The Coalition Man

by Alec Saracen

  But even as she made that vow to herself, she knew she would break it. How could she? It was asking too much. Her body was a machine, but her core was still human, and it was wounded – and angry.

  How could everything have changed so quickly? How could they be dead? How could a whole city disappear in a flicker of fire? How could everything, everything go so catastrophically wrong?

  She made a space for herself, an insulating layer of detachment to keep a sea of grief and teeth-grinding rage at bay. That would be her operating space, that tiny bubble of safety. She prayed that she could maintain it long enough to finish her mission. If it broke too soon–

  –it would swamp her. Drown her.

  If she sealed it away for now, she could function. That was all that mattered. Not overworked, exasperated Red Wolf, or efficient, direct Blue Bull, or poor Blue Wasp, cheerful and idiosyncrayoc to the last.

  Or Grey Hawk.

  There was only the job. The Cause. Nothing else. She found she could almost believe that, and it was enough.

  Her fire-resistant clothes were intact, though scorched by the heat flash. Unloaded and without ammo, her gun was leant in a corner. A compromise, maybe, or a peacemaking sign. They hadn’t confiscated it completely.

  She waited one-eighty seconds for the drugs to sink the pain deep into the earth, burying all but its jagged tips. Only once she couldn’t feel her face was she ready to leave the room.

  It made her mind slow, heavy, dragging behind her like a lead weight as she set out into the embassy. She imagined severing the chain and walking tall and free, leaving behind all the pain that weighed her down, leaving behind the tumult in her soul and the ghosts that whispered in her ear. That would be a real liberation.

  Grey Hawk turned a corner and walked into a thin white woman with a ponytail, staring ferociously at a gadget. She recognised her. Fleischer, some nugget of intel told her.

  “Watch where you're fucking – going,” the woman said, registering that it was Grey Hawk mid-sentence. She stepped back, looking at her with undisguisedly horrified fascination. “Oh. You – I was – just coming to check on you. You look – all right.”

  Grey Hawk imagined what she looked like. No hair, a face full of raw burns under a layer of gel packs, charred clothes. She probably didn't even look human.

  “I'll take your word for it,” she said. The words felt foreign and distant, spoken by another mouth.

  “Twins, you can see all the way down to–” the woman said, trailing off as she peered closer at Grey Hawk's damaged shoulder, exposed by a rip in the fabric. “Incredible.”

  She reached up as if to probe it, and Grey Hawk pulled away sharply. “Where's Zhai?” she demanded.

  Guiltily, Fleischer looked back at Grey Hawk's face. “This way.”

  She led Grey Hawk round another corner, shooting side-eyed glances at her all the way, and into the main room of the embassy. It was still a higgledy-piggledy array of furniture and crates, though tidier now. A multi-sided projected screen hovered in the middle of a cleared space, bathing the room in a soft blue glow. Zhai, Harod Nouridh-Salter, Ceq, Zhai's pale assistant, the dark-skinned man even fatter than Zhai, and the burly soldier type were gathered around it, Zhai and Nouridh-Salter discussing something in low voices.

  “How is she, Fleischer?” Zhai said, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Ask her yourself,” Fleischer replied. At that, everyone around the projection turned simultaneously to look at Grey Hawk.

  Zhai stepped forward into the silence. His eyes were oddly unfocused. “Grey Hawk,” he said. “Welcome back. I wish you were here under better circumstances.”

  “So do I,” Grey Hawk said.

  A long moment passed between them.

  Zhai was blind, Grey Hawk realised, or at least half-blind. She scanned the other faces, recognising similar traits on Ceq and, to a lesser extent, on Zhai's assistant. Dazzled by the flash.

  “Well,” Zhai said, cracking a knuckle distractedly. “Here we are. Your cooperation would be welcome, but if you'd prefer to leave–”

  “No,” Grey Hawk said. “We stick together, for both our sakes.”

  Zhai’s smile was wan. “Thank you. How are you? I asked Fleischer to see if she could do anything for you, but...” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m afraid you’re beyond us.”

  “You didn't need the help,” Fleischer said, stepping away from Grey Hawk to take her place at the screen. “That body – I've never seen anything like it.”

  Grey Hawk nodded, triggering a small wave of pain under the gel packs. “I'm all right. But the others are dead. So is Thier.”

  Zhai grimaced. “We suspected as much. You can confirm that?”

  Grey Hawk recalled her fragmented moment of awakening in the smoking ruins of Thier’s headquarters. Stumbling through the wreckage, she had stepped on Thier, or what was left of him. He’d deserved better.

  “He’s dead,” she said.

  “Twins. Well. Perhaps that was the aim of the bombing.” Zhai gestured at the screens, and Grey Hawk focused on them. “We're working on that at the moment. Do you think you can help?”

  Before Grey Hawk could answer, a door swung open on the other side of the room, and a very small old woman shuffled in, carrying a huge tray of Qienchuan pastries, still steaming. She laid it down on a table, then looked up. Her eyes fell on Grey Hawk, and narrowed.

  She said something in what sounded like a dialect of Qienchuan. Translation software identified it as Xoma, and displayed real-time subtitles. The words overlaid at the bottom of her vision read: What is this hideous ape-like thing doing here?

  “She's a friend,” Zhai replied, in standard Qienchuan that Grey Hawk probably could have understood without the subtitles.

  Lho scowled. “You have poor taste in friends. Look at her. How can you even tell that is a her? She looks like a monster invented by mothers to frighten their children.”

  “She survived an antimatter bomb, Lho. Would you look any better?”

  The old woman’s expression softened. “Is she all right?”

  “I'm fine, thank you,” Grey Hawk replied, phonetically reading the Xoma translation of the reply she'd drafted.

  There was a long, awkward pause.

  “You speak Xoma,” Zhai said in Chetic, with a sigh. “Of course you speak Xoma. Do you have a bottle opener too? Maybe one of those attachments for getting stones out of horses' hooves?”

  Lho, meanwhile, was standing there with her mouth half-open.

  “You can understand me?” she said.

  “I can,” Grey Hawk replied. Xoma was a difficult language to wrap her tongue around, even with the phonetic guide.

  “Oh,” Lho said. Several conflicting emotions wrestled for space on her small, wrinkled face. “I – am sorry for what I said.”

  “Don't worry about it. I know what I look like.”

  Lho picked up the tray again and headed her way, trying to apologise with pastry. “Please, take one.”

  Grey Hawk couldn’t bring herself to tell the old woman that her stomach had been surgically removed and frozen in a basement hundreds of light-years away.

  “Thank you,” she said, and took one. The combination of the drugs, her burned lips, and the rewiring she'd undergone made the taste strange and faint, but she ate it anyway. It would burn away to ash somewhere in her body.

  Lho watched her with anxious eyes, and Grey Hawk forced a smile. Lho returned it, replaced the tray on the table, and bustled out of the room.

  “This is a strange day,” Nouridh-Salter remarked. “I thought Liberators couldn't eat.”

  Grey Hawk picked a flake of pastry from between her teeth. “We can survive more these days,” she said quietly. “What do you have?”

  A minute later, they were gathered around the projection, freshly wiped clean.

  “All right, Sam,” Zhai said, swallowing a mouthful of pastry. Whatever they were, they seemed popular in the embassy. Everyone had taken at least one, and Fleische
r and the fat man had grabbed three each. “Give me a grid. Up top, we want all the things that were achieved by bombing Landing.” His assistant dutifully tapped at his watch and magicked the chart into existence. “Right. Shout out suggestions, people. I'll start: destroying ResTore and killing Thier.”

  THIER/RESTORE DEAD appeared in white text over the first column.

  “The army lost a hell of a lot of troops and materiel,” the fat man next to Grey Hawk said, his mouth still half-full. “They had thousands deployed in Landing.”

  Zhai nodded. “Worth considering. Put it up.”

  Nouridh-Salter raised a hand. “That's true, but the air force didn't come out unscathed either. The bomb blew dozens of VTOLs out of the sky.”

  “Also true.”

  ARMY LOSSES and AIR FORCE LOSSES appeared on the grid.

  “We need more detail on the first one,” Grey Hawk said. “A lot of groups have good reasons for wanting Thier dead.”

  “Agreed,” Zhai said. “Tor's more likely to join the Coalition now, for instance.”

  “And the status quo was under threat. The government has breathing room now.”

  “Right. Put up 'Tor into Coalition' and 'prop up status quo', Sam.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  The projection was beginning to fill out now. Zhai stepped back and looked up at it, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Why antimatter?” he said, almost to himself. “Why not a simple nuclear bomb?”

  “Stealth,” Fleischer suggested. “Easier to transport, easier to hide. You'd only need a gram or so for the explosion we saw.”

  “And there's no fallout,” Nouridh-Salter said. “Good way to quickly wipe out a lot of people without having to worry about the aftermath.”

  “Which could be practical or – humanitarian,” Zhai said, his lip curling at the last word. “They didn't want Landing destroyed completely, for whatever reason. Either to rebuild it, or to spare lives.”

  “Antimatter suggests a high budget and a high degree of precision,” Grey Hawk said. The exercise was loosening up her mind, giving her a problem to distract her. “It implies that destruction wasn't the end, but the means.”

  “The means to what?” Nouridh-Salter said, frowning.

  “Another end,” Zhai said. “Image. There's no image more powerful than the mushroom cloud. It’s shorthand for atrocity. With antimatter, you get all the image with minimal destruction.”

  “Yes, but in service to what?”

  “Destroying someone else's image,” Grey Hawk said.

  Zhai raised an eyebrow. “You think someone was being framed?”

  “It's a possibility. You can't deny that.”

  “No, I can't,” Zhai said, rubbing his temples. “Twins. All right, Sam, put up, let's see – 'framing someone' and 'minimum damage'.”

  They appeared, and Zhai nodded, satisfied. Grey Hawk found herself riveted to the grid, fascinated by the piecemeal apparition of the solution. It had turned into a political puzzle to her, and the vast human tragedy had faded into the background. Yesterday, she would have fought against that. Today, she embraced it. This was what she needed. Distance.

  “Let's get some suspects on the board,” Zhai said, clapping his hands together. He was enjoying himself too, Grey Hawk knew, though the way he quickly, almost guiltily dropped his hands to his sides hinted that he wasn't entirely comfortable with that. He looked around at his circle of detectives. “Come on. Number one suspect: President Chang.”

  CHANG appeared next to the vertical axis.

  “Well, if we're talking government, the Hactaurs have to be in the conversation,” Nouridh-Salter said.

  The fat one grunted in agreement. “And Cadmer. Could have been any of them.”

  Zhai waved a hand at Sam, who added them to the list. “Fine.” He glanced at Grey Hawk apologetically. “I think, in the interest of fairness and objectivity, we have to include everyone with an interest in Tor. Put the Coalition and Liberation up.”

  Grey Hawk nodded. “It wasn't us, Ambassador, but we have nothing to hide.”

  “Nor do we,” Zhai muttered. “Who else?”

  Nouridh-Salter tugged thoughtfully at his ear. “I suppose we should consider other government elements. Sarma-Phung, possibly?”

  “I'd be surprised,” Zhai said. “She's – embroiled with Chang.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes. Then again, that might blind him to her machinations at his elbow.” Zhai tugged his beard with thumb and forefinger. “She's definitely a possibility. Who else in that government could be behind it? Weiv's nothing, unless he's brilliant at playing the fool. Perhaps there's someone else we don't know about; we can't discount that. Sam, put them up.”

  SARMA-PHUNG flashed up, followed by GOV (OTHER).

  “Could be terrorists,” Ceq said. “Or just some maniac.”

  Nouridh-Salter snorted. “Armed with antimatter? Get real, Ceq.”

  “Nobody's claimed responsibility,” Zhai said. “It’s unlikely, but it's not impossible.”

  “Antimatter, Zhai!” Nouridh-Salter said, tapping his fingers on his temple. “Very expensive! Very difficult to store! Remember?”

  “It wouldn't be the first time some billionaire bankrolled this kind of thing. A long shot is still a shot. Put them under 'miscellaneous', Sam.”

  MISC OTHER appeared.

  “Anyone we're missing?” Zhai asked, to silence. “No? Well, if anyone thinks of anything, shout it out. Let's go through them. Chang.”

  Chang's row lit up in gold.

  Zhai stared up at the grid, his jowly face bathed in blue light. “All right. Thier and ResTore out of the picture. Well, he'd certainly want that.” A green tick appeared in the box. “And if the army and air force take heavy losses in the process, then he weakens two potential coups against him.” Two more ticks popped up.

  “He wants Tor into the Coalition, too,” Nouridh-Salter said. “And he is the status quo.”

  Another two ticks.

  “Minimum damage to Landing – now, that he'd definitely want,” Zhai said. “I bet he'd love to rebuild Landing in the image of Macard. Another perfect city for his perfect new Tor.” Yet another tick appeared in the final box, leaving only the 'framing someone' box empty. “Twins, this looks bad for him.”

  Grey Hawk had to agree. When it was all laid out like that, Chang began to look very, very suspect. Still, somehow it didn't feel right to her, and much of that was down to that last unticked box. She couldn't quite believe Chang would be so brazen about it. His guilt was too obvious. Surely he would do a better job at covering his tracks – or was he that arrogant? Though if you're arrogant enough to blow up a fucking city, she thought, you're arrogant enough to believe you can get away with it.

  “It would make sense,” Nouridh-Salter said. “In one stroke, Chang eliminates one massive threat to his rule, damages two others, and gets the chance to improve his own popularity by riding the disaster bounce.”

  Zhai nodded, though not without doubt. “But if it was him, surely he would have responded sooner than he did. Delaying the first big speech until this morning looked awful. He's probably pissed away most of the favourability gains he could have made by waiting that long.”

  “Misdirection?” Nouridh-Salter suggested. “Miscalculation?”

  “Conceivably, but I'm inclined to believe he was taken by surprise on this, because right now he both looks guilty and failed to capitalise on it in time. It feels clumsy enough to be an honest reaction to me.”

  Nouridh-Salter tipped his head thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

  “Sarma-Phung, on the other hand,” Zhai said, “had all the same motives as Chang, except she benefits from Chang looking bad.”

  Nouridh-Salter frowned. “Frame job?”

  “Potentially. ResTore destroyed, military coups weakened, Chang made to look responsible for blowing up one of his own cities – Sarma-Phung comes out of the woodwork, has Chang arrested – or worse – for treason, takes
over. Fresh new start for Tor, which still joins the Coalition before the military can do anything about it. If Chang trusts her at the moment, which I suspect he does, she could do practically anything behind his back. As it were.”

  “Motive, means, and opportunity,” Nouridh-Salter said. “Ticks across the board.”

  On cue, ticks appeared in every box for Sarma-Phung.

  “Let's do the others,” Zhai said, “before we jump to any conclusions. First, the Hactaurs and Cadmer.”

  Zhai’s security man shook his head. “If it was either of them, they killed their own people. Military coups depend on loyalty, and it cuts both ways. Soldiers wouldn’t follow leaders like that.”

  “But if either came out unscathed, they’d look suspicious as hell,” Grey Hawk said. The man moved his head fractionally, conceding the point. “It makes sense to sacrifice a few pieces to win the game.”

  “It does,” Zhai said, “but those were heavy, heavy losses. For Cadmer, especially.” A speculative look crossed his face. “The air force lost a lot of VTOLs, but nothing more.”

  Nouridh-Salter was incredulous. “You really think the Hactaurs could have done it?”

  “I'm not ruling it out.”

  “Neither of them want Tor in the Coalition,” Nouridh-Salter said, jabbing a long finger at the chart, “or to maintain the status quo.”

  “But the frame job trumps both of them. Pin it on Chang, replace him at the top, keep Tor independent – you can see the logic of it.”

  Nouridh-Salter made an ambiguous noise at the back of his throat. “I suppose.”

  “We'll keep it under consideration,” Zhai said. “Next: Liberation.”

  “We were protecting Thier, and three Liberators are dead,” Grey Hawk said bluntly. “We didn't do it, and you're an idiot if you think we did.”

  Zhai held up his hands. “I know. We're just exploring every possibility.”

  Grey Hawk wasn't finished. “We do not bomb innocent civilians.”

  “Good for you,” Zhai snapped. “Sam, take Liberation off the board.”

  “Done.”

  He turned to Grey Hawk. “Happy now?”

  “None of us are happy now, Ambassador,” Grey Hawk said.