Into the Light

by David Weber

  “HOW IS SECRETARY David?” Prime Director Qwelth QwelSynChar asked, nasal flaps tight with concern, as the Earthians were escorted into the conference room.

  “Actually,” Ambassador Bakr replied, “the doctors’ reports are a bit more optimistic than they were.”

  “Praise Chelth,” Qwelth said, then froze, nasal flaps closing in dismay.

  “Prime Director, don’t worry about it,” Abu Bakr said. Qwelth looked at him, and he shrugged. “Back on Earth, we have our own religious extremists, and some of them have been willing to kill thousands of their own species, not just a few dozen aliens from another world, in pursuit of their own brand of fanaticism. Quite a few of them share my own religion—or claim they do, at any rate—and a dozen or so of them did their very best to kill me several of my own people’s years ago.” He nodded his head. “Sarthians in general, and Diantians in particular, have no monopoly on people who commit acts their God would never approve of in His name.”

  “Bardyn told me that was how you’d reacted,” Qwelth said, not even trying to hide ous relief.

  “It wouldn’t make any sense to react any other way.” Abu Bakr shrugged. “Mind you, an awful lot of Earthians have reacted to our own religious extremists by deciding that anyone who shares the religion the extremists claim to follow is equally guilty of the extremists’ crimes. That, unfortunately, is Earthian nature.”

  “And yet another way in which we’re very alike, despite our physical differences.” Qwelth’s nasal flaps fluttered a sigh. Then ou waved at the massive Earthian-style chairs at the conference table. “Please, sit! I shouldn’t have kept you standing.”

  Abu Bakr’s mouth moved in what Qwelth had learned was the Earthian equivalent of a smile and he took one of the chairs. Alex Jackson took the one to his right, and Lieutenant Commander Quinlevan took the one to his left.

  “Bardyn tells me you have a question about Minister Myrcal,” the prime director said, settling into ous own chair and lifting one nasal flap in inquiry. “Obviously, anything I can answer, I will. I suspect, however, that your own means of gathering information is superior to my own.”

  “Commander?” Abu Bakr looked at Quinlevan. “Would you like to take that one?”

  “Of course, Mister Ambassador,” Quinlevan said, then looked at Qwelth. “Our means of gathering information are much more technically sophisticated than yours, Prime Director, but they aren’t omniscient, and, to be honest, the Qwernians we especially want to eavesdrop on are taking surprisingly effective precautions.” Her shoulders moved in an Earthian-style shrug. “We don’t think they’ve been able to evaluate our actual capabilities with any degree of accuracy, but they appear to have decided it would be best to operate under the theory that we can work outright magic. Clan Ruler Juzhyr and ous senior ministers have retreated to the War Palace and locked the door behind them.”

  Qwelth’s nasal flaps twitched in unhappy surprise. The War Palace was buried under three cherans of concrete underneath Kwyzo nar Qwern. Its armored steel doors were at least a kyran thick, and its ventilation system was designed to be proof against poison gas. Not that the Republic had ever threatened to use poison gas. The Qwernian Empire, on the other hand, had not simply threatened to use it but actually had used it in the past. So perhaps it wasn’t totally irrational for Juzhyr to think it might be used against ous capital, although Qwelth didn’t even want to contemplate the sort of mind which could have done that to any city, far less one Kwyzo nar Qwern’s size.

  “We can’t get inside it without resorting to brute force,” Quinlevan continued, “and the overburden’s thick enough that we can’t pick up anything through it, either. We have been able to eavesdrop on their radio traffic and many of their secondary command communication centers, but even that’s of limited use. They’re still broadcasting all over the copulating place—pardon my language, Prime Director—and they’re using prearranged code phrases. We’re pretty sure most of them are decoys, nonsense transmissions covering the real ones, but we don’t have any way to identify which is which.”

  Qwelth shook ous head in understanding. The Qwernian Alliance’s regular wargames had begun three day-halves before the attack on Secretary David. No one had worried much about it at the time; the training exercises were part of the Alliance’s semiannual routine, and they’d been scheduled almost a full year in advance. But the Alliance hadn’t demobilized in the wake of the Chelthist strikes. The official reason for that was to be sure the Alliance’s military was positioned to respond to any future Chelthist attacks. An additional unstated—but clearly understood—reason was to discourage the Republic from taking advantage of the current crisis with some sort of military action of its own. And yet a third unstated reason—in this case, one everyone pretended didn’t exist—was to prevent the Earthians from doing to the Qwernian Alliance what the “Shongairi” had done to the Earthians, should they be so inclined. In fairness, the Repubic’s military had remained at a higher readiness level ever since the Earthians’ arrival, as well, and it, too, was even higher in the wake of the attacks. But even though most of those attacks had occurred inside the Republic, Dianto’s readiness level remained considerably lower than the Alliance’s. And as part of its continued mobilization, the Alliance’s message traffic remained high. In fact, it was far higher than usual for training exercises.

  “Despite the problems Commander Quinlevan’s sketched,” Abu Bakr said, his tone somber as he reclaimed the conversation, “we’re strongly inclined towards the possibility that the Qwernians may be considering something … preemptive.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Qwelth said, and nodded ous head when Abu Bakr looked at oum. “In all honesty, I don’t want you thinking any better of Juzhyr and ous damned Alliance than I can help, but that would be outstandingly stupid. I mean, outstandingly stupid.”

  “The problem with ‘stupid,’ Prime Director, is that people who act that way typically don’t realize they’re being stupid until it’s too late,” Abu Bakr said.

  “That’s true, of course. But I do hope your suspicions about Juzhyr and ous ultimate motives aren’t pushing you towards some sort of preemptive action.” Qwelth looked at ous visitors frankly. “We haven’t fought a war between first-class powers in generations, but we’ve seen plenty of smaller scale bloodletting. However much we Diantians may dislike—even fear—the Alliance, I wouldn’t wish for the sort of casualties an all-out attack on their capital would have to inflict!”

  “We have no intention of doing anything of the sort,” Abu Bakr said reassuringly. “Unless, of course, they do something to force our hand.”

  Qwelth wished the Earthian hadn’t added his second sentence’s qualification, but ou shook ous head in unhappy understanding.

  “In the meantime,” Abu Bakr continued, “there are some gathering straws in the wind that concern us.”

  Qwelth’s nasal flaps frowned. The Earthians’ translator had obviously translated the Earthian literally, and ou had to think for a moment before ou realized what the expression “straw in the wind” might mean. Then he shook his head in understanding. It was actually quite an apt descriptor, ou thought. One well worth adopting as ous own.

  “One of those ‘straws,’” Commander Quinlevan said when Abu Bakr nodded at her, “is that they tell us the rocket launcher used in the attack on Ambassador Bakr has ‘been lost.’ That’s after they sent us the wrong one, initially.”

  “The wrong one?” Qwelth repeated.

  “Yes. They just got around to sending us even the wrong one last day-quarter, so Major McIntyre and I haven’t had a chance to bring Director Bardyn up to date on that bit yet. They handed over the right kind of launcher, but we flooded the site of the attack with recon drones immediately after evacuating Ambassador Bakr. We got excellent imagery on the terrorists’ weapons—and their bodies, for that matter—before the Qwernian police reached the site, and the rocket launcher used in the attack had the old-style sights.” She shrugged. “You
r Army retired that model ten or twelve of your years ago; the one they handed us was the current Diantian issue, though.”

  “I assume you raised that point with them?” Qwelth asked, and Quinlevan shook her head in agreement. “And their response was?”

  “They apologized profusely. As you know, they’ve tracked the terrorist team back to the hotel where they stayed while waiting to launch the attack. Their search of the hotel turned up a much more extensive weapons cache, including four additional rocket launchers. Apparently the officer who had custody of the captured weapons simply assumed the terrorists wouldn’t have used a semi-obsolete weapon when they had a more modern version of it available. Besides, ou doesn’t have the actual weapon any longer. Apparently—” the Earthian seemed to be rather fond of that word, Qwelth noted, and their mechanical translator pronounced it with an edge of exquisite irony each time Quinlevan used it “—they managed to lose it somehow, which was another reason the custodial officer handed us the wrong one.”

  “And—forgive me if I seem less than sympathetic to my fellow Sarthians—they expected you to believe all of that?”

  “We don’t really know,” Abu Bakr said. “We didn’t speak directly to the custodial officer, and one of Minister Myrcal’s aides called on Ambassador Fikriyah to personally deliver the message. So far as she could tell, the aide was obviously embarrassed—possibly even a little ashamed—but believed his own message. And while it does strike one as a bit suspicious, Allah knows Earthian investigators have lost enough critical evidence. On the other hand, these little coincidences do seem to be piling up.”

  Qwelth fluttered ous nasal flaps in derisive agreement, and Abu Bakr gave him an Earthian-style shrug in reply.

  “The thing is,” Abu Bakr continued, “we can’t figure out what the Qwernian endgame might be, assuming all of this isn’t, in fact, simply one unlikely but genuine coincidence after another. From a strategic perspective, it might make sense for them to make the Republic look responsible for the attacks, but that potential gain is hugely outweighed by the potential downsides. There’s an Earthian phrase—‘smart enough to pour piss out of a boot.’ Is there a similar Sarthian phrase?”

  “I believe we would say ‘smart enough to raise ous kilt before ou takes a piss,’” Qwelth replied gravely, and Abu Bakr snorted.

  “Well, assuming Juzhyr and Myrcal qualify under either of those, they should have been able to figure out exactly how Dave—Secretary Dvorak, I mean—would react if he figured out they’d done something like this. Obviously, the people who planted that bomb expected to kill him if they could detonate it at the right time, and they damned well nearly did. But killing him would only have put me into his place, which is exactly what happened when he was incapacitated instead of killed. And Myrcal and I have crossed swords enough that he should have been equally able to predict that my response to it wouldn’t have been much better.”

  “But they—I mean, the terrorists, of course—attempted to kill you, as well,” Qwelth pointed out. “If they’d succeeded, who would that have left in charge?”

  “We’re … not as convinced as we were initially that they really did try to kill me,” Abu Bakr said.

  Qwelth arched a nasal flap in question, and the Earthian shrugged.

  “That’s one of the reasons we wanted to examine that rocket launcher,” he said. “But in answer to your question, Jane Simmons would have been next in the chain of command if I had been killed. Now it would be Fikriyah Batma. Beyond that—” he shrugged again “—I’m afraid Admiral Swenson would have had to nominate someone to take over.”

  “And they also killed Ambassador Jane,” Qwelth mused.

  “I know. We thought about that. Of course, we’re not sure they really understand exactly how our command chain is organized. Which is actually what brings me to another of the things we wanted to get your input about.”

  “Yes?”

  “Our Ted Berke had a conversation with Myrcal a full-day or so ago. Fikriyah was aboard Vanguard with me at the time, which left Berke as our senior representative in Kwyzo nar Qwern. Myrcal was quite upset about Director Bardyn’s visit to the flagship. Ou seemed to feel that the Empire in general—and probably ou in particular—had been slighted. ‘Slapped in the face’ was the way ou put it. Ou wanted to be certain that ous unhappiness and ‘concerns’ were communicated at the highest level. But instead of asking Berke to pass the message to me, ou suggested that perhaps ou should take it directly to Arthur McCabe at the Nonagon.”

  “Well,” Qwelth said slowly, nasal flaps pursed in thought, “the Nonagon is the official communications point. It does seem a bit out of character for Myrcal to be worrying about going through official channels at a time like this, but I can’t see any other reason for oum to use Councilor Arthur as ous relay.”

  “The thing is that I’m not sure ou intended to use him as a ‘relay’ at all. I think it’s possible ou meant that ou saw him as the proper recipient for ous message.”

  “Not you?” Qwelth’s surprise was obvious, and Abu Bakr nodded his head in negation.

  “The more I thought about it, the more bizarre it seemed,” the Earthian said, “but that’s certainly what it sounds like ou intended. To me at least. And most of our people who have listened to the recording agree that I might—and I emphasize might—be right about that. But we’re not Sarthians.”

  He looked levelly at Qwelth, and the Prime Director cocked ous head.

  “May I assume you’d like a native Sarthian’s opinion?”

  “I would. And I know Secretary Dvorak trusted your integrity, Prime Director. I don’t know you as well, but if Dave trusted you, that’s good enough for me. Of course, the entire exchange is in Qwernian, not Diantian.”

  “I assumed it would be.” Qwelth’s nasal flaps smiled wryly. “And I also assumed that, given your intelligence capabilities, you were already aware that I spent almost a triple-eight of years as our ambassador to the Empire. I assure you, my Qwernian is still excellent.”

  “I hoped that would be the case.” The Earthian’s mouth smiled back, and he reached into his pocket for his miraculous “phone.” He opened it and looked down at it.

  “Jibril, please play the audio of Minister Myrcal’s last meeting with Theodore Berke.”

  “Of course,” the phone’s melodious baritone replied, and Qwelth leaned back, eyes closed, listening intently as the playback began. It certainly sounded innocuous enough. Of course—

  “Stop!”

  The Prime Director’s eyes flared open and ou jerked upright in his chair.

  “Pause, Jibril,” Abu Bakr said sharply, and Qwelth found every Earthian eye focused upon him.

  “What?” Abu Bakr asked.

  “He called Councilor Arthur ‘Councilor Arthur,’” Qwelth said. “Why?”

  Abu Bakr and his subordinates looked at one another, then turned back to Qwelth.

  “Because that’s his title,” Abu Bakr said. “Like Alex, he’s an advisor—a councilor—not an accredited ambassador.”

  “But that’s not what Myrcal called him. He called him Councilor,” Qwelth said.

  “Because that’s his title,” Abu Bakr repeated. His confusion was evident, and Qwelth looked at him in matching perplexity. Then the Sarthian’s nasal flaps flared wide.

  “When I say ‘councilor,’ does your translator translate that as ‘councilor’?” ou asked slowly.

  “Well, yes,” Abu Bakr said after a moment.

  “Oh, sweet Chelth,” Qwelth said with soft, intense passion.

  “What is it?” Abu Bakr leaned forward, eyes narrow, and Qwelth nodded his head in lingering disbelief.

  “The first ‘councilor’ in my last sentence was the Qwernian word Myrcal is using; the second ‘councilor’ is the Diantian word we’ve been using as his title. Technically, they mean the same thing, but the Qwernian word has totally different connotations when used in reference to a political or religious official.”

  “How so?” Abu
Bakr pressed.

  “The Diantian word means ‘advisor’ or perhaps ‘consultant.’ In a political or religious context, the Qwernian word means ‘deputy.’ Or perhaps, because we’re talking about a monarchy and not a republic, a better word would be ‘vizier.’” Qwelth nodded ous head again.

  “You were right, Ambassador Abu. Ou wasn’t talking about passing a message to you through Councilor Arthur. Ou was talking about passing a message to Councilor Arthur … because ou thinks Councilor Arthur is Secretary David’s successor in command of your entire mission.”

  * * *

  JORHSAL HURRIED INTO the war room as quickly as ous dignity would allow. “Minister!” ou called when ous eyes met Myrcal’s.

  “What has you in such a rush?” Myrcal asked.

  “We just got the word,” ous chief of staff said tautly. “The Earthians just met with Prime Director Qwelth.”

  “What? Where?” Myrcal asked. “Which Earthians?”

  “Abu Bakr, along with two other Earthians, met with Qwelth. They’re still in Dianzhyr, at their embassy there.”

  “Do we know what their agenda with Qwelth was?”

  Jorhsal nodded. “All we know is that they wanted to talk about some questions they had, regarding some of the evidence. Our agent said they were very secretive about what their questions actually were, though. As close as they were to discovering our involvement before, I can only assume this means they’ve linked us to the Chelthist attacks.”

  Myrcal took a moment to consider ous options. “You said Abu is leading the delegation?” he finally asked.

  “Yes,” Jorhsal replied, ous nasal flaps indicating disgust.

  “Oh, come now, he isn’t that bad.” The look on Jorhsal’s nasal flaps indicated ous disagreement with Myrcal’s statement, but ou didn’t disagree aloud. Myrcal smiled. “Of course, Abu doesn’t have our best interests at heart, and we’ve certainly … disagreed at times, but there are other Earthians who are far worse. That’s why I didn’t have him killed—better the Earthian you know…”