"The High Lord would know the true Lord from the Deceiver, but what if esLi Himself were altered? What if someone—if some power—had changed esLi in such a way to place us on that flight? What if some power chose the outcome: all of it, even the outcome to the war with esHu'ur?"
"What if the recovery of the gyaryu itself was also arranged? se Jackie's evidence suggests that this was done.
"We have been manipulated, Byar." S'reth's voice had become ragged, a whisper. His grasp was becoming weaker. "We have been placed on this flight so that se Jackie can stand within the Circle." The old zor took a long breath that seemed to enlarge and then contract his entire body. "This is Shr'e'a, my old friend."
"I don't see what Sharia'a has to do with—"
"Shr'e'a," S'reth said. "There is so little time, old friend. The enemies . . . the enemies—"
S'reth's arms slipped to his sides and he turned from Byar to look out the window, where a storm was beginning to form in the sky. Clouds were roiling above, casting monstrous shadows on the plain below, from the foothills to the sprawling city of esYen in the distance.
"Shr'e'a," S'reth repeated, bowing his head. Then without further comment he slipped from the perch, falling toward the floor below. Byar reached out and caught the ancient one by the waist, and fluttered down, thus burdened.
"Healer to the Master's study!" he shouted at comp, and scarcely heard an acknowledgment from it; but by the time Byar reached the floor and gently laid S'reth flat, he knew it was too late.
He placed his wings in the position of enGa'e'esLi—the Enfolding Protection of esLi—and looked upward to the window, away from the peaceful and lifeless face of his old, old friend.
Chapter 14
Station One had been in a stable orbit around Earth for nearly four hundred years. Lifted into space in pieces and assembled, it had been the crowning, cooperative achievement of several governments under the auspices of the twenty-first-century United Nations. It had been repeatedly extended and improved since then; it now bore very little resemblance to the ancient structure that had been the first gateway to Sol System and, eventually, to the stars.
Now it was the transit point for civilian shuttles coming to and from the surface of mankind's original home. Jackie had not set foot on Station One since she'd been an Academy cadet on leave; the few times she had been in Sol System since—either aboard a ship or on a naval assignment—she had gone directly by shuttle to St. Louis Admiralty or to the Baikonur Spaceport, and bypassed Station One entirely.
By comparison, Dan McReynolds knew Station One well, and made friendly small talk with the traffic controller on the way in. Dan seemed to know everyone, and everyone seemed to know Fair Damsel. But he'd had no problem flashing the credentials of the High Nest as needed. Fair Damsel, accustomed to the usual delays and petty bureaucracy of a busy port, was given priority that surprised even Dan.
When Damsel reached anchor, Dan accompanied Jackie to the personnel airlock. She had traveled without an entourage, not wanting to make too much of the Gyaryu'har's visit to the humans' homeworld; but she had the comforting presence of the sword, and a host of advisors about whom Dan knew nothing.
"Look," he said, as the 'lock was cycling. "Are you sure you don't need someone to watch your back?"
"I'll be all right. This is an ambassadorial visit, not some kind of cloak-and-dagger."
"The last time I let you out of my sight, Jay, you damn near got yourself killed."
"I'd almost consider that patronizing if I didn't know you better. This is my own flight, Dan; it's fine. I have some people to meet on-station. I'll get cleared for Damsel to fly to Langley and we'll head out there. I don't expect anyone to try and kill me. Besides—" She rested her hand on the hilt of the gyaryu.
"Someone with a laser pistol won't give a damn how good that sword is or how good you are with it, Jay. You should have an escort. The Sultan and I—"
"—can sit in a bar on Station One and play cards for six hours. I don't need or want an escort."
The 'lock beeped, indicating that pressure had been equalized.
"You be careful, Jay. se Jay. You've come too far and worked too hard to mess it up now."
Jackie smiled and nodded. "I'll be back soon."
"You said that on Crossover."
Jackie considered a response and discarded it. She gave Dan's arm a squeeze and stepped into the airlock, the door closing behind her.
The reception committee was small but impressive. Two zor and two humans awaited her as she descended the slidewalk alone to the main concourse of Station One. There was a little area partitioned off with Imperial Marines standing guard; passersby seemed to be steering clear.
She recognized one of the humans at once: William Clane Alvarez, the Duke of Burlington and First Lord of the Admiralty. She hadn't expected to see him again anytime soon, and, from the look of things, he was nervous about their meeting as well. The two zor wore sashes indicating their rank within the High Nest: One, she knew, must be Mya'ar HeChra, the esGyu'u of the High Nest to the Solar Emperor's court. The other was unknown.
"ha Gyaryu'har," one of the zor said, as she reached concourse level. Both zor placed their wings in the Posture of Polite Approach.
"se Mya'ar?" Jackie asked the one who had spoken, and his wings dipped in assent. "It is a pleasure to meet you." She grasped forearms with each of the zor in turn.
"You have already made the acquaintance of the First Lord, I believe," Mya'ar said, a comment that might be considered ironic or even sarcastic coming from a human; it was apparent from his wings, however, that he meant it only as a statement of fact. "Allow me to present se Ta'sen HeU'ur, my assistant."
Jackie inclined her head as the two zor placed their wings in postures of respect.
"Your Grace," Jackie said to Alvarez. He seemed focused on her attire—a loose-fitting crimson tunic with a light-blue sash, plain dark pants and boots, the gyaryu belted at her waist. She saw the same cavernous face she remembered from across the table at the board of inquiry, half a lifetime ago. "I regret that I am out of uniform to meet you."
Not that I really give a damn anymore, she added, to herself.
"I understand that you have changed professions—and uniforms," he answered, obviously ill-at-ease. "I hope . . . you realize that our understanding of things has changed since we last spoke."
"Mine as well, Your Grace."
"I can imagine." He gestured to the other human. "Admiral Sean Mbele, may I present Commodore and Gyaryu'har Jacqueline Laperriere"—Alvarez let a smile escape his face—"your welcoming committee.
"There'll be seventeen sideboys at Molokai, as befits your station, but I saw no reason to be ostentatious here." He glanced across the concourse, where humans with a few zor and rashk mixed in, hurried along, mostly ignoring today's reception of dignitaries.
"Molokai, Your Grace? I hadn't expected—"
"Both the Imperial Court and the Imperial Assembly, Commodore. But the emperor first. I am under direct orders to bring you directly to the estate."
"I'm not really prepared—"
Alvarez held up his hand. "There's a shuttle waiting for us." The small party began to walk, more or less surrounding Jackie and herding her along the concourse. "As I see it, madam," the First Lord continued, "meeting with the emperor should be no challenge after the experiences you've already had."
As they walked, Jackie noticed that a fairly large number of ill-disguised figures shadowed their movements on the concourse. "No reason to be ostentatious," my ass, she thought.
"I had not known that Your Grace was well informed about my experiences—"
"Eight thousand pardons," Mya'ar cut in. "The First Lord and His Imperial Highness have been briefed by the Envoy. The emperor has received a full explanation of your part in emulation of the legend, ha Gyaryu'har. At the moment, he has accepted the idea that the High Nest has some particular capability to combat the enemy."
Jackie didn't comment; she suspected
that Mya'ar, like most of the People, associated the aliens with the servants of the Deceiver. One of her most pressing reasons for coming to Sol System was to obtain more information to support or dispel that association.
It was only a short walk to the shuttle bay, which was heavily guarded by conspicuously armed Marines. The image of walking through the orbital station at Cle'eru with Ch'k'te came to her mind unbidden, and she touched the gyaryu, by way of assurance. The almost reflexive movement brought a strange look from the First Lord, who must have wondered what she was doing.
The first part of the shuttle trip was uneventful, as the vessel made planetfall escorted by several space-to-ground fighters. Jackie and the First Lord's entourage sat in the stateroom, quietly discussing matters of little importance.
At last, the First Lord cleared his throat and reached inside his uniform jacket. "I have . . ." He withdrew an envelope, sealed with the personal sigil of the Solar Emperor. "If you are prepared to accept it," he said, handing her the envelope, "I have received approval to grant you a full honorable discharge from the Imperial Navy with a full pension based on two steps above current grade and station."
"Promotion to 'admiral, retired,'" Jackie answered, a bit surprised by this sudden choice of tactic. "What about the court-martial?"
"Obviously, all charges will be dropped. In fact, in view of your recent . . . services to the High Nest, His Imperial Highness is prepared to award you the Order of the White Cross."
"You were prepared to put me in irons for the rest of my life, and now you're going to retire me and give me a medal?"
"Commodore, I realize how this must seem—"
"Your Grace, I find this reversal of policy . . ." She considered several insulting conclusions to the sentence, and bit her tongue. "Your Grace: my current position and recent experience gives me a certain immunity from prosecution, even if there were still a belief that my actions at Cicero were improper.
"I'm glad to be vindicated, of course, but I suspect that you have very little control over this. What's more, my feelings don't need to be assuaged. But what about the people under my command? When we last spoke, they were being dispersed to the four corners of the Empire, and I suspect they've been dropped to the bottom of the captains' list. What are you going to do for them?"
"As it happens," Alvarez replied, his brow furrowing, "experience with the aliens rates a posting to frontline duty these days. The Admiralty does not intend to press any charges; the Cicero matter is closed."
"How pragmatic and politic of you, Your Grace."
This time it was the First Lord who appeared to be wrestling with the proper reply. "Commodore . . . Excuse me—Gyaryu'har.
"You obviously relish the fact that, unlike in our previous interview, you have the advantage. I am prepared to swallow my pride for the moment; I am even ready to apologize for any harm done by my own shortsightedness.
"But we have a common enemy, madam. It is not the intransigence or ignorance of humanity, nor is it the mysterious complexity of the zor. It is the aliens who seek to destroy the Solar Empire. If you are interested in doing your job, you must learn some pragmatism yourself. I can make things easier for you, Gyaryu'har, or I can make things difficult. Very difficult.
"Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Your Grace. Very much so."
"Will you accept your retirement as an admiral, and my reassurances about your former subordinates?"
"I'd . . . be honored." . . . you slimy so-and-so, she added mentally. "I'd appreciate your help."
"Yes. Well." He rose from his seat and walked to the dispenser: 'Two h'geRu, three g'rey'l . . . Is that all right with everyone?"
No one objected. Five cubical containers were extruded and filled; Alvarez handed them to the zor and humans, retaining the last one for himself.
"A toast," he said at last. "To Admiral Laperriere. To the emperor and the High Nest."
At about the same time Jackie Laperriere's shuttle was entering the atmosphere of the homeworld, Rich Abramowicz was ordering Trebizond to stand down.
They'd emerged from jump at Denneva System. Almost immediately, Emperor Cleon and Emperor Alexander intercepted Trebizond. They were two ships of the same class—and significantly more armed and dangerous than the Byzantium-class Trebizond. Abramowicz didn't know either commander—not that it mattered; they weren't talking except to give curt orders.
"You'd think we were the enemy," Kit Hafner said, squinting at the forward screen.
Trebizond had slowed to the point that it was essentially drifting in space, about ten thousand kilometers downrange of the jump point. Cleon was in her forward screen, still fully armed and ready to fire; Alexander was aft. Two smaller Broadmoor-class vessels were boosting out of Denneva System's gravity well to reach Trebizond, which had followed orders to heave to.
Now it was a sitting duck, with its weapons and defensive fields offline.
"We might be."
"Meaning?"
"If I were out there"—Abramowicz gestured toward Cleon—"I'd be damned careful before I'd let this ship get anywhere near the inner system. Who knows what might be aboard?"
"If there were bugs aboard," Hafner answered, "how'd we ever get to jump?"
"Same way we got past 'em at Brady Point: They let us."
There had been some fairly tense moments at the refueling station at Brady Point. Abramowicz had lied his way through an exchange with an alien (disguised as a human; perhaps one of the station's former officers), in which he'd claimed the authority of the First Drone H'mr. If the alien had decided to comm-squirt to Adrianople and hold Trebizond until he got a reply, the bluff would've fallen apart.
And we'd be dead, the captain of the Trebizond told himself. Kit Hafner was certainly bright enough to reach this conclusion on his own, once he thought about it.
Abramowicz thought about Commodore Durant, back at Adrianople. Once H'mr and the other alien leader realized that Trebizond had gotten away, Durant would probably be killed . . . or worse. It was hard to tell whether what had already happened to Commander Mustafa was worse: He'd been a shell of a man, jumping at shadows, ever since the base had been surrendered. But they'd found Brady Point occupied and had managed to get past mind-controlling aliens, even though Abramowicz had thought they had no chance.
After all, there was no way to go but forward.
"You think they 'let' us get here, too. Why?"
"Some of them are aboard. We're inside the Empire. Connect the dots, Kit."
"Then we have to—"
"What? Leave? Where would we go? . . . And what do you think are our chances of getting past that?" He gestured toward Emperor Cleon. The pilot's board showed the two Broadmoors, not yet in visual range, closing on their location. Emperor Alexander had its weapons armed and ready.
"Let's hope they have some way of finding the infiltrators. Anyone could be one—you, me . . ." Abramowicz smiled slightly, looking sidelong at Kit Hafner, who looked alarmed at the suggestion. "I hear that an exec on one of the ships that evacuated Cicero turned out to be an alien."
"Captain, I—"
Abramowicz held his hand up. "Belay it. Either you're an alien—and I hope to God there's a way to smoke you out—or you're not, and I have nothing to worry about. Either way, there's nothing you can do right now to convince me one way or the other. Anyway, it's them you'll have to convince."
He squinted at the displays next to the ship-icons. "They must have learned something—every few seconds they're shifting frequencies on field distributors and travelers. Maybe that gives the aliens a headache."
With no defensive fields and weapons offline Trebizond was defenseless, but remained closely guarded by four ships for two full watches—during which, as ordered, it maintained comm silence.
Abramowicz was in the gym trying to tire himself out enough to get a good watch's sleep, when his comp signaled. He stepped away from the weight-trainer and grabbed a towel. "Captain here."
"Comm incoming
, Skip," said Rhea Salmonson's voice. "Priority for you. Duc d'Enghien sends."
"The carrier?"
"Yes sir. Captain MacEwan."
"All right." He waved at the comp. An image resolved a few meters away, showing a carrier's flight bridge; a frowning officer appeared, looking right at and through him.
"This is Abramowicz. Sorry I'm out of uniform, Captain, but I didn't know when you'd call."
"It's all right. I'll get to the point," Barbara MacEwan said. "I've got orders for you from Admiral Hsien. I don't want to be more blunt than necessary: but you will follow these orders to the letter, or a number of the ships in this system will blow you to hell. Do you read?"
"Go ahead."
"At the beginning of next watch, you will prepare to jump outsystem to coordinates specified in a comm-squirt you will receive at that time. You will follow the specified real-space path exactly and jump at the designated time: not a millisecond before, not a millisecond after. You will be accompanied by my ship and Emperor Cleon; we'll emerge from jump slightly before you, and we'll be fully armed.
"Your defensive fields and weaponry will remain offline at all times."
Abramowicz wiped his face with the towel. "Where are we headed?"
"No need to tell you now, but suffice it to say, it's a place where we can check your people out."
"I don't understand."
"I didn't expect that you would. Let me put it in the simplest terms possible: If you or anyone aboard your ship is a bug—"
"A 'bug'?"
"An alien. If anyone is an alien, he or she is in deep trouble. Everyone else will be in the clear in short order; and for those folks it's open bar in Duc d'Enghien's galley."
"How do I know this isn't an alien trap?"
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