"It was what esLi willed."
Stanton System had been colonized in the early twenty-second century by the overpopulated Terran country of India. A deputation from the Indian parliament, accompanied by a group of Indian religious leaders, had boarded a ship and visited a dozen Earthlike planets recently opened for colonization. While the government officials took water and atmospheric samples, examined shipping lines and space hazards, and evaluated sites for new cities, the Hindu priests traveled upcountry to determine whether the world had the elusive qualities required to support the culture that would be settled on it.
They finally settled on the seventh world visited: the fourth planet of Iota Cancri, a yellow-and-white double star sixty parsecs from Sol System. There were abundant mineral resources; the oceans were stocked with edible creatures; the system had few navigational problems and stable jump points . . . and the main continent had a long snaking river that emptied into the sea through a wide, low delta: It was a new Ganges, uncountable kilometers from the original one. Over the course of three years, three-quarters of the two billion inhabitants of the Indian subcontinent migrated in huge ships that moved them, bag and baggage, along the two-week jump from Sol System to Stanton System. It was not without incident: A terrorist insurgent group almost destroyed one of the ships—and two hundred thousand Indian migrants with it—but was thwarted, barely in time.
By the time the migration was complete, Stanton was one of the most populous worlds in the Solar Empire.
Almost three centuries after a group of Indian dignitaries had laid eyes on Stanton System, the crew of the Negri Sembilan got its first look at New India. A native voice hailed them in Standard and guided them toward the naval facility, where several ships were already on-station. As Negri approached, the pilot's board began to identify ship signatures.
"I'll be damned," Owen said as he watched the configuration grow in the forward screen. "I think that's the Duc."
Rafe had come onto the bridge a few minutes before. He glanced at the pilot's board, and then at Owen standing at the front of the bridge. "I won't even ask how you know that," he said. "But you're right."
Barbara MacEwan, captain of the Duc d'Enghien, was waiting on the hangar deck when the gig from the Negri touched down. Her most experienced Sensitive, Gyes'ru HeShri, was beside her. There were Marines on the catwalks above—armed; but it wasn't obvious.
He'll know, she thought. Don't think he won't.
A dozen of her fighter pilots had assembled on the deck, against her orders. Ever since the hail had come from Owen Garrett aboard Negri a few hours earlier, every pilot's mess aboard Duc had talked about nothing else. Barbara turned and fixed another glare at the pilots, who stood all in a row; but they were used to it and refused to wither. Besides, her new wing-coordinator, Van Micic, was standing with them.
"Karen would've kept these clowns in line," she said to no one in particular, but didn't really believe it. Her former coordinator, Karen Schaumburg, had recently gotten her own command as the captain of the light carrier Montgomery; Van was an acceptable substitute, but Barbara was set in her ways and knew it.
She shrugged her shoulders and turned back to face the gig. Owen Garrett descended on a grav platform. He saluted her as it reached the deck level and Barbara returned the salute, trying to keep her face impassive.
"Permission to come aboard, ma'am," he said, coming to attention.
Barbara glanced at Gyes'ru, who inclined his head. "Granted." She extended her hand and took his. "Damn, it's good to see you. It takes so damn long to get you fighter jockeys trained up, I hate to see it go to waste." The fighter pilots all chuckled. Normally, Barbara would've turned around and let them have it, but she let that go, as well.
"Thank you, Captain. It's good to see you, too." Owen looked up at the catwalks and then back at Barbara. "You had to make sure."
"You bet I did. Especially with you. Last time we saw you . . ."
Owen shrugged. "I'm sorry that I took so long to report back for duty."
"How'd you know to come here?"
"We took on a passenger at Cle'eru, ma'am. He briefed us on the . . . on Thon's Well; and told us he'd heard that some of the fleet had redeployed to Stanton System. I'd been looking for a safe port to bring back Negri. We heard that Adrianople wasn't the place to go, and it was blind luck that we wound up at Cle'eru."
"The zor world?"
"That's right, ma'am."
Barbara turned away from Owen. "Commander Micic, dismiss these reprobates, on the double. If they don't have duties, find them some." As the little assembly broke up, she took Owen by the elbow and guided him toward the exit.
"Did you happen to see . . ." Barbara looked back toward the gig and then back at him. ". . . Commodore Laperriere? She jumped for there aboard a zor ship, and that's the last I've heard of her."
"No ma'am. I heard that she left Cle'eru System aboard a merchanter named Fair Damsel."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"A system pilot told us. He'd guided the ship to the jump point a few weeks back."
"Damn. What's she up to?"
"Ma'am?"
"Nothing." Barbara made a fist with her right hand and rapped it on her thigh; then slowly, deliberately, unballed it. "She and Ch'k'te have been pulled into some sort of 'legend' by the zor High Nest. I don't know what the hell it's all about."
"I get the impression, Captain, that her quest is the only thing that's important—it doesn't matter what we do, whether we win or lose battles. It doesn't even matter that we managed to get Negri back into friendly hands."
Even before he finished the sentence, he realized he'd touched a nerve. Barbara MacEwan stopped walking, put her hands on her hips and glowered at Owen.
"Now, hear this, Mister Garrett. You listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once.
"Everything we do matters, from fighting battles at Thon's Well to guiding one of His Majesty's ships back to a safe harbor. This is what we get paid for. Maybe the crazy quest the commodore is on trumps everything that happens at the Imperial Court, or in the Assembly, or at the High Nest, or here in the fleet, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't be doing it.
"A thousand Standard years ago and more, my ancestors were fighting wars in the Scottish Highlands against the invaders from the south. The English had the arms, they had the ships, they had the numbers. They had everything but the ability to overcome the Scots. The English did everything they could to defeat them: They sought to divide them, they committed acts of terror and reprisal, they played politics.
"And even so, it took hundreds of years before the Scots and English swore loyalty to the same monarch; and by the middle twenty-first century, the Scots went their own way again."
"Ma'am, I—"
"I'm not finished, mister. The soldiers who serve in any war have an obligation to do whatever they can for crown and country. That's particularly true for soldiers who swore oaths as officers, like me. And like you, too. I have no idea what in hell is going on with my friend and former commanding officer. Maybe she's the key to this whole war, and maybe if she fails it doesn't matter in the end whether we win a hundred battles or bring a hundred ships back safe—but in the meanwhile it matters everything to me. That's why I wear this uniform." She plucked at a sleeve, turning the sword-and-sun emblem on her jacket to face him. "And as long as I do, I'm going to do my duty.
"Do you read me, Lieutenant?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Good. Now, you come with me. Before you get turned inside out by Admiral Hsien and his staff, I'm going to pour you a little libation, and you're going to tell me what in the hell happened to you."
Chapter 10
Nest HeYen crept forward on the display; its icon was almost on top of the three IDs showing the monstrous, huge hive-ships that had been dropping from the jump point into the gravity well of Thon's Well System. A haze of enemy IDs hovered nearby, mostly aft of the three great ships. The pattern of Imperial ships had begun to
break up into disorder: some clearly approaching too fast to decelerate in time; others moving on the wrong vector to even approach the battle zone.
Seconds ticked by on the chrono, hanging in midair, below and to the left of the display.
Then, suddenly, Nest HeYen's signature vanished. Less than a second later, the mass-radar echoes of the three ships and a dozen other smaller ones vanished as well.
The chrono kept advancing steadily. A half-minute went by; Emperor Ian and its flankers had straightened their course and were closing on the remaining enemy vessels. Now it was their turn to be in disarray: Some were trying to maneuver around the irregular zone of destruction caused by the death of the four ships, one zor and three vuhl; others were accelerating toward the jump point. The four Broadmoor-class starships—the Edgerton, Casian, Tsing Liu and Rainier—had managed to execute a turn that would bring them there ahead of the ships trying to escape.
The chime rang at the ready-room door.
"Halt replay," Georg Maartens said. The chrono and display froze in position. Edgerton and Casian were just opening fire on the foremost vuhl ships straggling toward the jump point—caught between the Ians and the Broadmoors, they all would be destroyed.
He'd seen it several times already. "Come," he said. The door slid aside and T'te'e HeYen came through the door.
The High Chamberlain offered a slight bow to Maartens, who began to stand up. "Eight thousand pardons," T'te'e said, gesturing toward the display. "I did not mean to interrupt."
"No, not at all." Maartens began to gesture the display off. "It's something to occupy my mind until we reach Zor'a. I still have a report to write."
"Please," the High Chamberlain said. "A moment." He took a step forward and pointed at the mass-radar disturbance near the center of the current view. "This . . . is the place."
"Where Nest HeYen was destroyed," Maartens said.
"Where the High Lord"—T'te'e's wings moved to another position—"caused the ship to activate its self-destruct sequence."
"That's right. The matter/antimatter explosion engulfed the nearest hive-ship, and the subsequent disturbance destroyed the other two."
"Yes." T'te'e let his hand drop to his side. For a moment it rested on the hilt of his chya and then started away, as if the sword were of molten metal and had burned him.
"It is a great loss," Maartens managed, after a moment.
"It was a great victory." T'te'e looked away. "The High Nest will honor hi'i Ke'erl for his sacrifice. It was an anGa'riSsa—a ritual bloodletting."
"When you came aboard, ha T'te'e, you spoke of the High Lord's dreams." Maartens ran a finger along the dented surface of the Pappenheim model on his desk; it reflected the display that hung above it, pinching some parts, distending others. "His vision brought us all to Thon's Well; his vision told him that the vuhls would attack there.
"He had this maneuver in mind all along, didn't he? He meant to destroy Nest HeYen at that worthless place, taking as much enemy firepower as he could."
"I . . . would venture to say so."
"But you didn't know it was coming."
T'te'e's talons came out of their sheaths a centimeter or so. Very slowly and carefully, the zor crossed his arms across his chest and the talons retreated.
"No, se Captain. I did not. If I had known, I would have been at the High Lord's side, as would have been proper."
Suddenly Maartens understood something that had evaded him since the battle. At the High Chamberlain's request. Admiral Stark had detailed Pappenheim and its command to escort T'te'e to the zor homeworld. During the few days they'd been in jump, the High Chamberlain had kept almost exclusively to his quarters, politely refusing the courtesies of the captain's table and the officers' wardroom.
Now the captain knew why.
Maartens gestured the display off. He stood up and walked to a cabinet in a side-wall of the room. Reaching into an inner pocket in his uniform tunic, he withdrew a metal key and opened a small lock. He pulled out two glasses and a flask of h'geRu and carried them to the table.
Without a word he took the flask and poured two fingers of the bluish, almond-colored liquid into each glass and handed one to T'te'e, taking the other one himself.
"Drink," he said.
"se Captain," T'te'e began, "I—"
"Drink," Maartens insisted.
The High Chamberlain looked at the glass and then at Pappenheim's captain over it. He dipped a talon into the h'geRu and made a small sign in the air, and then downed the glass and set it on the table. Maartens took a sip from his own glass and set it next to the empty one.
"Need your torpedoes armed again, ha T'te'e?" he asked.
"Thank you, no."
"I'll leave the bottle out if you change your mind." He took the Chamberlain carefully by the elbow and steered him toward a pair of armchairs on the opposite side of the room, under a frowning portrait of a man dressed in ancient costume. With a gesture, a perch extruded from the floor. Maartens sat in one of the chairs and indicated the perch for the zor.
"I feel as if I am about to be instructed," T'te'e said, his wings adjusting as he stepped onto the perch.
"You're damned right," Maartens said. "I hope you enjoyed the taste of that h'geRu. It's almost a hundred Standard years old; it was presented to me by a zor officer who served under me a dozen years ago. I don't take it out except for special occasions that I share with persons of honor.
"And what's more, sir, I don't serve it to dead people, no matter how high their rank or station. Make no mistake about it: If you'd been aboard Nest HeYen, you wouldn't be getting that drink from my century-old bottle of h'geRu, the first booze that man and zor ever shared together."
"I am not sure what you are implying."
"The High Nest has just lost its High Lord, ha T'te'e. Don't you think it's a good thing that it didn't lose its High Chamberlain as well?"
"I was meant to be at the side of the High Lord when he transcended the Outer Peace, se Captain."
"Georg. I also only drink with friends, sir."
"se Georg, then. I fear that the High Nest has lost its Chamberlain as well, since I am certainly idju for my negligence."
"'Negligence'? For surviving the suicide of your High Lord? Your insane High Lord, who killed—what was it—three thousand of his best servants? You consider yourself dishonored because you weren't one of them?"
"His sanity is not the issue."
"I agree. He did what he did for whatever reason, but that goes for all of his actions. Don't you concur?"
"I fail to see your point."
"Let me clarify it for you. You obey the directions of the High Lord, correct?"
"It is my duty."
"If he commands you to die? If he commands you to kill?"
"Of course."
"And what if—" Maartens crossed one leg over the other, letting himself smile just a bit. He folded his hands over his knee. "What if he commands you to go across to a human ship to provide an intelligence briefing to a commander?"
T'te'e thought about it for a moment, and his wings moved to one position and then another.
"I . . ." he began, and then moved his wings again. "Are you suggesting that hi'i Ke'erl sent me to Pappenheim specifically to keep me from transcending the Outer Peace?"
"I am suggesting, ha T'te'e, that the High Lord realized he had to do this terrible thing—this ritual bloodletting—and that he would die in the process. He knew your place was at his side, and that if he ordered you to remain behind with no explanation, it would be a matter of honor for you to refuse or lose face.
"He knew that you would follow his orders regardless of what they were . . . even if it resulted in your own death.
"He also knew that if he did nothing—if he kept you by him—that the next High Lord would have no one with your skill and wisdom to provide advice and guidance. So he chose another path: He dispatched you on an important mission, preserving your life.
"And, I might add, preserv
ing your honor as well."
"A fourth course," T'te'e said. "Your argument suggests . . . that I should not consider myself idju at all."
"Of course not." Maartens uncrossed his legs and stood up. "Would I waste hundred-year-old h'geRu on someone who was dishonored?"
T'te'e stepped forward and grasped Maartens by the forearms. After a moment, Pappenheim's captain returned the gesture. There was emotion in the zor's eyes; Maartens didn't know exactly what to make of it, but felt that something important had happened.
"I believe, se Georg," T'te'e said, after a moment, "that I should like another drink."
From the fortieth floor of her apartment building, the storm was still impressive. Jackie had been out earlier, exploring the city, and had had to make a dash of a few meters to get to the front doorway. It had been enough to soak her to the skin. It wasn't as if she had anything better to do—until H'mr arrived, she was no more than a VIP on leave. On any other night but this, she'd have been glad to sink into a tub and let the day's tensions seep out; but she was expecting a visitor tonight.
After giving herself a moment to be dwarfed a little bit by the majesty of nature, she gave over to a few quick minutes in the shower. Then she pulled on some dry clothes, thinking about what she'd dreamed the previous night.
She had stood at the top of the Perilous Stair again, her body shaking in the cold as the wind blew through the holes in her cloak where wings should be.
This time, though, there was no audience for her to complain to, no Hyos for her Qu'u—she was alone. At her belt was an empty scabbard, and overhead, the lightnings cascaded from a sky impossibly high above. Off in the distance, across the Plain of Despite, she could make out the towers of Center's capital city.
The Icewall lurked behind, menacing, a physical presence that seemed ready to topple onto her at any moment.
"Now is the time for the shNa'es'ri, Mighty Hero," the voice said from an immense distance. "One step forward, to stand within the Circle."
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