“Mr. President,” she said in her best subordinate voice, “ladies and gentlemen of the Council, let me conclude the research team’s statements with some observations that may serve as food for thought as the Council considers the subject’s place and future within the Confederation.”
Rabat did not notice the Navy yeoman who entered through the room’s rear doors like a stealthy field mouse and hurriedly sought out Admiral Zhukovski, who sat beside Melissa Savitch in the small audience arrayed well behind the podium. Zhukovski listened to the man for a moment, then dismissed him. Melissa noted the fleeting impression of a smile across his face, but he refused to answer her signaled question: What was that about?
“As you have already heard,” Deliha went on, “while the subject has adapted extremely well to Standard, he has not uttered a single word of his adopted language, nor has he given any insight whatsoever into Kreelan customs or capabilities outside of those with which he, personally, is endowed.
“In short, he has consciously withheld information that is vital to the security of the Confederation, despite the clear understanding on his part of our need to learn of his experiences. Further, the physiological alterations to the subject apparently have been accompanied by no less significant psychological changes, which undoubtedly are responsible for the subject’s genius level scoring in several areas of the psychological test battery and a phenomenal score in the extra-sensory perception portion of the tests.”
Several of the council members raised their eyebrows at that. It was common knowledge that some individuals possessed a certain “sixth sense,” in some cases active at a level that could be measured with the appropriate scientific techniques. However, Reza’s test results weren’t simply phenomenal; they were literally off the charts.
“Finally,” Rabat continued, “it is my professional opinion and conclusion, as leader of the debriefing mission, that this physiological and psychological transformation was indeed deliberate on the part of unknown powers within the Kreelan Empire, and was done with malignant intent toward the Human Confederation. This leads me to recommend to the Council that the subject be treated as a significant threat to Confederation security, and should be peaceably confined while a much more thorough interrogation is undertaken using all measures appropriate to the potential threat.”
The room fell into a quiet, uneasy murmur. While at home or at meetings dealing with the social welfare of their frequently embattled worlds, the members of the Council generally were predisposed to show dignified compassion. But in matters of security, brought up in the dark times of a seemingly endless war that had cost billions of lives and dozens of worlds destroyed, a more callused eye was focused on matters such as those at hand; conflict did little to instill trust in those besieged.
It’s happening again, Melissa Savitch thought to herself as she saw the mood of the room swing from nearly awestruck interest to fearful muttered musings. Rabat had even managed to play Reza’s strengths against him, Melissa saw now, using his superior abilities to highlight the fears Rabat was trying to draw out. Melissa’s spine became a rod of iron as she made to stand up and take a stand against this insanity. This was not about any threat to Confederation security, it was not about Reza’s right to be human if he so chose. It was about power. “I object to–”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Zhukovski rumbled, his good hand unobtrusively drawing Melissa back down into her seat, its strength communicating her need to cooperate quickly, “Gospodin Prezident and Council, I would like to speak, if I may.”
Without another word, Melissa sat down.
“By all means, Admiral Zhukovski,” the president said pleasantly, but with a poker face to conceal any thoughts of his own. While Zhukovski was one of the only people in the room whose judgment he truly trusted, the president also had to be a politician, which sometimes forced him to ignore good advice for far less noble purposes. They were on far more delicate ground than even Zhukovski probably realized. Mistakes here could trigger political repercussions that could topple the present government, and the president chose not to think about what would happen to the Confederation as a democracy if that happened.
Zhukovski bowed his head to honor his commander-in-chief before he began to speak. “It seems we find ourselves balancing future of entire race on outcome of one man’s knowledge, and yet again are tempted into quick solution based on scant knowledge we ourselves possess. And all of this based on premise that Reza is not necessarily Confederation citizen, that he is different, not one of our kollektiv, and thus may be treated in any fashion found desirable and convenient, even unto death.
“But this… rationale, it would seem, now has – how do we call it? – litmus test.” He held aloft the message the yeoman had left with him. “It has come to my attention that certain young Navy officer has personal knowledge of Reza Gard as youth on Hallmark.”
This caused a stir of surprise in the audience and across the semicircle of the Council.
“Do you mean to say, admiral,” boomed Senator Borge, the president’s chief rival from the Opposition Party, “that this person knew Reza from before the Kreelan attack?”
“Exactly so, honorable senator,” Zhukovski told him. “And to answer any question of how viable is her knowledge, I submit that it would be in best interests of all concerned if this officer was allowed re-introduction to Reza in hopes of verifying his identity, and to perhaps help build personal and cultural bridge he may cross to join our culture.” He glared at Rabat and Major General Tensch, who still openly advocated a deep-core procedure on Reza, whether he was found to still hold citizenship or not. “I would also suggest that reintroduction be made here, for all members to witness. Only a few who now sit in this room have ever laid eyes on young man whose fate we charge ourselves with deciding. It would be only fair to him.” And to ourselves, he added silently. “I am sure Dr. Rabat’s host of experts can provide Council verification of Admiral L’Houillier’s officer, that she is telling truth both about what she knows and about whatever may take place should Council agree to such meeting between her and Reza.”
“Do you feel confident that this is so, Dr. Rabat?” the president asked.
Rabat seethed at the way Zhukovski had boxed her into a corner, but there was no alternative, for the moment, at least. She had to cooperate or she would look like that fool Tensch.
“Of course, sir,” she admitted evenly. “I think even Reza has been baselined enough to know if he is telling the truth.” This was the best compromise statement she could make without leaving herself open to charges of outright lying; in all the time the team had worked with Reza, not one single time had he lied or even bent the truth, to the best of their knowledge. If he did not wish to address something, he would simply remain silent. Apparently, silence or the complete truth were the only options available to his tongue. “And the officer Admiral Zhukovski has mentioned should be easy enough to deal with.”
Neither Zhukovski nor Admiral L’Houillier liked the open conceit in her voice, but there was nothing to be done about it at present.
“Very well,” the president said briskly. “Admiral L’Houillier, Dr. Rabat, set this up as soon as possible. Ladies and gentlemen, this meeting is adjourned until then.”
Two raps of the gavel, and it was over.
* * *
The president. Reza mulled over the word and its significance. The humans did not have an Empress as did his own people. This they had told him, the words sparking dim memories of things he might at some time have known long ago. But seeking the knowledge of the human child who lay somewhere deep within him was by and large fruitless, for he was no longer a boy, nor was he truly human any longer. He had to learn everything anew.
Although it was very difficult in the beginning, he understood most of what they spoke to him now, and he could answer intelligibly. He felt their frustration when they asked him about things that dealt with the Way and his people, of the Empress and Her designs, and he became mut
e. Those things were not privy to any not of the Way, and although he no longer was bound to Her and his sisters in spirit, he did not feel compelled to cast aside his vows and beliefs. His honor was Kreelan, as was his soul, and these things he pledged to forever uphold as inviolate. He had tried to communicate this to the “scientists,” but they had not taken his words as final. There were things he could tell them, perhaps, that would not endanger his honor or bring shame before Her eyes. But he sensed that the time was not yet right, that those who had swarmed around him in the bowels of the great ship like starving carrion eaters were but lackeys to a greater power.
The president. Undoubtedly not endowed with Her powers or divine grace, Reza understood that this person was the most high among humanity, the giver of laws, the maker of war, the one with final responsibility for all that happened or did not happen in the human realm. It was initially difficult for Reza to accept that the leader of humanity was a male. He had thought the scientists had been telling him a joke, as they periodically were wont to do to test his understanding of the concepts he was relearning, human-style humor not least among them. Doubting their words, Reza had demanded that they produce a likeness of this person, and they did so, presenting him with a small life-like image of a stately, if not quite regal, man wrapped in brightly colored scarlet cloth, with vibrant insignias and other ornaments around his neck and arms. His hair was a silvery gray, a handsome contrast to his skin, which was nearly as black as Reza’s armor.
“This is President Nathan,” they told him.
“Why,” Reza had asked, perplexed not by the man’s color or garments, which he knew were diverse among humans, but by how he had been addressed, “does the president have a name, and is not simply the president for always?”
This, in turn, confused them. “He – or she, as the case may be – is not president forever,” one of the scientists had replied, deeply curious as always at anything he said or asked, “but only for the time he has been elected by the people, the voters. Then he is replaced by someone else, again selected by the people. That is the way a democracy works.”
“And his spirit lives on in whoever follows, to help guide… him, or her?” Reza had asked.
At this, the researchers began asking him questions that he could not answer for fear of revealing more than he was able of the Way and his Empress. The researchers were intensely interested in all his beliefs learned while among the Children of the Empress, but there was little he could tell them. He fell silent, his own question unanswered.
Had Jodi or Braddock, or especially Father Hernandez, been at hand, Reza was sure they would have answered without expecting information in return as the scientists often seemed to. Of all the humans he had met so far, those three and the red-headed one called Sinclaire were the only ones he trusted, for their hearts were true, if strange in their own way. But they all had been barred from him for reasons he did not understand.
But now, he thought, he would be able to see the president himself.
“This way, sir,” one of the four Marine warriors who attended him said, gesturing to the left, down yet another corridor in the great building that was the ruling place of the “government,” another concept that he had vaguely understood as a child, but that now eluded him entirely. The Kreela had no similar thing, only the Empress and Her will.
Now, approaching the great wooden doors to what could only be a throne room, it was time to see the essence of that for which he had given up all that he cherished and loved, to his very soul.
The Marines stopped abruptly and stood to the sides of the door. The commander of the guard, a highly decorated staff sergeant, opened the door, then stood aside.
“Please, sir,” he said, motioning Reza through the portal. He was to meet the president without a formal guard.
The president was a man of courage, Reza thought. Perhaps, a man of honor.
He stepped over the threshold into the main Council chamber, the same room where the closed-door session had been held several days before. Now, as then, it was full of people, all of them staring silently at Reza as he stepped into the room.
Uncertain, he stopped a few paces from the doors, sensing them closing behind him. He did not feel threatened, only uncomfortable, as might a tiny scree lizard, cupped in curious hands.
Reza knew, however, that he was far more powerful than such a tiny creature, and in this knowledge he drew comfort.
He surveyed the room and drank in the strange mix of emotions that floated here like the smoke from Braddock’s cigarettes. He sampled the unfamiliar smells of different perfumes, was amazed at the dazzling array of colorful clothing. Standing in his armor and weapons, having stolidly refused the flimsy human garments endlessly pressed upon him, he felt as if he were the only solid, tangible object in the room. Everything else before him was as much an illusion as had been the small holograph of the president.
Suddenly, as if on an unseen signal, the assemblage in the room stood and turned to face him. A female whom he had never met before stepped forward.
“Welcome, Reza,” she said, beckoning him to come closer, to the center of the raised semicircular dais at which the human elders sat, observing him closely. “My name is Melissa Savitch, and I’ll do what I can to help you communicate with the others.” And keep you from being thrown to the wolves, she added silently to herself. Rabat had been outraged that Savitch should suggest – demand – that she herself be by Reza’s side during what Savitch knew was in all respects an interrogation, but Savitch had held firm. Without her to keep the less constitutionally scrupulous at bay, she knew that Reza would soon find himself strapped to a table, an electronic probe sticking out of his skull. “Mr. President, members of the Council,” she said, turning to face the elders, “may I introduce to you Reza Sarandon Gard of Hallmark.”
And there, standing but a few paces away, was the president himself.
“Welcome home, young man,” he said. President Nathan had wanted very much to have himself and the entire Council down there, on the floor, to welcome Reza in a more personal fashion. But the Secret Service had been adamant that they remain separated, and more than a few of the senators had voiced their own personal objections. An unknown quantity, armed and known to be extremely dangerous to his opponents, Reza posed an incalculable threat to the core of the Confederation government at close quarters; the Council was quietly protected by an invisible force field immune to any attack Reza could make. Or so the Secret Service hoped. “I bid you welcome home to the Confederation, on behalf of all of humanity.”
“My humble thanks, my president,” Reza replied formally as he knelt and brought his left fist over his breast in salute. “My sword is yours to command.”
This caused a few raised eyebrows and hushed murmurs in the audience.
“Young man,” President Nathan said, “you need not kneel before me. I am not your king, your lord, or your emperor. I am chosen by the people of the nation of humanity to serve and to lead. Yet, I remain but a citizen myself. Please, be at ease.”
Reza relaxed slightly from his position of subordinate humility and looked at the dark man, who smiled.
“Sit, and be comfortable,” he said.
Finding no skins laid out on which to sit, only the awkward and uncomfortable human-designed furniture, he simply knelt on the shiny wooden floor right where he was, resting his armored hands on his knees.
For a moment, he thought he had done something wrong. The elders suddenly seemed confused, as if some form of vital protocol had not been adhered to.
But the president quickly resolved the matter. Smiling with good nature at Reza and the others in the room, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, let us all be comfortable in our own way.” Reza heard some laughter at that before everyone sat down.
The woman who had first spoken to him appeared again beside him, awkwardly sitting down on the floor with her legs pressed close together and folded beneath her, as if she were afraid of showing the parts of her bod
y beneath the tube of fabric she wore from her waist.
“I guess where you come from they don’t use chairs,” she said, smiling.
“No,” he answered, noting the sense of genuine concern this woman held for him. “Animal hides are much more comfortable.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she replied in a whisper as the president cleared his throat.
“Are you sure you want to sit on the floor, Miss Savitch?” the president asked amicably.
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Very well, then,” Nathan said, nodding. “Reza,” he went on, his voice deepening in pitch with the gravity of his words, “your return to human space has posed a number of very complex challenges for us. While we would like to think otherwise, that we are wise enough and powerful enough to know all there is to know about anyone or anything, there are some questions that only you can answer for us. Unfortunately, these questions are the most serious of any we have had to consider in your case.
“Fundamentally, Reza, we are concerned about your loyalties after so many years in the Empire. For example,” he held up a yellowed piece of paper, the one Wiley Hickock had written so many years before, “you presented this to military representatives of this government, offering it as proof of citizenship and declaring your interest in joining the Confederation Marine Corps. Further, while you have been extremely cooperative in most instances, in not one case have you divulged a single scrap of information about the Empire, a fact we have found most disturbing.”
Nathan paused a moment to look at Reza carefully, assessing for himself if the young man understood the importance of what was being said. If he did not make some kind of showing now, Nathan would have little choice but to give in to the increasing pressure by certain members of the Council and the High Command to use more serious methods of interrogation.
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