by Alec Saracen
Grey Hawk looked for hints of a trap. There were none that she could see. There was just a tired old man, asking her opinion.
“You want the truth?” she said.
“Yes.”
“You're not as bad as I expected. Though – let me answer your question with a question, Ambassador.” She paused, almost losing her nerve at the last, but she forced the words out of her mouth before they could retreat back down her throat. She had meant to say them almost neutrally. Instead, they came out bitterly harsh, as if they'd absorbed all the unspoken acid of the past few days. “How can you sleep at night?”
Zhai nodded, as if he had expected exactly that answer. Something flickered behind his eyes, an unreadable flash of emotion leaking through a crack in a towering internal barricade.
“Right now,” he said, “I don't.”
16
Zhai dreamed of darkness.
It was more than the absence of light. This was a rich, tangible darkness, the kind that could be pulled out of the air and moulded into heavy black spheres, soft to the touch. Zhai formed one, heavy and weightless, between his palms, and let it go. The ball floated away and melted back into the parent dark. When he looked down, he could see his hands were stained black, as if he'd dipped them in ink.
He stepped through a door and found himself in the dimly lit corridors of the embassy. Though the lights overhead were out, he could still see. Shadows were piled in corners like inverted snowdrifts. He started walking.
Zhai could hear a distant, constant noise through the walls. It sounded like a single endless exhalation from a throat the size of the world.
He came to the communal room. Macard no longer lay beyond its windows. It had been replaced by the Void. Here was the source of the sound, which resonated slowly up and down in pitch, never changing in volume. Infinite purple fog rolled and curled beyond the window.
Zhai stepped towards it. He grew colder as he approached. His breath sparkled in the air.
From the depths of the Void came a light. It shimmered behind the mist before slowly emerging, piece by piece and segment by segment. Even before the first part of it broke free from the fog, Zhai recognised the entity they had seen on the journey to Tor.
He stood and watched its slow, serene motion. Abruptly – or gradually? – it began to shift and change before his eyes. The serpentine shape compressed, folding in on itself with a deliberate slowness, each segment mapping perfectly onto the next, collapsing inward until only a single rectangular segment remained. It floated before him like a door of light.
Zhai took a step forward. It was a door. It drew him in. He stepped through the window, which had never been there, and walked out across the Void, with nothing beneath his feet but mist. The whiteness of the door grew all around him, encompassed him, absorbed and penetrated him. He stepped into darkness.
He turned to look at the door, but it was gone, replaced by a mirror. Zhai looked back at Zhai.
He turned again, and now the darkness was full of mirrors. An army of identical Zhais watched him. As he looked closer, he saw that they weren't identical. Each moved slightly differently, wore a different expression, breathed and shifted their weight at different times. There were no perfect replicas.
Zhai stepped forward, and so did all his doppelgangers. Now the mirrors were closer, and there were no gaps between them.
A late, lazy analysis drifted through his mind. They weren't mirrors. They were more doors.
“To where?” Zhai asked nobody.
Time moved oddly. No, he moved oddly. Time moved as it always had, and he lagged behind. He was too slow here. Too old.
And now, face to face with a reflection that was not his own, Zhai saw something wrong. One of the Zhais stepped out of the mirror-door behind him, and Zhai whirled to face it – and it was gone. But in the mirror he now faced, he saw it approaching him from behind, drawing closer step by step.
Cold fear gripped him. He turned again, and saw himself in reflection once again, and something in its eyes – his eyes – was inhuman.
Black panic lurched up from the depths, and Zhai ran.
The mirrors parted before him, revealing a path flanked by infinite copies of himself, all running for their lives. The scenery had changed, and now he dashed through the desolate corridors of Megereth Station, mirror-doors folding into existence all around him. In every mirror, in every reflection, the Zhai that was not Zhai, the thing that wore his face, was slowly closing in. Zhai ran faster, his reflections' eyes wide with terror. It did no good. It drew closer still.
Sobbing with fear, seized by dread, Zhai turned a corner and stopped dead. The thing stood in front of him. It took two steps towards him, raised a hand – and rapped on the mirror that was between them.
Lips retreated from teeth, curved up. It wasn't a smile. It was something else that wore a smile like a mask, just as the thing wore Zhai's face.
And then it left him alone, turning and walking away, disappearing down the path of mirrors, leaving Zhai alone with his myriad reflections. He sagged in relief and reached out for the mirror, his hands touching cold glass. He turned, arms out, feeling for a path.
There was no path. On all four sides, pressed in so close around him that he couldn't take a single step, were mirrors.
Panicked claustrophobia set in. He slapped his hands on the mirrors, kicked them, shouted and screamed at them, and four mirror Zhais, each trailed by an infinite retinue of replicas, did the same.
And no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to smash the mirrors, all that he could see in every direction was an eternity of Zhais.
*
The Thumb on the Scales: Hello.
Convivial-sackcloth: burning the 0300 oil, are we
The Thumb on the Scales: I hope I didn't wake you.
Convivial-sackcloth: nah
this job & sleep arent friends
esp. these days
The Thumb on the Scales: I know that feeling very well.
Convivial-sackcloth: thumb on the scales??
The Thumb on the Scales: It’s from a book. You’ve never read it?
Convivial-sackcloth: we dont really get coalition books here
The Thumb on the Scales: It’s not a Coalition book. It’s a Home book. Chetic, actually. It was written 300 years ago.
Convivial-sackcloth: well
dont expect high culture from me at 3 am
The Thumb on the Scales: Noted. Why Convivial-sackcloth?
Convivial-sackcloth: just randomly picked
doesnt mean anything
so nobody could link it to me
but i bet someone who knew ur tastes would think oh yeah, that sounds like him, hed pick a pretentious handle from some classic book or w/e
The Thumb on the Scales: Fortunately, the only people on this planet who know my tastes are in my employ.
Convivial-sackcloth: dont be so sure
what the govt doesnt know, someone else might
The Thumb on the Scales: Very ominous. That leads me to something I wanted to discuss, in fact.
Convivial-sackcloth: fire away
The Thumb on the Scales: FreeSpeak.
Convivial-sackcloth: what about it?
The Thumb on the Scales: I don't think you're the only person in your professional circles who makes use of it.
Convivial-sackcloth: course not, half the governments using it.
Want Changs code? you can fuck with him, itd be funny
The Thumb on the Scales: Thank you for the generous offer. Is it really that widespread? Even though it's illegal?
Convivial-sackcloth: yeah, people like privacy and the govt is still made up of people
believe it or not
The Thumb on the Scales: I've been wondering if FreeSpeak is quite as illegal as the government insists.
Convivial-sackcloth: what are you suggesting?
The Thumb on the Scales: That you can't send videos or images over FreeSpeak. That it's very limited. Tha
t something like FreeSpeak is always going to be out there, and that it actually benefits the government if it's so bare-bones. That maybe the government has something of an interest in keeping FreeSpeak popular so it isn't supplanted by something more dangerous.
Convivial-sackcloth: interesting
The Thumb on the Scales: No comment, I take it?
Convivial-sackcloth: not yet
The Thumb on the Scales: My staff have been doing a little digging. It seems that Lightstream Technologies benefit from a great many government contracts and a great deal of free advertising.
Convivial-sackcloth: they do
The Thumb on the Scales: One wonders if there might be a connection.
Convivial-sackcloth: does one?
The Thumb on the Scales: Oh, yes. One certainly does.
Convivial-sackcloth: one still has no comment
The Thumb on the Scales: One understands.
Convivial-sackcloth: you're asking the right questions
The Thumb on the Scales: I always ask the right questions.
Convivial-sackcloth: then ask yourself this, smartass
what are you doing?
The Thumb on the Scales: Inserting myself into a few different conversations. I find myself on the outside looking in more often than not. But if nobody will let me play with them, maybe I should bring my own ball.
Convivial-sackcloth: yeah, I dont get that metaphor
The Thumb on the Scales: Everything in this business is about who you know. Who your friends are. I've made a couple. But I'm a very friendly person.
Convivial-sackcloth: really
The Thumb on the Scales: It's always nice to have a wide social circle.
Convivial-sackcloth: no doubt
but don't risk old friends for new ones
The Thumb on the Scales: What old friends?
Convivial-sackcloth: you know what I mean
The Thumb on the Scales: We have an understanding. It doesn't preclude further understandings. For either party. Our interests overlap, but not completely.
Convivial-sackcloth: bold words
The Thumb on the Scales: Honest ones.
Convivial-sackcloth: you know, I've looked at yr record
yr history
youre a lot of things
but honest?
not the word i'd use
hello?
The Thumb on the Scales: Goodnight.
Convivial-sackcloth: night. sleep well
The Thumb on the Scales: That'll be the day.
*
Two interminable days later, a Coalition courier screeched into orbit and announced the end of the blockade pursuant to Tor's declaration of independence. It also carried a terse message for Zhai from Sekkanen: 'Send Harod and Sam back to Megereth Station as soon as possible for a personal briefing. They will be back within four days.'
“Four days,” Harod said miserably, as Zhai finished reading the message aloud. “Twins. That means, what, three and a half days stuck in a tiny data runner, just for the privilege of being in the presence of the ice queen herself for half an hour. And she couldn't fucking send an encrypted briefing straight here?”
“And why is Sam going?” Zhai said. He turned off his watch, shaking his head. “That's ridiculous.”
“She probably wants to talk to you personally but can't justify taking you off Tor, so Sam and I take the hit.” Harod grimaced, threw himself down on the couch, and started absently cracking his knuckles. “I don't suppose we could fake my death?”
“You're welcome to try. Ten thousand suns if you manage it?”
Harod looked thoughtful. “Tempted to take that bet, to be honest.”
Zhai snorted. “Ten thousand more if you can fake Sam's too.”
The thought of four days without Sam to manage his life was horrifying. Since Violet Hactaur and Grey Hawk had paid their ill-timed visits to the embassy, all the communication Zhai had had with Chang's new independent government was the invitation to the ceremony for the formal ratification of independence and subsequent celebrations. It had been delivered electronically, without ceremony.
It didn't take a political expert to tell that the government was in chaos. What few sources the Coalition had were poorly placed and delivered confused, contradictory reports, but from them Zhai gathered that Mockhurst and Domoulos had, to nobody's surprise, been quietly removed from the government, including from the government's glossy propaganda sites. They had fallen off the radar completely, which could mean they were imprisoned, exiled, or executed. Zhai didn't think Chang was ruthless enough to outright kill them, but it wasn't out of the question. An aphorism about omelettes and eggs sprang to mind.
Sam himself was baffled at his recall.
“Are you sure she meant me?” he asked Zhai when he broke the news, without much hope.
“She doesn't make mistakes,” Zhai said. Not like this, at least. “How many plates are you juggling at the moment?”
“We're still trying to get through to Thier, but Tetaine can handle it. We're still working on Lightstream – no joy yet. If I have to go, now's probably the best time, but...” Sam trailed off, looking lost. “I don't understand. Why me and Harod?”
Zhai sighed. “I don't know, and I don't like it either. But we can't exactly ignore Sekkanen's orders, no matter what we think of them. Just – hurry back.”
“Right, boss,” Sam said. He managed a smile, and Zhai wondered what heroic deeds in a past life had earned him Sam's service. “Anything you want me to do back home?”
“Not personally,” Zhai said, “but ask Lho. She's been complaining about the food here. Apparently they don't grow half the spices she wants in the agro-towers.”
Sam made a note on his watch, then glanced down at Zhai, obviously wondering whether to ask a question. Sam was the easiest read he'd ever known.
“Ask away,” Zhai said, returning the smile.
Sam flushed. “Well, I just wondered – are you telling Sekkanen about Grey Hawk in your report?”
“Yes.” Though not every detail. “Don't worry, Sekkanen will understand. She knows the score. Ends, means.”
“Right,” Sam said. Zhai looked at the uncertainty on his assistant's face and took pity. Sam's commitment to Sekkanen and the Consolidationists was a youthful and idealistic one, which manifested as paralysing doubt when met with ideological compromise. “Trust me, Sam,” he said. “And her.” He reached up to clap a reassuring hand on Sam's bony shoulder. “We know what we're doing.”
Of all the lies Zhai told that day, that was the one that stuck with him.
The space elevator was completely booked out for six days, so great was the pent-up demand created by the Coalition blockade, and those lucky few who'd jumped on the earliest tickets and were willing to sell were presiding over an exponential bidding war. It took sixteen thousand suns to buy two tickets to orbit for Harod and Sam on a run that would normally have cost four hundred, and that was with Fleischer's AI financier routine working overtime.
And just like that, Sam and Harod were gone, and Zhai was suddenly very alone.
He stood at the window, watching the pods shoot up the slim white arc of the space elevator. At exactly 1736, their pod emerged over the skyline and began its long journey into orbit. Zhai raised his glass in salute and turned away.
He'd asked Sekkanen for Harod mostly so that he'd have someone to talk to. Without him and Sam, Zhai's options were: Ceq, whose sphere of interests overlapped with Zhai's only when it came to food; Lho, who was justifiably very angry at him; and Tetaine, who at least always had something to say, even if he was incapable of holding a conversation which didn't personally interest him. Fleischer and Umbiba were equally unappealing options, though they seemed to get on well enough to share endless conversations about hardware.
Oddly, he found himself wanting to talk to Grey Hawk again. And that's where my social life is now, he thought. If I want to have a friendly chat, my best option is a terrorist super-soldier.
> Instead of stooping to that level, Zhai spent the evening alone, sorting through the flood of news and updates which had come through with the lifting of the blockade and wishing he had Sam to do it for him. Word from the galactic west was still limited, which implied to Zhai that the Alliance's five core worlds were under siege. They would never fold as easily as worlds like Tor. No matter how brutally the Coalition bombarded the planets from the air, the Alliance government would hang grimly on until their last worlds were ripped from their cold, dead fingers.
On Megereth Station, meanwhile, Satterkale was cock of the walk, crowing to anyone who would listen about the Coalition's magnificent victory. The problem was that a lot of people were listening. The Devvies were certain to gain a majority in the First Circle. The only question was how vast a majority it would be. The Consolidationist case was in tatters. Those random names appointed to the First Circle were never truly blank slates, but all it took to turn a potential Solid into a Devvie or a future Devvie into a Solid was power – the power of purse strings, of offices and accommodation, of important-sounding committees and favourable postings. For decades, the Solids had claimed most of the waverers, maintaining their majority. Now, it was the Devvies' turn to reel them in. A generation in the wilderness beckoned. Unless the Confederation crush us into dust first, he thought sourly.
The Confederation had reacted with characteristic caution to the stunning collapse of the Alliance. They wouldn't miss the Alliance per se, but they would miss the three-way balance of power. Emergency summits were being held – and with all the figureheads and political showmen out of the way on Maldis, the Confederation's irrelevant capital world, wheels were turning on High Summer, the Republic capital and the true centre of power in the Confederation. Zhai watched clips from Republic political analysts for half an hour, his heart sinking lower with every passing second. The most intelligent among them, drawn from across the political spectrum, were in agreement: a Confederation-Coalition cold war was imminent, and perhaps even under way already.
Zhai knew they were right. He could see the shape of the years to come. The last two superpowers would butt heads over the remains of the FPA, both through territorial expansion and through proxy wars – and there were going to be plenty of those. Alliance space was already sliding into chaos. Arataji had wasted no time at all in hurling itself into civil war. Viloire's metropolitan moon, Sarazzo, had unilaterally seceded. Pravda's de facto crime syndicate domination threatened to spill over into de jure. Something bad was clearly happening on Gantheim, though nobody could say exactly what. Violence and unrest brewed on a dozen worlds.