“Zenak Abi, what is the name of this new koda? It would be the Koda Nusinda, correct?”
“Yes. The book has been entered by the Jetai Diea as the Koda Nusinda, The Eyes of Joanne Nicole.”
“Do your mysterious sources say what is so special about this particular human’s eyes?”
The Jetah puts on that mocking smile once more. “I am told she was blind and, therefore, could see better than the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah.”
“Blind.” I stare at the Jetah while my mind envisions my presentation before the Jetai Diea. Here is what I have for you today, my masters: the work of a demented old traitor with outdated files and no equipment, inspired by a blind human, and brought to you by a Mavedah killer who never stood the rites yet who knows that the effort is wasted before it begins.
Too often my bitterness does my thinking for me. “What was so special about her eyes, Zenak Abi?”
“She saw the path to end the war between the Dracon Chamber and the United States of Earth.”
“Leaving just one minor loose end,” I added. “Amadeen.”
Zenak Abi looked into the flames of his fire for a moment and says, “Her name was Joanne Nicole. This woman took a quadrant-wide war that was killing billions and left one that was killing thousands. She entered with hundreds of worlds at war and departed with one world at war with itself. For this she was branded an enemy by the Dracs, a traitor by the humans, and imprisoned. Your sneers will be of more meaning when you, Yazi Ro, have done as much.”
I close my eyes and wonder at the currents and eddies of the universe, swirling and tossing fragments of life this way and that, toward ends that are forever unknowable. Am I tied to this new book of The Talman and to the humans? How is that combination tied to peace on Amadeen, if it is? Or is it all a wish, something of vapor that will vanish with the first breeze? I sigh and let my hands rest upon my lap. “What would you have me do, Abi ?”
Abi holds up its package. It is not much larger than a book and wrapped in waterproofed colthi skin. “Bring my work to the Talman Kovah. When you return to Amadeen, bring me a copy of the Koda Nusinda, The Eyes of Joanne Nicole.”
“Return? Bring it back to Amadeen?” I ask, my brows climbing my forehead. “If I should make it to Draco what makes you think the dirt of this planet would ever again see my shadow?”
The Jetah turns its head and looks once more into the flames. “You’ll come back, Yazi Ro. There is nothing more certain.”
SIX
At night another human called Rick MacFarland and a young Drac named Dulo Rin guide me along frozen, wind-carved trails until we cross the mountain. Toward the dying stars the rest of the Silver Mountain range reaches to the horizon, each pair of glistening peaks enclosing a tiny sanctuary where a few beings, Drac and human, subsist in relative peace. Here and there on the mountain sides and in the patches of valley green, are the scars left by bombs, knife slashes, and fires. I see many scars in various stages of healing, though, the feathery pillow trees and lace vines softening the sharp broken edges of destruction. In time Amadeen can heal itself, if the beings upon it somehow end the horror.
After a few hours of climbing down, we are again in trees. At a place an hour below the treeline, I see a small settlement, shacks and hutches hidden by brush among the trees, Dracs and humans living together, their children playing. The children are still playing at war, but there are both Dracs and humans on each side of the battle; progress of a sort. These are the friends Zenak Abi talked about trying to keep alive.
Deep in the woods I see eyes watching us. There are armed guards throughout the forest. Dracs and humans. Could it be possible that Dracs and humans used to live and work together? Would it be possible for them to do so again? Dracs and humans work together crewing the quarantine stations that orbit Amadeen. Perhaps. They have not bathed in Amadeen’s special waters, though.
Does peace require that I erase from my mind all of the horrors I have witnessed? Can Black October put aside the assassination of Amadeen Front Chairman Gordon Rose? And the slaughter of Rose’s mate? And his three little girls? Can the Mavedah or Tean Sindie forgive the gutting of the Amadeen Chamber deputies? The Ft. Lewis Massacre? The death of Yazi Avo?
There is a small voice in the back of my brain. It asks me, “Are you worthy, Yazi Ro?”
I know the voice. It is Dekiban Lo, Jetah of the Nokbuk Kovah, the Mavedah training academy where the Selector sent the lineless children it chose. One would gasp with exertion, and Lo would be in the poor kiz’s ear with, “Are you worthy, Mikla Namik?” Another would cry in pain, and Lo would shout, “Nias Toh, are you worthy?” One would drop from exhaustion and Lo would whisper, “Are you worthy, Yazi Ro?”
There is a mission before me, one more in an endless line of missions. I have time, however, to judge this one before I perform it. Is this a serious effort to bring peace to Amadeen or is it just to risk my life in a meaningless attempt to achieve a fantasy? If it is the latter, then it is no more than what I have already done countless times. If it is the former, there is still that question without an answer: Are you worthy, Yazi Ro?
There is the whine of an assault lander. As it falls slowly from the night sky, it shows no lights. I reach out and tap Dulo Rin’s shoulder. It turns, Rin’s features barely visible in the starlight. I point toward the sound and the Drac turns back and continues down the trail. “That is your ride,” it says. “We must hurry. They won’t wait forever.”
As we approach the small lander, there is a question in my heart. Who are the corrupt ones from the quarantine force who will take me off Amadeen? Will they be human or Drac? I have seen humans trade and barter among themselves and with the Mavedah soldiers who guarded them. Humans are corrupt and corruptible by nature. They shamelessly offer bribes to anyone who might serve their wants. I cannot imagine that kind of corruption in a Drac.
As we approach the open ramp of the lander’s entrance I can see three beings at the bottom of the ramp. There are no lights showing. Rick hands the thick envelope to one of them, then fades into the shadows. I look around for his Drac companion but Dulo Rin is gone. Two of the lander’s crew turn, walk up the ramp, and enter.
“Are you the passenger?” asks the one with the envelope.
“Yes,” I answer.
The one with the envelope holds out a hand toward the ramp and I begin climbing toward the darkness of the lander’s interior, satisfied somehow because the extended hand was human. Inside the craft’s interior I see the remaining two members of the crew greet me with impenetrable expressions and impatient gestures. They are Dracs. I am to hide in a compartment beneath the floor plates in the small cargo bay. There is a plastic foam mattress and a blanket at the bottom of the compartment. There is a plastic container for water and another for waste.
“These are our bargain no-frills accommodations,” says one of the Dracs.
The other picks up a floor plate from where it was leaning against the bulkhead and says in English, “Hop in and I’ll check with the captain about the in-flight movie.” I do not understand their jokes and I do not join them in their laughter. I would not laugh in any event. They are Dracs, corrupt, and I am filled with shame.
As I sit on the foam mattress, the two Dracs and one of the humans slip the plates into the deck and bolt them down, the noise hurting my head. When the silence comes it is dark and I am left alone with my fears.
Will these corrupt humans and Dracs simply dump me in space, divide their dishonest gains and never be discovered in their murder?
Will I be captured by the quarantine force and be punished?
If there is trouble with the flight, will anyone have the time to remove the deck bolts and set me free?
If I make it to Draco, will I be ignored, my pleas to address the Talman Kovah disregarded? Or will I be scorned and cast out as one who never stood the rites before its line’s archives?
I feel a vibration through the mattress, and soon a sharp whine assaults my hearing. My h
ands cover the sides of my head, but the whine seems to come from everywhere. A sudden jolt followed by a brain-numbing roar, and I feel myself being pushed into the plastic foam. Soon I cannot hold up my head and my arms feel as though they are made of stone. Still the pressure increases until I cry out from the pain. With all my strength I push myself until I fall over on my side. I fall on the foam but with such force my head feels like a split melon. I am paralyzed for an eternity, my breaths ragged and shallow, the air growing deadly cold, the blanket out of reach.
Am I worthy? This is no longer my question. I have never been in space before and I think I am going to die.
SEVEN
At the orbiter the two Dracs drag me, feeling more dead than alive, out of the hidden compartment, dress me in a brown one-piece uniform, and smuggle me out of the lander as part of the lander crew. Without speaking they hurry me through passageways, down stairs, across hangar decks, and through more passageways. In moments I am in a pale green uniform disguised as a member of the orbiter crew. A Drac and a human I do not recognize take me through more passageways until we reach a gigantic hangar deck housing a sleek black swept-wing craft five times longer than the lander. The human pulls me into an alcove and holds out a black and gray uniform while the Drac takes turns at preparing some kind of identity badge and keeping watch.
“Do you have any skills?” asks the Drac. “We need to place you in the crew.”
I think for a moment and say, “I know how to kill and stay alive.”
The Drac smuggler gives me a cold look and the human interrupts by asking, “You can do maintenance on all kinds of Drac sidearms, can’t you?”
“Yes, as well as a considerable variety of human weapons.”
Another cold look, this time from the human. The Drac enters a number of codes into my badge, tests them with a small light set into a stick, and nods at the human. The human faces me and says, “My friend here has diddled with the data and entered you as a member of the crew of the Tora Soam.”
The Tora Soam. The ship is named for the most destructive Drac traitor who ever carried Aydan’s Blade. What insanity could cause such a bizarre misapplication of honor?
“Do you understand ?” urges the human.
“Yes. Where is this ship?” I ask.
“Off station.” Seeing my look of confusion, he points toward one of the view ports. “Out there, in orbit with the station about a hundred klicks away. Gavey klicks?”
“I understand.”
He nods his head toward the ship that fills the hangar deck. Several dignitaries and their attendants are standing together, talking and waiting. “This is one of the Soam’s shuttles. When the crew starts to board, we’ll attach you to a friend of ours who’ll get you on board and settled in. Our friend has found you an open slot to fill. In case anyone asks, tell them your real name and that you are in Maintenance Six, Ordnance. This is a diplomatic ship to Draco―only couriers and paper wizards―so nobody should need your services. You’ll have your own quarters and rations, so stay out of sight, keep your mouth shut, and you’ll do fine.”
The smugglers’ friend is Binas Pahvi, one of the Tora Soam’s fourth officers. The money Zenak Abi paid for my passage does not exchange hands. Instead the human hands Pahvi a heavy container of Amadeen’s sole export: happy paste. I can imagine a trail of spittle dreams from Amadeen across the galaxy to Draco. Pahvi has what the humans call devil eyes. I am kept out of sight as much as possible, but I think nearly everyone on the crew knows what is going on. Perhaps they all receive a share of Zenak Abi’s payment. Perhaps they don’t care. It is an attitude I do not understand. Those who have the grit of Amadeen in their pores learn that death trails uncaring steps. It is the first of many reminders that war makes its own race of children, aliens to those who have not had the same parent. Those crewing the orbiter and the Tora Soam are not warriors with missions. Instead they are laborers and technicians putting in time in exchange for pay.
The ship’s armory is a small compartment opening onto the weapons bay and onto the armorer’s quarters. It consists of a workbench and lockers filled with test equipment, tools, and supplies. The tools have no wear on them, the supplies have never been opened, and most of the ship’s complement of weapons is still in sealed shipping bags. The weapons that are unpacked and assembled are either filthy, out of power, or both. This obscene lack of preparedness is nothing to me. I have no stake in the mission of the Tora Soam.
I stay in my tiny quarters and while away the time with human and Drac theatricals on my monitor. When I can no longer stand the shows, I play the games offered on the monitor until I feel my brain turning into excrement. In desperation I begin unpacking, cleaning, and powering up the ship’s sidearms. It is good work and I find more meaning in it than in my mission to the Talman Kovah.
There are both humans and Dracs among the Drac diplomatic mission and among the crew. All of them are young, humans and Dracs both. Too young to have fought on Amadeen before the quarantine, too young to carry the scars of the USE-Dracon War. They serve the Dracon Chamber’s diplomatic corps keeping the fighting on Amadeen out of sight and the blood off the boots and sandals of the politicians.
There is one member of the crew who did serve on Amadeen before the quarantine. It is the captain and pilot of the Tora Soam, Aureah Vak. Vak is almost as old as Zenak Abi. It has been thirty years since it fought on Amadeen, but I see its eyes every time I look into a mirror. Too old to fly combat now, the pilot ferries passengers from Draco to the Amadeen orbiter and from the orbiter to Draco. Yet the war Vak fought is still alive to its ghosts.
Before first watch every cycle Aureah Vak comes to the armory to clean, oil, and test its sidearm and the small pistol it keeps in a hidden boot holster. Both weapons are human projectile pieces. Vak will not let me touch its weapons although the cleaning and repair of such things is supposed to be my work. As one weapon is disassembled for cleaning and inspection, the other is loaded, cocked and on the workbench close to Aureah Vak’s hand.
Vak’s gaze never leaves the weapon it is cleaning, but I am certain the captain knows exactly where I am and what I am doing. On the captain’s fifth visit, it speaks beyond its usual curt greeting. “There is something familiar about you, Yazi Ro. Do you remember meeting me prior to this flight?”
“No, captain,” I answer.
“Strange. You are too young, but it is almost as if you were one of my comrades in the Tsien Denvedah as we died on Amadeen.” I say nothing as its gaze moves until it stops on me. “Were you in the fight against the pirates around the Aakava System four years ago?” Without waiting for a response, the captain looks back at the cleaning bench and finishes assembling its weapon as it says, “There are stories about members of the quarantine patrol and command smuggling certain humans and Dracs off Amadeen. The smugglers do not care about the species, as long as the price is paid.”
Vak loads the weapon, cocks it, and places it next to its small pistol. Reaching over to the small pistol, Vak takes the pressure off the hammer, removes the clip, and ejects the round from the chamber. In a moment the gun is so many pieces undergoing cleaning and inspection. I am certain that the captain knows the truth about me, and there is no purpose to be served in running or killing the captain, supposing that could be done. Still, I say nothing. It is Vak’s game and I let it make the moves.
“What you want, Yazi Ro?”
“Want, Captain?”
The pilot’s eyes glare at me. “You are not stupid, denmavedah.” Now I know it knows. “Answer me my question, Ro. More than anything else in the universe, for what does your heart crave?”
It matters not if I reveal myself to this one. Vak knows about me. What it does not know is how the endless fire of Amadeen has left me. The word is strange in my mouth. “Peace. More than anything else my heart craves peace.”
The captain’s aged brow ascends as Vak looks at me with surprise on its face. “Not vengeance? Have you lost no friends? No family? Was there no
one you loved?”
I stare at the deck as waves of images assault my mind. My parent, so many comrades, the last of the Twelve. And someone―another one―I loved.
Night patrol near Douglasville on Dorado’s southern coast. Lota Min crawling ahead, I following. Japu wanted us to probe the enemy position and search for a weakness. In the dirt, knees and elbows raw. Then it happens. One of us makes a noise or crawls too close to a Front listening post. Perhaps a remote probe. The humans, sometimes they begin firing to keep us awake or on the off chance that someone might be near their positions. Very wasteful of ammunition, but this time they catch us.
The sky fills with blinding white fire crossed with the bright green streaks of human tracers, the deafening crunch of sonic warheads. Dazed, half blinded by the flares, I see Min crawling into a crater using only its arms. A roar fills my hearing as I see the destruction of a beam disrupter racing toward me. A huge hand comes from above and flattens me into the dirt. In panic I crawl toward the crater, the beam disrupter sizzling the air above the back of my neck. At the lip of the crater a sonic warhead exploding drives my mind into darkness.
There are worlds to move before I can open my eyes. Dirt from my face, something heavy across my legs. I can feel something sharp digging into my back. My arms and hands are numb but I manage to clear the dirt from my eyes. My helmet is gone. I open my eyes and see the stars looking back at me. There are no flares, no firing, nothing but a slight breeze from the distant shore and the rasp of Min’s breaths. There is the twisted barrel of a weapon blotting out some of the stars, its cooling vanes crumpled like so much foil. I turn my head and see that its tracked undercarriage shares the crater with us. I turn to look at the weight on my legs.
Enemy Papers Page 43