by Alec Saracen
“Sam said the same thing.”
“He was always intelligent.”
“How can you be like this?” Zhai asked. “I don't understand it. How can you face a universe where nothing is beyond the pale, where any evil can be twisted into good? How can you stand it?”
“Put it this way, Zhai,” Sekkanen said. “Let’s refresh Ethics 101. You can kill one innocent person to save ten, or kill ten innocent people to save one. None of them mean anything special to you. They're just – people. Human lives. There's no third option, no way out. If you do nothing, the ten die and the one is saved. What do you do? Kill the one, save the ten?”
Zhai nodded mutely. He had a faint recollection of discussing this very topic with her at Alleker, decades ago.
Sekkanen shrugged, turning back to the stars. “That's all we did at Landing.”
“There's a truth beyond numbers, Hilde. Some things are just wrong. Beyond justification.”
“Your truth is illusory,” Sekkanen said. “Nothing is beyond justification.”
They stood in silence, twenty centimetres and a universe apart.
Zhai couldn't even bring himself to be disgusted. Sekkanen's hollowness was infectious. All he could feel was an aching emptiness, but it wasn't within him – it was in her. She had turned to vacuum inside, all obstacles stripped away. Humanity, empathy, decency... for Sekkanen, all of them were just burdens, discarded at the earliest opportunity.
He wondered if she was right. Perhaps the human race needed people like her. Perhaps acts of incomprehensible evil were necessary for good to flourish in its wake. Without Kadera, would any of them be alive today?
But no matter how much she rationalised it to him and no matter how logically he thought about it, he always ran into some impassable internal wall. This far, and no further. There was a limit. He could only go so far. People like Sam and Sekkanen could pass by uninhibited, striking out for a distant horizon that was far beyond Zhai's reach.
Let them, he thought. The horizon is theirs.
“I expect you already know that I'm not going to reveal the truth,” he said to Sekkanen, who nodded. “But mark my words, Hilde. I will be keeping tabs. If there is any, any reprisal against any former member of my staff or their families, no matter whether it's from you or from the Devvies, the truth will out. If I die in remotely suspicious circumstances, no matter who killed me, the truth will out. I have insurance in place. Am I understood?”
For the first time since he'd set foot in her office, Sekkanen's expression changed. Concern leaked into her eyes. “Zhai, I can't guarantee the safety of all of them—”
“That's a shame,” Zhai said. “Then I can't guarantee yours.”
Sekkanen shook her head. “You're bluffing.”
“No,” Zhai said, “I'm not.”
“Think about what you're saying,” Sekkanen said, with a satisfying urgency in her voice. “You're risking a galactic war, Zhai, over what? Principle?”
Zhai shrugged. “I think you're the one risking it, aren't you? After all, it's your dirty secret on the line.” He turned away and strode across the room, heading for the exit. “Oh,” he said, pausing at the door, “one more thing. Let's say that everything happens as planned. Let's say the Consolidationists win back a majority after the next appointments to the Circles, and no more new worlds apply to the Coalition for membership. Let's say things settle down with the Confederation, relations are repaired, a new balance is found. It seems to me that the truth coming out then wouldn't be quite so devastating, would it? It might not cause a war at all. But I'm sure it would cause quite a stir on Megereth Station.”
Sekkanen licked her lips. “Zhai—”
“That would be Foreign Affairs Minister Zhai of the Independent Republic of Tor to you,” Zhai said. “Good day.”
If the perturbed look on Sekkanen's face was the last thing he ever saw of her, Zhai reflected as he left her office, he could die a happy man.
Harod was waiting for him. He raised a hand in greeting.
“Bragging rights,” he said.
Zhai could feel the faintness of the smile that rose to his face. “Hello, Harod. Good to see you too.”
“Still in one piece, then.”
“More or less.”
“Good,” Harod said. He began to say something else, but thought better of it.
He doesn't know, Zhai thought, and I can't tell him. Can I?
“They cleaned out your old quarters,” Harod said, after a while. “And your office. As soon as they knew you'd defected. I rescued a few things.” He looked down at his jacket, flicked away a speck of lint. “They're at my place, if you want them.”
Zhai almost shook his head, but reconsidered. He had an hour to kill while his ship was refuelled, and he had no desire to face the jeering of the crowd again so soon.
“Why not?” he said, clapping Harod on the shoulder. “Thank you.”
Mercifully, Harod's quarters were practically on the doorstep of his local railcab stop. A hopeful reporter had taken a punt and waited nearby in case Zhai went that way. Zhai ignored her questions, keeping his face away from her camera drone until Ceq loomed between the two of them and glared down at the reporter. Zhai stifled a smile at the way the questions died in her throat.
Harod's quarters had always been far more personal than Zhai's. Zhai recognised some old standbys from their Alleker days: the inch-thick cross-section of a tree trunk recovered from Home by an ancestor of Harod's that hung above his bed; the leather-bound complete Townsend; the uneven three-legged stool Harod swore was the most comfortable seat in existence; the holographic mock-charcoal portrait of Burim Nouridh, Harod's stern-jawed father; the framed Alleker acceptance letter which Zhai and Gael had mercilessly mocked for years. Zhai felt a sudden pang of self-flagellating jealousy. He had practically nothing from his youth. He’d thrown it all away.
“It's not much,” Harod said, opening a cupboard decorated with a colourful silk hanging, “but it's something. Here.”
He passed Zhai the rest of Audry's brandy, and Zhai laughed out loud, setting the precious bottle down on the table. “Oh, excellent. I would have missed that.”
“I know. There's this, too. I don't know what it is, but it seemed personal.” He handed Zhai a palm-sized piece of polished stone, on the back of which was inscribed his name in Qienchuan characters. On the front was the swirling shape of some ancient creature, perfectly fossilised. Zhai looked at it for a long moment, then carefully tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Harod looked questioningly back over his shoulder, and Zhai cleared his throat.
“Keepsake,” he said. It was more than that, though he had no desire to explain it to Harod. An old Xanang custom: the birth stone. Death repurposed as a foundation for new life. He had nothing else from Xanang.
“Right,” Harod said, and turned back to the cupboard. “And – this.”
He turned around with a familiar maroon box in his hand.
“I always wondered what happened to this,” he said, holding it out. “Remember that ceremony? You up in front of the whole First Circle, the Devvies looking fucking furious. Twins, I can still see the look on Egreal's face. He was about ready to jump off the gallery and strangle you...”
He trailed off as Zhai took the box and flipped up the lid. The light reflected from the medal within formed a shining circle on the ceiling.
“But maybe you don't want to keep it,” Harod said anxiously. “I can, if you want. In case you change your mind.”
Zhai barely heard him. He couldn't take his eyes away from the heavy disc of gold. Carefully, he tipped it out into his hand so that he touched only the rim, and held it up to the light.
He couldn't leave it this time, he knew. All those years he had kept it hidden away, hoping that would dispel the ghosts, but now he sensed that there could be no exorcising them, nor should there be. Naro was an irreplaceable part of him, for better or for worse. He wouldn't lie to himself about that any longer.
“There's a fingerprint on it,” Harod said. Zhai frowned and turned the medal the other way, looking on the other side for the first time in almost thirty years. Sure enough, there was a large, obvious print on the back. Zhai held up his other hand to compare. It was his own.
Harod proffered a handkerchief. “Here.”
“No,” Zhai said. His eyes traced every ridge and whorl of the ancient fingerprint. It seemed to grow and swell in his vision until they were vast curving mountain ranges and valleys, rising from oil on a planet of pure gold. And the closer he looked at the print, the more the out-of-focus reflection of his face seemed to distort and change, the fat and wrinkles melting away until the Zhai of thirty years ago, the Zhai of Naro and the First Circle, was looking back.
He shifted his gaze a fraction, and the phantom of the past was gone, replaced by the tired old face of the Zhai of Tor.
With infinite care, he replaced the disc in the box, this time with the fingerprint facing upwards like a stamp of history, and closed the lid.
“Thank you, Harod,” he said. “I think it's time I took this with me.”
“Of course,” Harod said. Once again, he began to speak but stopped before the first word was complete.
Zhai touched him on the shoulder. “Say it, Harod. You might not have another chance.”
“Where's Sam?” Harod asked quietly.
Zhai saw from his face that he already knew the answer. He let the silence say it for him.
Harod pinched his nose. He began to sit down, then changed his mind, leaning on the table with his back to Zhai instead. “His body, then.”
“Still on Tor. Hactaur wouldn't release it.”
“What?” Harod furiously rounded on Zhai. “Why not? She has no right–”
“It was him, Harod,” Zhai said, before he could stop himself. “Landing. It wasn't Peck. It was Sam, and Sekkanen.”
Harod looked at him in disbelief, but within seconds his face had crumpled into resignation. He seemed older, now, and frailer.
“I won't believe that,” he said. You already do, Zhai thought. Harod's voice grew more urgent. “Don't ask me to believe that, Zhai. Take it back. Please.”
Zhai looked at the anguish in his friend's eyes, and his strength failed him.
“All right,” he said. “It's not true.”
Harod nodded. He knew as well as Zhai did that it was a lie – but Zhai dimly understood that although Harod knew it wasn't true, it had still somehow become a form of truth to him. He could live with it if there was a story to cling to, a scapegoat to blame; something, anything that he could believe instead of the truth. Harod had found a way to carry on even with that awful knowledge. He could pretend it wasn't real, and that made the lie more real than reality to him.
Zhai couldn't bear to take that away. More than that, he sensed that it would be psychologically devastating to Harod. He had held tight to Consolidationist principles over the years, shifting but never loosening his grip as principle turned to allegiance and allegiance decayed into dogma. It was too late to let go.
Forcing Harod to relinquish that would be like kicking away a lame man's crutch. It wouldn't force him to stand on his own. It would make him fall, and he wouldn't rise again.
They went together to the hangar, shielded from the crowds by Umbiba and his troops, assaulted on all sides by a tumultuous wall of noise. There were no spoken goodbyes; they wouldn't be heard. Nor could there be a hug in the sight of the cameras. Harod's political enemies would use that against him, and Zhai had no intention of doing that to his friend. He offered a hand instead, and after a moment's hesitation, Harod shook it.
Harod's eyes were a storm of emotion, but first among them, constantly bobbing to the surface of a turbulent sea, was regret. Zhai felt it well up in him too. They had come so far together on the same path, always taking the same way at every crossroads – until this one. Here, their paths diverged, and Zhai knew that though they might wind near each other once more in the future, they could never intersect again.
Their hands reluctantly parted, brushing against each other. Harod looked away first, blinking.
Zhai saw him once more through the closing door, standing alone in the corridor's intersection, raising a hand in farewell. Zhai echoed the gesture, but not quickly enough. The bare metal of the door snatched it away, and he slowly lowered his hand.
On the observation deck, Zhai sat alone, the maroon box open on his lap. Outside the window, Armenaiakon's sun was slowly rotating into view, and its light conjured a soft golden glow from the medal within.
“Shiny,” Ceq said behind him. Zhai started, but resisted the impulse to snap the box shut. “'For outstanding services to the Coalition for the Defence of Humankind'. What'd you get that for?” She paused. “Was it Naro?”
“Yes.”
Ceq said nothing for a moment. Then: “Why are you taking it with you?”
“Because I can't leave it behind,” Zhai said. “Not this time.”
She sat down next to him. Together, they watched the sun arc past the window until the rotation of Megereth Station took it out of their sight, replacing it with a distant, star-speckled darkness.
“It was a lie,” Zhai said. He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It was all a fucking lie, Ceq. The one time in my life I try to stand up and tell the truth, and it was just another lie. And even then I had the chance to undo it. I just – couldn't. I couldn't do it. Not at that price. And the lie lives on.”
Beyond the window, the indifferent stars glided past in silence. Zhai drew in a deep breath.
“I tried, Ceq,” he said, his voice low and weary. “God, I tried.”
“You did,” Ceq said.
“And I failed.”
Ceq shrugged. “But you tried.”
Zhai looked up at her, and she smiled back. Zhai managed a smile of his own.
“I did,” he said, and closed the box.
Wordlessly, Ceq reached out and patted him on the shoulder. They sat in companionable silence, watching the stars roll by.
In time, the turning of the station brought them back to the sun.
a note from the author
Well, you made it this far, so I must have done something right.
If you have a moment, I’d like to make one last request. A positive review on Amazon or Goodreads (or both!) is even more valuable than a sale, so if you enjoyed The Coalition Man and have a couple of minutes to write a quick review, I’d be eternally grateful. It really would make a huge difference down the line.
Whether or not you decide to write a review, though, there’s only one thing left to say to everyone who read this book: THANK YOU. It means the world to me.
acknowledgments
Huge thanks are owed to:
my beta readers, Ruth, Heather, and Jamie, for their invaluable feedback and encouragement;
Kyran Leech, for his fantastic cover art;
and, of course, Sasha, without whom this book simply wouldn’t exist – she convinced me it wasn’t crap, talked me into finishing it, bullied me into publishing it, and is now on a mission to personally sell it to everyone she’s ever met. Any complaints should therefore be addressed to her.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
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a note from the author
acknowledgments
; Alec Saracen, The Coalition Man