise turned quickly into agreement, and he smiled more naturally.
“Who wants to cook?”
“Anyone but you.” Sandy’s shudder elicited a chorus of agreement. Sean MacIntyre was one of the very few people in the universe who could burn boiling water.
“All right, Ms. Smartass, I hereby put you in charge of the galley.”
“Suits me. Lasagna, I think, and a special side dish delicately spiced with arsenic for Brashan.” She eyed Israel’s youthful commander. “And maybe we can convince him to share it with you, Captain Bligh,” she added sweetly.
Chapter Eleven
The Emperor of Mankind opened his eyes at the desolate sounds, and for just a moment, as he hovered on the edge of awareness, he felt only anger. Anger at being awakened from his own tormented dreams, anger that he must find the strength to face another’s sorrow. And, perhaps most of all, anger that the sobs were so soft, so smothered, so … ashamed.
He turned his head. Jiltanith was curled in a wretched knot, far over on her side of their bed, arms locked about a pillow. Her shoulders jerked as she sobbed into the tear-soaked pillowcase, and waking anger vanished as he listened to her sounds and knew what truly spawned his rage. Helplessness. He couldn’t heal her hurt. Her grief was nothing he could fight. He couldn’t even tell her everything would “be all right,” for they both knew it wouldn’t, and that tormented him with a sense of inadequacy. It wasn’t his fault, and he knew it, but the knowledge was useless to a heart as badly wounded by the anguish of the woman he loved as by his own.
He rolled over and wrapped her in his arms, and she drew into an even tighter knot, burying her face in the pillow she clutched. She was ashamed, he thought. She condemned herself for her “weakness,” and another flash of irrational anger gripped him—anger at her for hurting herself so. But he strangled it and murmured her name and kissed her hair. She clenched the pillow tautly an instant longer, and then every muscle unknotted at once and she wept in desolation as he gathered her close.
He stroked her heaving shoulders, caressing and kissing her while his own tears flowed, but he offered no cliches, no ultimately meaningless words. He was simply there, holding her and loving her. Proving she was not alone as she’d once proved he was not, until gradually—so heartbreakingly gradually—her weeping eased and she drifted into exhausted slumber on his chest while he stared into the dark from the ache of his own loss and hated a universe that could hurt her so.
* * *
Dahak closed the file on Imperial Terra’s hyper drive once more. Had he possessed a body of flesh and blood he would have sighed wearily, but he was a being of molycircs and force fields. Fatigue was alien to him, a concept he could grasp from observation of biological entities but never feel … unlike grief. Grief he’d learned to understand too well in the months since the twins had died, and he’d learned to understand futility, as well.
It was odd, a tiny part of his stupendous intellect thought, that he’d never recognized the difference between helplessness and futility. He’d orbited Earth for fifty thousand years, trapped between a command to destroy Anu and another which forbade him to use the weapons that would have required on a populated world. Powerful enough to blot the planet from the cosmos yet impotent, he’d learned the full, bitter measure of helplessness in a way no human ever could. But in all that time, he’d never felt futile—not as he felt now—for he’d understood the reason for his impotence … then.
Not now. He’d reconsidered every aspect of Imperial Terra’s design with Baltan and Vlad and Geran, searching for the flaw which had doomed her, and they’d found nothing. He’d run simulation after simulation, reproducing every possible permutation on Imperial Terra’s performance envelope in an effort to isolate the freak combination of factors which might have destroyed her, and no convincing hypothesis presented itself.
The universe was vast, but it was governed by laws and processes. There was always more to learn, even (or especially) for one like himself, yet within the parameters of what one could observe and test there should be understanding and the ability to achieve one’s ends. That was the very essence of knowledge, but he’d used every scrap of knowledge he owned to protect the people he loved … and failed.
He’d already decided never to tell Colin about the Alpha Priority command he’d given Imperial Terra. It had failed, and revealing it would only hurt his friends as one more safeguard—one more effort on his part—which had saved nothing. They had not said a word to condemn him for insisting upon that particular ship, nor would they. He knew that, and knowing only made the hurt worse. He’d done harm enough; he would not wound them again.
He was different from his friends, for he was potentially immortal and, even with enhancement, they were such ephemeral beings. Yet the brevity of their span only made them more precious. He would have the joy of their company for such a short time, and then they would live only in his memory, lost and forgotten by the universe and their own species. That was why he fought so hard against the darkness, the reason for his fierce protectiveness.
And it was also why, for the first time in his inconceivable lifetime, a wounded part of him cried out in anguish and futility against a universe which had destroyed the ones he loved for no reason he could find.
* * *
“ … and so,” Vlad Chernikov said quietly, “we must conclude Imperial Terra was lost to ‘causes unknown.’ ” He looked around the conference table sadly. “I deeply regret—all of us do—that we can give no better answer, but our most exhaustive investigation can find no reason for her destruction.”
Colin nodded and gripped Jiltanith’s hand.
“Thank you for trying, Vlad. Thank you all for trying.” He inhaled sharply and straightened. “I’m sure I speak for all of us in that.”
A soft murmur of agreement answered, and he saw Tsien Tao-ling slip an arm around Amanda’s shoulders. Her eyes were dry but haunted, and Colin thanked God for her other children and for Tsien.
He glanced at Hector and bit his lip, for Hector’s face was dark and shuttered, and Ninhursag watched him with anxious eyes. Hector had withdrawn, building barricades about his pain and buttressing them by burying himself in his duties. It was as if he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—admit how savagely Sandy’s loss had scarred him, and until he did, he could never deal with his grief.
Colin shook himself with a silent, bitter curse. Of course Hector couldn’t “deal with his grief”—and who was he to be surprised by that? They were all wise enough to seek assistance, but the Imperium’s best mental health experts could tell him nothing he didn’t already know. Jiltanith wept less often now, but even as he comforted her and drew comfort from her, there was a festering hatred in his own heart. A deep, bitter rage for which he could find no target. He knew what he felt was futile, even self-destructive, yet he needed to lash out … and there was nothing to lash out aga
inst. He pushed the rage down once more, praying his counselor was right and that time would someday mute its acid virulence.
“All right,” he said. “In that case, I see no reason not to resume construction on the other class units. Gerald? Do you or Tao-ling disagree?”
“No,” Hatcher said after a brief glance at the star marshal.
“Then let’s do it. Is there anything else we need to discuss?” Heads shook, and he sighed. “Then we’ll see you all Thursday.” He stood, still holding Jiltanith’s hand, and the others rose silently as they left the room.
* * *
Senior Fleet Admiral Ninhursag MacMahan was angry with herself. Few would have guessed it from looking at her, but after a century of hiding her feelings from Anu’s security thugs, her face said exactly what she told it to.
She sat behind her desk and drew a deep breath. It was time to return to the needs of the living. Gus van Gelder and her ONI assistants had been carrying her load, and that they’d done it superlatively was scant comfort. It was her job; if she couldn’t do it, it was time to curl up and die. For a time she’d considered doing just that, but even at her worst, a stubborn part of her had mocked the bad melodrama of the thought.
Now, deliberately, she buried the temptation forever and felt herself coming back to life as she set her grief aside. It wasn’t easy, and it hurt, but it also felt good. Not as it once had, but so much better than the dull, dead disinterest which had gripped her for far too long, and she plugged her feed into her computer and called up the first intelligence summary.
* * *
Colin sat on the rug, watching the fire and rubbing Galahad’s ears. The dog lay beside him before the library hearth, eyes half-closed, massive head resting on Colin’s thigh while they both stared into the crackling flames. To the outward eye they must present the classic picture of a man and his dog, Colin thought, but Galahad certainly wasn’t his pet. Galahad and his litter-mates shared a very dog-like exuberant openness, insatiable curiosity, and a need for companionship, but they belonged only to themselves.
Now Galahad emitted a contented snuffle and rolled onto his back, waggling his feet in the air to invite his friend to scratch his chest. Colin complied with a grin, and chuckled as the dog wiggled with soft, chuffling sounds of sensual delight. That grin felt good. The four-footed members of the imperial family had done more than anyone else would ever suspect to help with his and ’Tanni’s grief. They shared it, for they, too, had loved the twins, but there was a clean, healthy simplicity to their caring, without the complex patterns of guilt and subliminal resentment even the best humans felt while they grappled with their own loss.
“Like that, do you?” he said, working his scratching fingertips into Galahad’s “armpits,” and the big dog sighed.
“Of course,” his vocoder replied. “It is a pity we do not have hands. I would enjoy doing this for the others.”
“But not as much as you’d enjoy having them do it for you, huh?” Colin challenged, and Galahad sneezed explosively and rolled upright.
“Perhaps not,” he agreed, and Colin snorted. None of the dogs ever lied. That seemed to be a human talent they couldn’t (or didn’t want to) master, but they were getting pretty darn good at equivocating.
“I think humans are a bad influence on you. You’re getting spoiled.”
“No. It is only that we are honest about things we enjoy.”
“Yeah, sure.” Colin reached under Galahad’s massive chest and stroked more gently. The standing dog’s chin rested companionably on his shoulder, and he glanced over at the corner where Galahad’s sister Gwynevere sat very upright, watching Jiltanith move her queen. Gwynevere cocked her head, ears pricking as she considered the move. She was the only one of the dogs to develop a taste for chess—it was a bit too cerebral for the others—and by human standards she wasn’t all that good. Galahad and Gawain were killers at Scrabble, and he’d been horrified to discover Horus had taught all of them to play poker (though none of them—except, perhaps, Gaheris—could bluff worth a damn), but Gwynevere was determined to master chess. And, to be fair about it, she was improving steadily.
The really funny thing, he thought, was that while Jiltanith was an excellent strategist in real life, Gwynevere beat her quite often. ’Tanni was too direct—and impatient—for a game which emphasized the indirect approach.
“Excuse me, Colin,” Dahak’s voice said, “but Ninhursag has just arrived at the Palace.”
“She’s here now?” Colin looked up, and Jiltanith met his eyes with matching surprise. It was very late in Birhat’s twenty-eight-hour day.
“Indeed. And she appears quite agitated.”
” ’Hursag is agitated?” Colin shook his head and scrambled to his feet. “Tell her to come on down to the library.”
“She is already on her way. In fact—”
The library door burst open. Admiral MacMahan came through it like a thunder squall, and Colin rocked back on his heels—literally. Ninhursag was only middling tall, and the mood he usually associated with her was one of deliberate consideration, but tonight she was a titan wrapped in vicious, killing rage.
“ ’Hursag?” he said tentatively as she came to a halt just inside the door. Every movement was rigidly over-controlled, as if each of them took every ounce of will she had, and she chopped a nod.
“Colin. Jiltanith.” Her voice was harsh, each word bitten off with utter precision. “Sit down, both of you. I have something to tell you.”
Colin looked at Jiltanith, wondering what could have transformed Ninhursag so, but ’Tanni met his eyes with a shrug of ignorance and a slight gesture at the chairs before the hearth. They settled into them, listening to the crackle of burning logs as Galahad and his siblings ranged themselves to either side, and every eye, human and canine alike, watched Ninhursag grip her hands behind her and make herself take a quick, wordless turn about the room. When she turned to face them, her face was calmer, but it was a surface calm, built solely from professionalism and self-discipline.
“I’m sorry to burst in on you, but I just turned up something … interesting. Or, rather, I just confirmed something interesting.”
She inhaled again, sharply, and gave herself a tiny shake.
“I’ve been slacking off at ONI for months,” she continued in a flat voice. “You know that, Colin, though you haven’t said anything. I’m sorry. You know why I have. But I’m getting myself back together, and yesterday I started through a stack of reports that’ve been accumulating since, well—” She broke off with another shrug, and Colin nodded. Jiltanith held out a hand to him, and he took it as Ninhursag cleared her throat.
“Yes. Anyway, most of them were fairly routine. Gus and Commodore Sung have handled the hot stuff as it came in. But one of them—an accidental death report—caught my attention. It was the date, I think. It happened two days after Imperial Terra hypered out for Urahan, and it covered an entire family.” Fresh pain tightened her lips, but she went harshly on.
“They were civilians, and it was a traffic accident, so I wondered why ONI had it, until I looked more closely,” Ninhursag went on in that flat voice. “The husband was Vincente Cruz. He wasn’t military, strictly speaking, but—” she paused, and her eyes were cold “—he worked for BuShips.”
Colin felt Jiltanith’s hand twitch in his and stiffened. It was no more than a vague stirring of suspicion, but the bitterness in Ninhursag’s eyes turned something cold and wary deep inside him.
“I don’t know why that stuck in my mind, but it did, and when I looked more closely I found a couple of things that seemed … out of kilter.
“The Cruzes lived on Birhat, since he worked for BuShips, but they were killed on Earth. I checked and found out they usually vacationed in North America, but Cruz had returned from there less than three months before, so I wondered why they’d gone back so soon. Then I found out his wife and family had stayed there—visiting friends—and he’d gone back to collect them.
“Aga
in, I don’t know why that bothered me, but it did. So I did some more checking. Cruz’s two older children were enrolled for education here on Birhat, and I discovered that he hadn’t warned the education people they’d be staying on Earth. He notified them only after he got back, but two years ago, when he left them to visit family in Mexico, he’d notified their teachers over a month before they left. He was concerned with making certain they didn’t lose any ground shifting back and forth between the two school systems.
“That seemed odd, so I checked the hypercom and mat-trans logs. In the ten weeks they stayed on Earth, he neither sent to them nor received from them a single hypercom message. Nor did he use the mat-trans to visit them in person. There was no communication between them at all for ten weeks … and he and his wife had a ten-month-old baby.”
Colin’s eyes began to burn with a green fire that matched the fury in Ninhursag’s bitter brown stare, and the admiral nodded slowly.
“The accident report looks completely aboveboard, if a bit freakish. It was a high-speed event—a ridge-line collision at almost Mach six—and the flight recorder was totaled, but the altimeter was recovered, and analysis indicated it was under-reading by about two hundred meters. That was enough to put it into the ridge, but when I did a little discreet checking, no one seemed to know who Cruz’s family had been visiting. I did a computer search of Earth’s credit transactions—as a BuShips employee, he and his wife both held Fleet cards—and I couldn’t find a single transaction for Elena Cruz on Earth.