Alliance of Exiles

by Caitlin Demaris McKenna

  Shomoro flinched, her hands tightening their grip around each other. “We are.” She had been: she’d spilled Osk secrets to the White Arrows, to Berkyavik, thinking in her starved, drug-addled state that he was her provider when, under the surface, she knew that he was destroying her.

  “But what you’re talking about is different,” Shomoro said. “There may be Rul living and working in the Expansion, but they aren’t out there killing other Rul.”

  Flushes of light moved over Water Dancer’s skin, faster than the translator could keep up. “Have no Osk ever voluntarily killed other Osk? No sephs killed other sephs?”

  “That’s not fair,” Shomoro half whispered.

  The translator’s voice kept on, smooth, relentless. “Perhaps Attarrish had nowhere to go after the war. Perhaps he was stranded, like your friend Daikar, except instead of you it was the Expansion who found him, and offered him a job doing what he does best.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You can’t believe it.” Water Dancer stamped a pod on the decking. “You’re biased, and because of that you will see in the data what you want to see. And that’s a good way to get yourself and those around you killed.”

  Shomoro kept her gaze steady on Water Dancer, but she worried the inside of her cheek with her teeth. It wouldn’t be the first time she had made an error in judgment. She’d been wrong about Gau, and the only reason that hadn’t blown up in her face was because he’d safely been light-years away. Pri had had the time to go undercover and learn about him, discover his secrets and decide he was best avoided. They hadn’t had the chance to do that kind of vetting with Attarrish; if—when—Pri returned, it would be with only a marginally more informed understanding of Attarrish’s situation and possible responses. Not enough to go on by itself . . . but with any luck, it wouldn’t be all they had. They’d have Attarrish, contained, in a controlled situation where they could learn exactly what he was at their leisure.

  She shook her head and turned away from Water Dancer.

  “You’re right. I can’t help but be biased in something like this. That’s why we’re not attempting this capture alone. Daikar told me this morning that Yurll and Whalg-General have released Stone’s team to run the mission. They’ll be monitoring Attarrish every step of the way.”

  “Stone?” Water Dancer said. “I’m surprised they agreed to this.”

  “They trust the councilors’ judgment,” Shomoro said. “You should, too.” Even if you don’t trust mine.

  “I do,” Water Dancer said. Even with the flattening effect of the translator, she sounded faraway and thoughtful as she repeated, “I do.”

  Chapter Two

  Morning” was a meaningless concept on a space habitat. Alex Vernsky tried to tell himself this as he stared at the ceiling of his darkened bedroom, waiting for the snooze to run out on his alarm. It had jolted him out of something resembling sleep a few minutes before, and he was balancing on the edge of dozing, wanting to close his eyes but knowing that as soon as he did—

  The alarm blared. He slapped at it and caught it after the second blat. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes. The world felt fuzzy on five hours’ sleep. Was it five? He groped for memories of last night; it was 6:10 A.M. Greenwich Hub time now, and he’d stayed up till at least 1:30 reviewing the tapes . . .

  “Fuck.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Yesterday’s pants were crumpled on the floor; he pulled them on. The self-cleaning nanofabric would smooth out any wrinkles. He had half an hour to himself before he’d have to catch the mag-lev train to make it to the 7:00 A.M. meeting Jan had scheduled.

  Enough time to brush his teeth and hair and brew up something caffeinated.

  As Vernsky waited for his kitchen food console to make coffee, he silently cursed Jan Shanazkowitz for being a morning person. Then again, maybe it wasn’t Jan’s natural inclination either, but a habit left over from his military days, before he’d taken over at Project: ShadowStalker.

  Vernsky was still coming to know those habits and preferences, trying to understand the type of person their new director was. In his first months as director, Jan had shadowed every team, from Intelligence to Medical, asking questions of practically everyone except maybe the custodians. He studied Osk politics, linguistics, biology, and history—what little was known, mostly from secondhand xenological reports—on his lunch breaks. He gave every impression of a man who wanted to understand the operation he was in charge of on a bone-deep level.

  Vernsky just hoped Jan would be open to the recommendations he intended to make at the meeting.

  Conference rooms at Project headquarters were cozy affairs, cylindrical windowless bubbles designed to promote discussion and deemphasize hierarchy. Yet when the door opened, Vernsky found himself facing Jan Shanazkowitz at the figurative head of the circular table—the arc directly facing the doorway.

  He checked his watch, but it read a couple minutes before 7:00 A.M. As though reading his thoughts, Jan said, “You’re not late, Alex. We’re early. Come in.”

  “I just had to grab a few files,” Vernsky said, even though he didn’t have to excuse himself. Only then did he register Jan had said we. Two other people sat at the table: on Jan’s left was Sharon Wu, head of the Project’s Intelligence division; at his right, Ethan Wythe, the operations manager under Jan and Jun Watanabe before him.

  Surprise made Vernsky much more awake. “I thought this was going to be a psych report.” Though now he thought of it, Jan hadn’t actually divulged the purpose of the meeting.

  “It is, among other things,” Wythe said. A bland smile crinkled his downturned gray eyes at the corners.

  “Let’s start with the psych report,” Jan said. He gestured to Vernsky. “Did you bring the subject’s latest debrief?”

  Vernsky noted his distancing language: the subject. Jan didn’t use Mose’s name. It made it easier, he guessed, to send the Osk into hostile territory to commit murder.

  Taking his seat, Vernsky slotted the data stick he’d retrieved from his office into a port on the table’s edge. “I brought more than that.” Holofoil circuits embedded in the table projected a still video frame above its surface; Mose was centered in the frame, sitting at a small metal table against a white wall. The Osk seemed composed of planes of gray and black: a cobalt cloak wrapped his shoulders, setting off the darker graphite of his sleek snout. His round eyes were the impenetrable black of space, except for the horizontal white slits of his pupils. Adapt-ed for low light, a layer of absorptive cells in the retina caught the light and reflected it to create the eerie effect. Mose’s red mane was the brightest color in the shot, seeming even redder for the contrast. Vernsky could tell it had been brushed before the session.

  Mose was alone in the frame. Vernsky had sat on the other side of the table many times, but the camera was angled to hide him from view. The date in the corner was three months ago, just after Mose had confronted Gau Shesharrim on Aival.

  “That looks a little out of date,” Wu said, raising her eyebrows.

  Vernsky nodded. “It’s old. I’ve collected Mose’s last three psych interviews, and I’d like to play them in chronological order. Tell me when you spot the pattern.”

  He waited until Jan waved him on, then hit Play. Mose shifted subtly into motion on the video, his snout lifting as he looked where Vernsky had been sitting.

  “Tell me what happened after you confirmed it was Gau at the Embassy Building,” Vernsky’s recorded voice said.

  Mose parted his lips in a small smile, showing a set of teeth a wolf would have been proud of. “With pleasure.”

  Vernsky only half listened to the recording as Mose launched into the account of how he’d intercepted Gau’s crew and their deadly cargo of Fate’s Shears, crashing Gau’s ship and forcing Gau to face him one on one. Vernsky had watched this session half a dozen times already. What he noticed now were the subtler things: Mose’s animation as he spoke, microexpressions of pride and triumph flitting across his fa
ce in the mouth and eye movements Vernsky had trained himself to see.

  He talked freely, with Vernsky interjecting only the occasional question to keep things moving. His mane and skin were clean and healthy.

  The recording ended at minute 15:36. As soon as it stopped, Vernsky toggled to the next and paused it. “This one is from just before the Tereshkilvar mission.” Mose’s latest. Usually they didn’t space them so close together, but the Project had gotten a lucky lead on a seph named Urse Tereshkilvar, hiding on one of the sparsely inhabited asteroids in Skraal’s outer system. So Jan had made a decision.

  The Mose in this video was more distracted. His eyes darted away from Vernsky’s side of the table. “It’s only been two months since Aival,” he said, “and they’re sending me out again?”

  “Our medical suite’s given you a clean bill of health,” Vernsky’s recorded voice said.

  “That isn’t what concerns me,” Mose said. He gave a choked laugh that made Vernsky wince to hear it again.

  “I’ll see what I can do about securing you a longer rest next time,” Vernsky said on the video.

  “A longer rest. I see.” Mose’s lips quirked, but the expression only resembled a smile. “Thank you, Vernsky.”

  The tape ended at 6:47. Vernsky loaded the next one. “And this is the debrief from right after the Tereshkilvar mission.”

  Wythe raised a hand. “Excuse me, Alex, but I’m not quite sure what we’re supposed to see.”

  Vernsky exhaled. “Indulge me.”

  The Mose on camera this time, the one Vernsky had interviewed only a few days ago, stared listlessly at the table. As he had then, Vernsky noted the changes in the Osk’s appearance: His gray skin was dull and cracked in places, the red mane that fell to his shoulders tangled and greasy. He was neglecting himself.

  “We’ve confirmed the ID on Tereshkilvar.” Vernsky’s recorded voice was gentle. “Tell me what happened.”

  Mose mumbled into the tabletop, too quiet for the audio pickups. Apparently it had been too quiet for Vernsky as well, because he said, “What?”

  “The same as always,” Mose said. “I traced the target. Made the kill. Reconfirmed my identification.”

  Vernsky heard his own hesitation on the tape—his reluctance to drag Mose into memories he wanted to escape. “We have the data,” his recording said. “I need you to tell me what happened in your own words before I can sign off on your eval. Soon as you give me that, I’ll let you go.”

  “Giving me a ‘clean bill of health,’ is that it?” Mose threw his own words back at him. “Making sure I haven’t cracked for good this time?” He went on before Vernsky could interject.

  “You want to know what happened? Fine. I broke into Tereshkilvar’s apartment. He was asleep. So I cut his throat.” Mose stopped talking. His white pupils stared into the middle distance as the seconds ran out on the tape. Thirty seconds had elapsed when Mose spoke again.

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” The video ended at 1:58.Vernsky shut off the projector and looked around the table.

  “You see the pattern?”

  After a pause, Wythe obliged him. “Each vid’s shorter than the last one.”

  Vernsky nodded. “I’m getting less from Mose over time. He’s disengaged, he’s neglecting his self-care . . . I had to end the last session early because after the portion you saw, I couldn’t get him to look at me or say anything more. He’s in a bad place.”

  Jan leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the table. “As Mose’s physician, what’s your recommendation?” He’d used Mose’s name this time; maybe that was what gave Vernsky the courage to continue.

  “We postpone any new missions for at least eight months. Maybe a year.” There—it was on the table, too late for him to take back. “Give Mose time to figure his head out. You all know his history—beating Gau, even if he didn’t kill him, was an enormous uplift to Mose’s psyche. But it may’ve made him more vulnerable, not less.”

  “What do you mean?” Jan said.

  “There’s a possibility Mose thought everything would change after he beat Gau.” He raised a hand, forestalling the other Project leaders’ protests. “Not rationally, subconsciously. Chasing Gau is what’s given him motivation, kept him—with us.”

  “But Gau Shesharrim is still out there,” Wu put in. “Mose didn’t kill him.”

  “True. But Mose still faced him, and he still won.” For a certain value of winning, Vernsky added silently. Mose had limped back to the Project bruised and bloody and with his enemy still alive, but with that enemy’s plans in ruins. Vernsky had never asked Mose, but he felt sure part of the Osk’s rekindled hope had been due to his destroying Gau’s hijacked supply of Fate’s Shears.

  Vernsky shook his head. “Going after another seph so soon, before he had time to process what happened on Aival—before he had time to accept there would be other missions—I think it was a mistake. We pushed him too hard. We need to back off.”

  Jan rocked back in his seat, rubbing the skin around his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Well. That’s not exactly the most welcome news right now.” When Vernsky remained silent, Jan said, “I called this meeting because Wu’s team has just confirmed the location of another seph.” He paused. “On Teluk.”

  Vernsky had half risen from his chair before he remembered himself. He resumed his seat slowly. “Teluk is Mose’s homeworld.”

  Jan looked pained, his lips pressed together in a bloodless line. “I’m intensely aware of that.” He nodded to Wu. “Intelligence has kept the trace mum even from other Project departments until we could be absolutely sure it wasn’t a false lead.

  We wanted to minimize the chance of the info reaching Mose before you could give us your assessment.”

  Three sets of appraising stares triangulated on Vernsky; Wythe’s and Wu’s eyes were professionally blank, but he didn’t need to know their emotions to guess the strategy at work here.

  Both of them must have been coordinating for weeks, as Intelligence put together the pieces and Operations established its covert satellite network in Teluk space. The three of them had probably been putting the final touches on Mose’s infiltration strategy before Vernsky had walked into this morning’s meeting. He wondered if the agreement to keep him in the dark had been explicit, or disguised under the kind of euphemistic nice-ties beloved of Expansion bureaucrats. He could imagine Jan phrasing it as “tailoring informational flow to the needs of our operational assets.” It would roll off his tongue.

  He kept the bitter chuckle that image evoked to himself.

  “My assessment,” he placed contemptuous stress on the word, “is sending Mose on another mission right now is a colossally bad idea. Tereshkilvar was only a couple weeks ago. Mose needs downtime. He needs ”—to stop—“ to rest.”

  Jan’s brown eyes had gone dark as they absorbed this; Vernsky kept his gaze on him. However unwelcome his assessment, Jan needed to hear it.

  “If you force Mose to do this, we’re going to lose him. One way or another.”

  “You’re saying he’s not ready,” Jan said.

  Vernsky nodded, relieved his message seemed to have gotten through.

  Jan pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to ward off an incipient headache. Not such a morning person after all, Vernsky decided.

  “Can you get him ready?” Jan asked.

  The coffee he’d gulped an hour ago turned to acid in Vernsky’s stomach. “Why now?” he said, his voice sounding strained in his own ears. “Why not go after this seph six months from now, when Mose is more stable?”

  Wythe cleared his throat. “You’ve never questioned my operational approach before.”

  “You’ve never questioned my psychological assessments before,” Vernsky fired back—but he was looking at Jan, not Wythe.

  The operations manager still answered. “Teluk presents certain difficulties to a successful infiltration—partly because it’s Mose’s homeworld. He presents a higher profile th
ere than on other non-Terran worlds. The Teluk High Council also makes extensive use of surveillance, both orbital and planetside. We’ve exploited a weakness in their protocols to create a two-minute window where their orbital and ground sensors will be blind along a narrow orbit-to-surface trajectory.”

  The tactic of blinding local sensors along an atmospheric insertion path was one the Project had often used to drop Mose onto Terran-hostile planets. Operations techs called it “threading the needle.”

  “The challenge is combating planetside surveillance,”

  Wythe said. “It’s likely that if Mose spends significant time on the surface, his image will be captured, crosschecked against existing records, and flagged.” He spread his hands. “Mose needs to land and immediately disappear. The only way we could do that was to establish contacts planetside who could set up a safehouse.”

  “What kind of safehouse?” Vernsky asked.

  Wythe glanced at Jan and received a nod. “A splinter group of Teluk’s Veerten community sympathetic to the Expansion.”

  Vernsky mulled this over. It passed the smell test: Veerthome was an Expansion ally world. Some of Teluk’s Veerten colonists probably maintained political allegiance to their homeworld even though they’d been an independent entity for decades, and despite the High Council’s vociferous anti-Expansion stance.

  It clicked. “They’re taking a considerable risk.”

  Wythe nodded. “The sooner we get Mose in and out, the less likelihood the splinter group gets discovered in the process.”

  “And the less time our infiltration protocols have to grow stale,” Wu chimed in.

  “That’s only two legs of the stool,” Jan said softly. “We still need yours. We need Mose.”

  Vernsky studied the people seated along the arc of the table.

  Not for the first time, he found himself resenting those calm, expectant faces. It wasn’t that they didn’t know what they were asking—Jan, at least, knew exactly what he was asking. He still asked it, because he cared about fulfilling the Project’s ultimate goal—eradicating Za’s fugitive sephs—more than he cared about Mose’s life.