by Steve White
Reislon had used a first-aid kit to sedate Gallivan and was applying anti-burn salve to his blackened, crisped arm. There was nothing to be done for the Lokaron crewman, whose head was little more than a charred stump. Svyatog was on the deck beside Katy. He looked up at Andrew and shook his head slowly. It was unnecessary. Andrew could see the side of her head, which had crunched into the bulkhead temple first.
Moving in a strange universe of unreality, Andrew turned and looked down at Valdes. The Kappainu’s screams had subsided to a moan, and his features were writhing and reconfiguring in the repulsive way Andrew had seen before.
“There’s something I’ve always wondered about,” he said conversationally. He pointed his M-3 and destroyed Valdes’s brain. Death was instantaneous. The transformation stopped, incomplete, leaving a thing on the deck that was half human and half Kappainu—an obscene travesty of nature, beyond the capability of the most depraved mind to conceive. The indescribable face was frozen in a mask of agony.
For a while, silence reigned. The communicator broke it. It was Morales.
“Valdes’s ship is out of action, sir,” she reported. In the viewscreen, Andrew could see the small craft receding sunward in free fall, clearly lifeless, streaming air and trailing clouds of glowing debris. “But we’ve detected two approaching ships, on an intercept vector that we can’t avoid. They’re not bothering to cloak themselves, but the sensor readings are compatible with—”
“—Kappainu warships. And we’re all out of options. I’d hoped we’d have Valdes as a hostage, but he’s dead.”
In the comm screen, Morales’s face was a battlefield where propriety struggled and lost. “Uh, Captain . . . is Rory . . . I mean Mr. Gallivan . . . ?”
“He’s badly injured, but he’ll live.” Andrew’s lips quirked in a ghastly parody of a smile. “For a little while.”
Morales’s expression matched his. “I see what you mean, sir.”
“It has been an honor to serve with you, Alana.”
“And with you, Captain.”
Rachel’s face appeared beside Morales’s in the screen. Given the total absence of privacy, all Andrew could say was, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re always saying that when it isn’t necessary.” Her smile brought a trace of warmth creeping back into Andrew’s soul.
Morales turned to receive a report, then faced the pickup expressionlessly. “They’ve commenced launching missiles, sir.”
Andrew glanced at Svyatog, who turned to his surviving crewmen. “Take evasive action. We’ll split up and do the same.” His eyes locked with Rachel’s. What can it matter now, what I say or who hears it? He started to open his mouth.
From somewhere in City of Osaka’s control room came a shout loud enough to be picked up by the communicator. Morales spun around, stared, then faced Andrew again. “Sir, we have fighters coming in at an incredible velocity. They must have been launched from a ship moving at—”
“Broadsword!” whooped Andrew. “It’s got to be.” He turned to the viewscreen and looked in the direction from which the Kappainu ships were approaching. Lines of flashes began to appear, as though fireflies were winking on in formation. He recognized what he was seeing at a distance: spreads of the small nuclear warheads of fighter-launched missiles.
“Sir,” said Morales, visibly struggling to maintain formality, “we’re being hailed by Broadsword.”
“Patch him in to this ship, on a split screen.” There was a perceptible time lag.
It took a moment before Andrew even recognized Jamel Taylor. He had never imagined his friend could look so haggard. He knew the signs of a man who had spent too long under dangerously high acceleration. “Andy, we got here as quickly as we could. I launched all my fighters a while back, to save time.”
“Plenty of time, Jamel,” said Andrew with a weary smile. “Ample time. I don’t suppose any of the Rogovon ships came with you?”
“No. That didn’t seem like such a good idea. But Borthru is aboard.”
“Give him my best,” said Andrew, reflecting that the Lokar, Rogovon or no, must be half dead from the sustained G forces.
“And now,” Taylor continued, “we’ve built up too much velocity to kill anytime soon. We’re going to have to flash past you—and Earth, for that matter—and loop back around.”
“That’s all right, Jamel.” Andrew looked at the viewscreen. A larger flash than the others erupted, then another—the funeral pyres of the Kappainu ships. “Thanks to your fighter pilots, I think we can take over from here. Signing off.” Taylor’s image vanished, leaving those of the two women in City of Osaka’s control room.
“Lieutenant Morales,” he said briskly, “please bring these ships together at Korcentyr’s port access hatch so I can come back aboard. The gig is slightly out of commission.” He turned around. Unnoticed by him, Svyatog had had Gallivan and the corpses removed—all three corpses, including his mother’s.
All at once, everything he had been suppressing overflowed and burst the barriers he had erected. He slumped down on the console, burying his face in his arms. His shoulders began to heave. Neither Svyatog nor any of the other Lokaron saw fit to disturb him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The facility lay deep in a mountain not far from Geneva, under what appeared to be an inconspicuous ski chalet. No one except Confederated Nations personnel with the highest security clearance knew of its existence. Fewer still had ever actually been inside it. No nonhumans had, until now.
Svyatog’Korth, Reislon’Sygnath and Borthru’Goron sat on one side of a long conference table with Andrew, Rachel, and Jamel Taylor. Across the table were only three humans . . . but very important ones.
Savitri Gupta, president-general of the CNE, closed the folder she had been reading with a decisive snap. She glanced to her right at Admiral Bruno Hoffman, Chief of Naval Operations, and to her left at Ilya Trofimovitch Tulenko, director of the CNE’s Security and Investigations Bureau.
The three of them, along with certain highly cleared staffers and technical experts, had by now heard the entire story and seen its electronic documentation. They had also seen the Kappainu corpse that had been Erica Kharazi, and the half-human horror that was still recognizable—just barely—as Franklin Ivanovitch Valdes y Kurita. At the sight of that last, Gupta had excused herself, gagging, to return a few minutes later with restored composure but with an ashy undertone to her normal duskiness. Now she turned to Hoffman, tapped the folder, and spoke briskly.
“Admiral, I approve the plan for performing medical scans on all military personnel. But I must emphasize the importance of doing it quietly, without attracting media attention.”
“I understand, Madam President-General. That’s why we’re going to be doing it in stages, each with its own rationalization. One ‘disease outbreak’ here, another ‘public health emergency’ there . . .”
“Yes. So I gather.” Gupta turned to Tulenko. “And I want this program extended to all CNE government employees, starting with those in the most sensitive positions.”
“A detailed plan will shortly be ready for your perusal, Madam President-General. Of course, this involves additional complications, some of them of a political nature. For example, the members of the Legislative Assembly—”
“Understood. But it must be done. And I insist that I myself be the first.”
“Actually, Madam President-General, I’ve already taken the liberty of having scans unobtrusively performed on everyone who has entered this facility, including you . . . and, of course, myself.”
For an instant, Gupta’s eyes flashed dark fire. Then her glare subsided, and she even permitted herself a tiny smile.
“But,” Tulenko continued, “there are limits to the SIB’s capabilities and scope. Some of those restrictions are legal in nature.”
“And they will be observed to the letter,” Gupta stated firmly. “The Confederated Nations is dedicated to a belief in limited government. We’re going to live by it.”
“Of course, Madam President-General. And at any rate, there are practical limitations as well. Simply put, we will never be able to scan the entire population of this planet.”
A glum silence settled over the room. “Yes,” Gupta finally acknowledged. “That is the problem. There can be no absolute guarantees.”
“Actually,’ said Reislon, “that is not the only problem, nor even the greatest one. At the risk of being what I believe you humans call the ‘skeleton at the feast,’ I must remind you that we have no live Kappainu prisoners to interrogate, and no captured ships to comb for astrogational data. In short, we have no way of locating their home planet. So they have a safe haven wherein to lick their wounds and devise new plans. There was nothing of use recovered from the debris of the Kappainu Station and ships”
“Perhaps the scanning programs will net us some prisoners,” Tulenko argued. “And of course we’re going to start taking the Black Wolf Society a lot more seriously, which should open up some new avenues of investigation.”
“I doubt if any Kappainu you are able to capture will be in possession of any useful astronomical data, given their racial penchant for caution and concealment. And no human Black Wolf people will know anything useful.”
“It seems,” said Rachel, “that from now on, even more than ever, the price of freedom is going to be eternal vigilance.”
“And,” said Gupta, “it will be harder than ever because that vigilance is going to have to be maintained in secret, without Earth’s people ever knowing how they’re being protected, or what they’re being protected from.” She turned to the three Lokaron across the table. “As you’ve probably learned by now, shape-shifters appear in many human cultures as legends of supernatural evil. If it became generally known that actual shape-shifters have been at large among us, manipulating us, and that the government can’t guarantee that they aren’t still among us . . . well, the result would be panic and hysteria. It won’t mean anything to you Lokaron when I say it would be like the seventeenth century witch-hunting mentality come back. But take my word for it: society would splinter. No. The secret must be kept. No one except the highest placed can be allowed to know the facts about what has happened.”
“Including the fact of my father’s suicide?” asked Rachel levelly.
“That’s right, Ms Arnstein. As you’ve learned since your return to Earth, he has been interred, covered with honors. Which is as it should be. He deserved no less of the CNE. No clouds from his very last days should be allowed to shadow his glory.”
“Thank you,” Rachel whispered.
“For the same reason,” Gupta continued with a look of cold disgust, “it has already been announced that Legislative Assemblyman Valdes was lost in a tragic accident in the course of his return from a fact-finding tour in the outer system, with no remains recovered.”
Rachel’s expression grew hard. “Yes. I’ve heard some of the eulogizing in the media. Including yours.”
“Do you think I enjoyed making that pro forma speech? You don’t understand the difficulties of my position, given the political realities!” Gupta halted, as though suddenly realizing what she sounded like, and took a deep breath. “All right. I don’t like it any better than you do. But it has to be.” She turned again to the three Lokaron, and to Svyatog in particular. “In order to keep the secret from the human populace, I must implore you to keep it secret as well. If it becomes general knowledge in Lokaron societies—especially in Gev-Harath—it will get back, given the free-trade relationship which now exists, and which we all wish to see maintained.”
“Certainly,” said Svyatog. “As you know, the hovahon are not unaccustomed to keeping secrets from the governments of the gevahon.” He politely ignored Gupta’s visibly mixed emotions: philosophical disapproval versus practical relief. “And in the meantime, I—meaning Hov-Korth—will be alert to any signs of a resurgence of the threat.”
“And,” Borthru put in, “the movement I represent can abort any attempt by the Kappainu to revive their scheme in its original form, if we succeed in replacing the present regime in Gev-Rogov with one which will be aware of their existence and will not react as they predict.”
“Yes,” said Svyatog. “And, just incidentally, Hov-Korth would undoubtedly find you easier to do business with. We will provide you with has much covert aid as possible.”
“So will the CNE,” said Gupta. “But I’m reassured by your use of the word ‘covert’. I must emphasize again the paramount importance of secrecy.”
Andrew spoke for the first time. “So my mother’s death . . . ?”
“Will be attributed to natural causes, quite plausible given her age.” Compassion overlaid the sternness in Gupta’s face, but the sternness was still unmistakably there. “Likewise, the fatalities among Broadsword’s crew will be explained as accidents. The recommendations you and Captain Taylor have made for Lieutenant Morales and others will be acted on, but they’ll never be able to wear their decorations, and the citations will never be declassified. Neither will Broadsword’s log. Her personnel will be sworn to secrecy and provided with a full cover story for what they’ve been doing . . . and made aware of the criminal penalties for security breaches. The theft of the Cydonia artifact from the Imperial Temple of the Star Lords will simply be an unsolved crime, in which Persath’Loven was an innocent dupe of the two thieves Patrick Nolan and Sarah Rosenfeld. To sum up: none of this ever happened.”
The last notes of the bagpipes were gone, drifting away on the breeze. All the various dignitaries had departed, leaving four figures, two human and two Lokaron, standing at a freshly dug grave alongside another that was only slightly less fresh.
The last time Andrew had been at Arlington National Cemetery—seemingly a lifetime ago—it had been a harsh winter day. Now it was late spring, and Washington’s cherry blossoms were past, but the stultifying heat and humidity of summer still lay mercifully in the future. It was a perfect day.
“I thought the president-general’s address was most moving,” said Svyatog.
“Yes,” Andrew acknowledged. There had been quite a lot to say about Katy Doyle-Roark, even without that which could not be said. “I want to thank the two of you for coming.”
“You know perfectly well I would never have missed it,” Svyatog reproved. “Reislon and Borthru were only sorry they had to send their regrets, having already departed for Kogurche.”
“Nor would I,” said Persath’Loven. “Even though I must now return to Tizath’Asor and resume my researches. Important, yes, important questions can be answered now that I have an access key to work with.”
“And those answers may be quite useful if we have to deal with the Kappainu again in the future,” Svyatog pointed out.
“Yes, yes. The practical applications can’t be ignored, I suppose. But the theoretical considerations are what really matter.” He turned to go. But then, for an instant, his fussiness wavered as he glanced at the newer grave. “I only met your mother once. I wish I could have known her better. Good-bye.”
“I too must leave,” said Svyatog. But he hesitated, gazing at the graves. “Our rituals in connection with the dead are different. But this ceremony, like the one for your father this past winter, spoke to me on a level that transcends all our differences.” An amused tone crept into the translator. “Doubtless it is because of my own advanced age. Soon enough I will have a great deal in common with them indeed.”
“Don’t talk like that, Svyatog!” said Andrew. He looked at the graves, then at the old Lokar, and attempted lightness. “When you go, the Age of Heroes will be well and truly over.”
Svyatog looked down from his great height and gazed deeply into Andrew’s eyes. “No, it won’t,” he said succinctly. And then he was gone.
After a moment, Rachel broke the silence. “Have you heard anything more about Rory?” she asked, making conversation.
“You mean aside from the fact that his record has been wiped clean? No, I know what you mean. H
e’s convalescing well, and already providing Tulenko with lots of valuable information on the Black Wolf Society. He’ll be all right . . . at least if Alana Morales has anything to do with it!” They both chuckled at the unfathomable workings of fate. Then Rachel sobered and looked at the rise of ground beyond which lay another grave of recent vintage. They had visited it the day before.
“I feel almost guilty,” she said suddenly. “When they buried my father they rattled off his entire life, with all his accomplishments but with the dark things at the end left out. Your mother, though . . . what she did at the very end couldn’t be told either.”
“I don’t think she really would have minded. Remember, she was a spook in her day. More often than not, in that line of business, the fact that nobody ever knows you did your job simply means you did it right. She understood that.”
“I never knew her much better than Persath did. Like him, I wish I’d gotten to know her better.”
“You still can, you know.”
Rachel gave Andrew a sharp regard. “What on Earth are you talking about?”
“I know that sounds odd. It has to do with a present Svyatog gave my family a while back. You see . . . Listen, are you free to take a little trip out to Colorado?”
Rachel put on her best demure look. “Why . . . yes, I suppose so.”
“Good. We’ll go to my parents’ place and I’ll take you down into the basement—”
“The basement?”
“Right.” Andrew smiled—the first full-blooded smile she had seen on his face in far too long.. “In fact, there’s somebody down there I’d like you to meet.”
GLOSSARY
CNE—Confederated Nations of Earth; a loose world government formed after the overthrow of the Earth First Party in 2030.