Fearful Symmetry (The Robert Fenaday and Shasti Rainhell Chronicle Book 2)

by Edward McKeown

  “This Pard,” Telisan said, “is subtle.”

  “Yes,” Fenaday rubbed tired eyes. “We saw the trap at the system’s edge and bluffed our way through. Then I overplayed right into his hands, filing protests, getting us banished to the high orbit, where I guess he wanted us. Worse yet. We can’t really complain about Denshi. It’s the Navy we’ve been knocking heads with. I may have been wrong, Mmok. Maybe the right thing to do was to drop the Intruder out by the gas giant’s rings and let you make a stealth approach.”

  “No,” Mmok said, “the outsystem patrols are better than reported. Despite your request, Aswa’s fighters shadowed us all the way in. Then there are the Moonbase patrol sloops. We could get the robots down by launching the Intruder cold and starting her up later. Unlike the robots though, I need life support, even if it is less than a human normally needs. With me on board, there would be a power source operating. Without me, the robots are useless. Checkmate.”

  “We have to discredit Denshi,” Fenaday slammed a hand down on his command chair in frustration. “If I can start something with Pard on the station, some dispute that causes him to lose face, maybe we can get our security turned over to someone else and get downworld. Then we can start working. Denshi and the Navy are still trying to get over the bad publicity for almost nuking us. Another mistake could get them out of our way. We’ve got money, bearer bonds and gems for bribes, even some material for trade, but we have got to get to people.”

  “The best we may hope for,” Telisan said, “is to get a few of us on Olympia. Then we must try to escape and find the others. It seems so hopeless.”

  Fenaday looked at his friend. For the last few days, it seemed some grief was acting on him. He appeared far from his usual optimistic, confident self. It suddenly occurred to him that Sharla also seemed very restrained. “Let’s take a walk,” he said to Telisan. “Mr. Wardell, you have the bridge.”

  They exited the bridge in silence, walking down to one of Fenaday’s favorite spots, a small observation area over the hanger deck with its window onto space. A few crewmen lounged in the area. They found reasons to drift away when Fenaday and Telisan walked in.

  After they were out of earshot, he turned to Telisan. “What ails, my friend? You still sore at me about that little exchange with Mmok?”

  “No,” Telisan said grim-faced, “but my troubles center on him. You and he have different missions here. I fear at some point to find ourselves at odds with him and his killing machines.”

  “What else is new?” Fenaday said. “No, there is something more here. You and Sharla have been acting strange these last few days. Anything I can help with? I may not be Denlenn, but I’m a bit older and I’ve been married.”

  “Perhaps you can help,” Telisan said. The story of how he’d asked Arpen to sabotage Mmok spilled out of Telisan. When he finished, he leaned against the portal, yellow cat-irised eyes blinking in the equivalent of tears, exhausted.

  “Oh my God,” Fenaday said, numb with shock. The Denlenn’s strict code of honor demanded the sacrifice of self. For his captain and his friend, Telisan shattered his own happiness.

  “I have owed you,” Telisan said, “since you forgave me the lies on Enshar. Such forgiveness is a precious gift.”

  “Telisan,” Fenaday said, anguished, “I’m not Denlenn, I’m human. Humans lie and forgive and forget all the time. I told you then that you owed me nothing. Even if you did, I would never have asked this of you, my friend. Never.”

  “I do not understand,” Telisan said sadly.

  They stared at each other without comprehension, trying desperately to reach across the gap of culture and species.

  Fenaday put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “This is my fault,” he said. “I should know by now that you don’t know how to give by halves. I should never have sent for you.”

  “I would have come anyway,” replied the Denlenn.

  “Has Arpen broken off the engagement?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “No, but she has made me swear not to tell Sharla the cause of the distance between us and she has moved into Sickbay.”

  “Maybe I could talk to her. I’ll tell her I put you up to it. I made it an order and it’s all my fault.”

  The Denlenn stared at him, obviously horrified. “No. Not a lie, not to Arpen. I love her too much for that.”

  “What can I do?” Fenaday demanded. “How can I help?”

  “You have helped me by listening. I once told Duna that carrying a secret is a heavy burden to a Denlenn. I feel less alone now. Perhaps I may redeem myself to her by my conduct in the rest of the expedition.”

  “You are not to get yourself shot at just to look good,” Fenaday demanded. “Telisan, I have very little advice for you, but here it is. Communication is the heart of a marriage. Keep talking to Arpen and don’t let the distance grow. Don’t forget Sharla in this either. She needs to know, or you’ll tear her apart. If Arpen loves you—and I mean you, not the Selen war hero, but you—she’ll forgive it. No one in a marriage is perfect.”

  “Interesting thoughts,” Telisan said, smiling for the first time in days. He put his big long-fingered hand on the human’s shoulder. Fenaday gripped his arm firmly.

  “I am not going to let this expedition cost you either of those ladies or your life, do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” the Denlenn said softly, “I hear you, my friend.”

  “You are officially off duty from now till we head for Hermes’ Shield. Go see Arpen. I’m going to relieve Sharla too.”

  “I must ask you, Robert, not to speak of this with anyone.”

  “Not if they use white-hot irons,” Fenaday swore.

  Telisan left, heading toward Sickbay. Fenaday walked slowly back to the bridge, deep in thought, his heart heavy with thoughts of his friend’s troubles.

  *****

  Unseen by the two, some sixty feet away, stood the HCR Cobalt, its mechanical senses an extension of Mmok’s own. The half-cyborg sat in his cabin, two decks away and hung his head, the human parts of his face burning red. For the first time he could remember, he was ashamed of having spied on someone. Arpen had stood up for him against her fiancé. He wasn’t angry with Telisan, knowing where the Denlenn’s duty and honor lay. It was well played. What he hadn’t counted on was Arpen.

  “Dammit,” he said to the room. Arpen loved Telisan; it was obvious to anyone who saw them together or heard her speak of him. To his own shock, he realized he did not want to be the cause of Arpen’s engagement failing, but he couldn’t tell her anything, without being revealed as a spy.

  I’d have been happier not knowing, he thought. Well, maybe they can work it out. Fenaday gave him some decent advice. Mmok turned back to his briefing book, trying to banish the matter from his mind, without success.

  *****

  Pooka carried them over to the immense disk shape of Hermes’ Shield, entry port and principal defense of one hemisphere of the planet Olympia. Its sister station, Diana, orbited on the opposite side of the planet. An invader from deep space had to face one or the other. Conceived as civilian ports, they were converted to fortresses when interstellar war became a hard fact in the shape of the Conchirri Xenophobes. Over three thousand meters in diameter, each station boasted a squadron of near-space fighters and a sloop-of-war. Dozens of small merchant vessels could dock on their outer hulls.

  Fenaday’s ship orbited as far from the stations as possible. Transpolar orbit allowed Sidhe to circle Olympia’s globe in that gray space at the limit of each station’s sensors. Sidhe orbited over ocean much of the time, relatively safe from prying eyes. The Olympians would have loved to park a ship or satellite near them, but did not dare press the matter after the shooting at the system’s edge.

  Angelica Fury, veteran of the Enshar expedition, sat at Pooka’s helm. She’d left Mandela’s shadowy service to work for Fenaday. He never entirely believed it and trusted her only so far. Still, she was an excellent pilot. He also figured if they needed a pre
sentable person, Fury’s dark red hair and video star looks would bring up the average. After Shasti, who dwarfed the petite Fury, she was easily the prettiest woman to ever set foot on the ship. Fenaday considered himself undistinguished in looks; he neither frightened children nor made women swoon. Mmok might excite an electrician. As for Telisan, he was handsome in a Denlenn fashion unlikely to be appreciated by the Olympians. Right now Fury’s face was a mask of concentration as she lined up for an entry into Hermes’ Shield. He could hear her speaking softly to ground control.

  In addition to Fenaday, Telisan and Mmok, the shuttle contained Rask and a squad of his ASATs in dress uniform with fully functional weapons. Fenaday convinced Olympia Security only grudgingly of the need for his own guards, softening the blow by billing them as an honor guard. He would have preferred to bring the robots, but wanted to keep their presence a secret for as long as he could.

  Well, he thought, at least they look good. It had never occurred to him that Sidhe might have any use for dress uniforms. Privateers didn’t get invited to state dinners. Only an hour before, he’d remembered that all he had on board were a few casual civilian clothes and the modified ASAT uniforms Sidhe’s crew wore. The best he could manage was a set of crisp, new, fatigue green-blacks and his leather flight jacket, dressed up with several of the medals awarded him after Enshar. Fortunately he’d never bothered to take the medals off the ship and found the boxes while looking for his captain’s cap. He ended up looking barely less scruffy than Mmok. In contrast, Telisan looked resplendent in his full Navy commander’s whites, bedecked with jewel-like rank insignia and medals. He even wore a slender dress sword.

  Pooka took an hour to match orbits with the station, giving them a fine view of the ice-ring. When they could see the Hermes’ Shield, the reason for its name became clear. It looked like an immense, golden war shield, an effect enhanced by the dome in its center. It grew ominously in Pooka’s canopy till it eclipsed all the stars. The station directed them to a military dock and Fury touched down to a perfect landing on the pad. Clamshell doors began to close behind them. Fenaday and Telisan both gave approving nods to Fury. She responded with her usual wicked grin, clearly delighted to be along on the “trouble” as she called it. Fenaday suspected her sanity at times. He was not looking forward to the evening’s work.

  Exterior lights came on. Pooka rested in a tan and blue hanger on gray-painted, hull-metal decking. Lights on the clamshell doors that now formed the roof were too bright to look up at and triggered some of the polarization in the shuttle’s canopy.

  At the far end of the bay, large doors rolled back. Dark-blue uniformed troops filed onto the deck. Behind them came formally dressed civilians.

  “Welcome wagon,” Mmok frowned.

  “All right, you savages,” Rask barked to his ASATs, “the local Presidential Guard is outside. Let’s show them what real fighting soldiers look like. Sgt. Kolla, lock, load and lead them out.”

  Fenaday grinned to himself. Rask was so accustomed to Earth slang, one had to look twice to remember he was a blue-skinned, red-eyed creature from another world. Unlike Telisan, with his formal, sometimes archaic speech, Rask had no accent. He still sounded like a sergeant, despite the promotion. Perhaps, he thought, all creatures holding the rank of sergeant come from the same place originally.

  The ASATs filed out the rear hatch. Half the soldiers surrounded the shuttle. The others marched to the forward hatch with Rask, forming up as an honor guard. Fenaday led his command staff out with the petite Fury tagging along. Hermes’ hangar deck smelled like hanger decks everywhere: cold, with an ozone bite to the air. In a corner, away from the doors, lay a burst can of lubricant, left behind by a sloppy technician. Deck crew squeezed past the dignitaries and honor guard, heading for the mess and trying to look inconspicuous. Someone would catch hell for that. Even the deck crew, he noted, looked like a college sports team. Well, Fenaday thought, they may be pretty, but they still screw up.

  Rask’s ASATs looked splendid, but the Olympians were a recruiting advertiser’s dream. The smallest stood over two meters tall, powerful examples of every race from old Earth. They formed their own honor guard, a discreet distance from the ASATs.

  The dignitaries behind them also looked like athletes, lithe and tall.

  “Is short a crime around here?” Fury said.

  “You’ll be a novelty with the local boys,” Fenaday murmured. “Good thing you’re not fat.”

  “Good thing I have such a sensitive boss,” she growled.

  Fenaday half-turned to her. “Which one?”

  Fury’s face began to match her name.

  “Lay off,” Mmok whispered. “She quit, on the up and up.”

  Fenaday looked at Mmok for a second, then back to Fury. “Sorry.”

  “Yes, sir,” she snapped back.

  Fenaday sighed. The Olympians were approaching, and he had no more time for this. A man who looked like an Old Testament prophet led them. Bearded, stately, with dark eyes under shaggy brows and sun-weathered hands. An air of desert and stoicism hung about him. His black formal suit did not hide lines of mature strength in his frame. Next to him walked an ebony-skinned woman, dressed in a lighter hue of gray.

  The prophet came up to Fenaday and introduced himself. “Delighted to meet you, Captain Fenaday. I am Enzi Pape, President of Olympia.” He gestured to the woman next to him. “Allow me to introduce Vice President Alleti Narva.”

  Fenaday nodded. Narva was a woman of surpassing mature beauty. To the eyes she might have been forty, but Fenaday knew her to be twice this. For all the pomp and circumstance, both remained figureheads. Real power lay with Prime Minister Hagen, chief geneticist of Olympia, heir to the power of its founder, Dr. Allessandro, and with Pard, the enforcement arm of the government. They were not present.

  Pape introduced some of the dignitaries with him. A bewildering barrage of names and titles Fenaday tried desperately to process. Admiral Dimitri Rissi, in charge of the Olympian Self-Defense Navy, looked genuinely young. Something about the inhuman regularity of his features, his huge perfect frame, told Fenaday this was another of the Engineered, like Shasti. He greeted Fenaday coolly with a stilted apology for the missile launch.

  The next person introduced was General Dominici, another attractive woman he thought might be much older than her appearance. Her face was unlined, though there was some gray in her close-cropped hair. Fenaday suspected plastic surgery was very common on Olympia. It seemed less a culture of youth than of beauty.

  Dominici held his hand longer than usual, enough to make him look into her large dark eyes. She was, he recalled from the briefings, a holdover from the previous government. Rumor had it she was a Neo-Reformist. This might be a friend, he thought, as she moved down the reception line.

  None of the other Neo-Reformist ministers, the houses of Bremardi, Nappi, or the Trade Unionists, were present. Fenaday stood in an Olympian military space station, surrounded by enemies. The hopelessness of his mission rose to choke him.

  Fenaday introduced his command staff. After the initial pleasantries, they were taken to the station’s main hall. A formal banquet room had been prepared with long tables set in a U shape. Fenaday and his people sat at the center of the table flanked by Olympians and near the president. Ambassador Davis and his entourage entered, rather pointedly, after Fenaday and his officers were seated. The Confederate ambassador was making no bones about keeping his distance from the famous crew of the Sidhe.

  Speeches followed. The usual platitudes about having saved the Enshari. Fenaday squirmed, unhappy as always over the fuss.

  At Pape’s request, Fenaday told the story of the Enshar expedition. He had done it so often it rolled off his lips in a polished performance. He delighted his audience with the story, even surprising himself with how much he enjoyed reciting it. Like most of the Irish, Fenaday enjoyed a tall tale, whether in the telling or listening, and it was hard to improve on Enshar’s desperate mission.

  Pape loo
ked at him with a curious expression. “It seems you have gathered many of the members of your expedition, but I do not see one who interests us a great deal. We do not see the Olympian, Shasti Rainhell. We, on her own home planet, know virtually nothing about her. She seems most intent on avoiding fame and the news media.”

  Fenaday was momentarily thrown by the open mention of Shasti’s name, but quickly gathered his wits. “She is away on business of her own,” he replied evenly. “I expect she will join us here in the near future.”

  “Ah,” Pape said, “then you do expect to see her again.”

  Fenaday’s expression changed, warmth and animation slipping from it, leaving the eyes cold and empty. “Oh, I shall see her again,” he promised, “or there will be all manner of hell to pay.”

  Pape’s smile faltered. “Of course.”

  Fenaday sat through the rest of the formal state dinner with little appetite, small talking with the president and his wife almost automatically. He blessed his father’s memory for all the receptions he had forced the young Fenaday to attend. The rituals of the human formal dinner could be a grueling task to the uninitiated.

  The dinner finally ended and the party switched to a gaily-decorated ballroom. Bars lined two of the walls. A band played softly on a dais. Above them hung a row of delicate chandeliers running down the ceiling’s center. The spacers drifted toward one of the bars. Fenaday hoped no one would ask him to dance. Several of the local men eyed Fury. She treated them to smiles that indicated she was enjoying the attention.

  Rask looked around the room. “Hey, these folks aren’t as ugly as regular humans.” He smiled a toothy Morok smile at Vice President Narva, who looked slightly faint at the sight.