“Sometimes, when she dreams, she speaks in a strange language. Would that be the language… your people speak?”
Reza nodded. “It would be the Old Tongue,” he explained, “the language used in the time of the First Empress. She would only speak it if the bond was unbroken.”
Braddock’s heart sank. He was afraid that would be the case. “She spoke that way last night.”
Reza closed his eyes, his heart beating heavily in his chest with grief. “Then I fear that whatever I feel, so shall she.”
“She’ll die, Reza.”
Opening his eyes, Reza looked his old friend in the face, his own twisted in a mask of emotional agony. “I know,” was all he could say.
***
“Now tell me, Markus,” Borge said cheerfully, “isn’t this far better, even after having had to wait so long?”
Markus Thorella smiled as he cut a strip of sirloin that was among the usual delicacies served at Borge’s table. “Yes, your Honor,” he said honestly. “I have to admit that I thought you were wrong all this time, but now…” He shrugged. “I was wrong. Publicly humiliating Gard has been more fun than I possibly could have imagined.”
In many ways, an outside observer might have thought that the two were like father and son. It was a comparison that would not have been lost on Borge, although Thorella would have chosen to ignore it. Borge had sponsored the younger man, getting him out of trouble when required – as in the nasty incident on Erlang – while developing him into the political and military tool that he needed. He was daring, ruthless, and bloodthirsty, all characteristics that suited Borge’s needs most satisfactorily. It had been a lengthy struggle to keep Thorella from following his passions when he should have been following orders, but it had been worth it. Borge’s plans demanded such an individual, and the time was drawing near for him to put Thorella to his ultimate use.
The fact that he would eventually have to kill Thorella was entirely beside the point. He could never allow such a powerful weapon to exist after its usefulness had ended.
“So,” Borge asked, “tell me, how goes the war?”
Thorella looked startled. “You haven’t heard?”
Borge shook his head as he carefully set down his fork. He was not in the mood for surprises. He never was. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said. “Is there something the General Staff hasn’t been telling us?”
“I don’t know, Senator. But Admiral Zhukovski–”
“That Russian bastard,” Borge hissed under his breath. I’ll make Zhukovski eat gravel one day, he vowed to himself. “He’s a meddler and a fool.”
“Well,” Thorella went on, “my little network found out that there’s been something strange going on. Zhukovski’s people apparently believe that the Kreelans have slacked off heavily in the last few days in their overall offensive, and a lot of their fleet units have mysteriously disappeared.”
“Are you telling me that those witches are retreating?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Thorella said carefully. He was not about to stick his neck out on the basis of someone else’s information, no matter how valid it might be. “But that was the word I got. Unfortunately, I assumed that it would have already made its way to the Council by now.”
Borge nodded. He was furious, boiling inside, but not with Thorella. The Council should have been informed immediately, and he was determined to find out why it had not. “Not your fault, colonel,” he said graciously, actually meaning it, “not at all. But I am afraid that this will cut our dinner date a bit short.”
“I understand, sir,” Thorella said, relieved that Borge’s wrath would be directed away from him. Without hesitation, he rose from the table after Borge and followed him to the hall that led to the front door of the senator’s mansion.
“Be standing by, Markus,” Borge said. “I may need your services very soon.”
“It will be my pleasure, your Honor,” Thorella replied, shaking the older man’s hand before he put on his cap and opened the door to leave. The smell of coming rain was strong in the night air. “You know where to reach me.”
As the younger man walked to his waiting speeder, Borge returned to his study to contact his staff. They all had a great deal to do tonight.
***
“Blast it,” the president said, “how did he find out? The entire bloody Council and Senate is up in arms, screaming that the Executive has withheld vital defense information from them without due cause. Borge has asked for an emergency Council session this morning, and no doubt putting my head on the chopping block will be the topic of discussion.” He had no doubt what the result would be if Borge somehow managed to push through a vote of confidence.
Zhukovski shrugged. “Is not so difficult that he found out, given nature of information,” he said. “Anyone gets idea that Kreelans are backing off, word spreads like fire, and to devil with security.”
“That does not help us, Evgeni,” Admiral L’Houillier said, exasperated. “The fact that your people came up with some analysis like this on the war and were not able to keep it secret–”
“What do you propose I do, admiral?” Zhukovski retorted before his superior could finish. “Shoot my entire staff, their families and friends? Everyone wants war to end, and is willing to pass on good news to others, rules and regulations be damned. But leak of Kreelan ‘withdrawal,’ as good Senator Borge might say was, perhaps, premature.”
“Meaning?” the president asked sharply.
Zhukovski called up a galactic map on the table’s holo system. “Information that Borge received was initial analytic conclusion,” Zhukovski explained in his rumbling voice. “Young analyst of mine saw pattern of sharply increased losses among Kreelan ships and ground forces in battles over last few days, without apparent reason. Further, she found that far fewer Kreelan ships are now in human space than week ago, and offensives on and against many of our colony worlds have suddenly and inexplicably collapsed.” He frowned. “It is as if Kreelans have suddenly lost will to fight. This is information she initially reported informally to me, and I presume is same information received by Borge.”
“I sense a large ‘but’ coming up, Evgeni,” L’Houillier said.
Zhukovski turned his good eye on the senior admiral, nodding his head gravely. “Indeed, it is so. Analyst continued her good works, and discovered what I believe to be Truth, with large T.” The other two men were silent. “Her analysis of STARNET reporting shows that large number of Kreelan warships have passed through trans-Grange and Inner Arm sectors on what looks like converging vectors.”
“Well, where?” the president said impatiently. “Dammit, Evgeni, spell it out!”
“We have only been able to plot location to spheroid of about eight-thousand cubic light years, centered toward galactic hub, past Inner Arm rim worlds.” He sat back, waving his hand dismissively. “But that is immaterial.”
“Why, Evgeni?” L’Houillier asked him.
Zhukovski eyed him closely. “Because, my dear admiral, if projections of my analyst – completed as of this evening – are correct, as I believe they are, no fewer than three thousand Kreelan warships are massed in that sector for what can only be final chapter in this war: total destruction of humanity. And those are ships we know about. There could be more. Many more.”
The other two men sat silent, dumbstruck.
“Three thousand,” L’Houillier whispered finally. “Evgeni, that is impossible! How could they mass that many ships, and so quickly? We do not have half as many warships in our entire fleet!”
“Exactly my point,” Zhukovski said as he took another sip of the over-sweetened tea. “Why Kreelans suddenly die like flies in combat, like drunkards or fools, I do not know. But with three or four thousand ships, even drunkards or fools can destroy Confederation Navy and every colony populated by homo sapiens.”
“Lord of All,” President Nathan whispered, “what shall we do? Evgeni, even if you are completely wrong – which, unfortunately
, I doubt – if that information were to reach the press, we’ll have an interstellar panic on our hands. The government will collapse.”
“Borge will not hesitate to use it against you, Mr. President,” L’Houillier said. While he was supposed to be apolitical, the Grand Admiral had no illusions about Borge’s own lust for power, and had no doubt that he would use any tool available to further his own cause. “Nor can we legally keep the information from the Council, even if there were no leaks.”
Nathan nodded. His political position had just disappeared, vanished into a bottomless morass. But that was not his real concern; the people of the Confederation were. “I’ll have to strike a bargain with him.”
“Better to be bitten in throat by venomous snake,” uttered Zhukovski, not relishing the president’s position. He himself despised Borge and his sycophants, avoiding them whenever possible. Unlike L’Houillier, he made no effort to disguise his personal or political likes and dislikes.
“Believe me, Evgeni,” the president said, “I would much rather jump into a pit of such snakes than give Borge this kind of leverage.” He thought of how long he and Borge had been friends, before Borge had changed, been consumed by a lust for power that had made him into something alien, despicable. It’s strange, Nathan thought, how well I thought I once knew him. I wonder what ever made him change into something so evil? “But I don’t have any choice, do I?”
The two military men looked at each other, then at the president – their commander-in-chief – for whom they had worked for many years. They could not exactly call each other friends, but they were close and respected one another.
“No, sir,” L’Houillier said flatly, wishing there was some other way out, “you do not.”
“And what of the Kreelan fleet?” Nathan asked. “Is there anything we can do?”
“I have already taken liberty of calling operations officer,” Zhukovski said, exchanging a look with L’Houillier. The woman, competent though she was, was a political animal who would jump at any chance to get ahead. “I gave her ‘hypothetical’ scenario to model on command computers, to see what best fleet reactions would be.” He winked at L’Houillier. “I explained that Grand Admiral was most interested in such extreme cases to get more money for fleet expansion, and would be most grateful. Results should be available in another hour.”
“Evgeni, you are incorrigible,” L’Houillier said with a wry smile. “You are worse now than as a midshipman.”
They were silent then, each of them turning Zhukovski’s grim news over in their heads.
“Well,” the president sighed, “I guess there’s not much for it. Thank you gentlemen, and please keep me apprised of the results of the simulations. If you’ll excuse me, I have some calls to make.”
The two Navy officers got up, saluted, and left the president as he called in his aide and began to prepare to meet Borge’s onslaught.
“You realize, admiral,” Zhukovski said quietly as the two of them walked down the corridor to the elevators, “what simulations will say?”
“Of course, Evgeni,” L’Houillier said glumly. “Despite Laskowski’s best efforts to show that she can come up with a plan for victory, the computers will show that we are about two thousand ships short. Even if we concentrated every battle group in a single place to defend against a massed Kreelan attack, we would still be outflanked and destroyed, no matter how poorly the enemy fought.”
As they made their way back to Joint Headquarters, Zhukovski wondered about the Kreelans’ sudden lapse of fighting spirit. He made a note to ask someone who might just know.
***
Reza stood perfectly still in the center of the room, naked except for his collar. His long black hair was again carefully braided in a cascade down his back, a startling contrast to his pale but now healthy looking skin. Starting with his left little toe, he began to flex each muscle in his body, working up his left leg to his waist, then back down his right leg. Then he began to work on his abdomen, then his upper body. He noted with dismay how weak he had become, how quickly his muscles tired, but that only fueled his determination to rebuild both his body and his spirit. It was all he could do, and so it is what he did.
He performed the exercises of body and mind that he had learned as a boy and young man, taking himself to his present limits, slightly beyond, then resting. Even though he was a prisoner shortly to be condemned, the hospital still viewed him as a patient, and so he had no trouble getting the food he needed for the repairs his body was making to itself. At one point, he had even considered asking for his Kreelan clothing to be returned to him to wear, but there was no point; the shape of his body had altered so much that nothing would fit, or so he believed. If necessary, he would wear no clothes at all rather than disgrace himself in ill-fitting armor.
He was just completing the first cycle of calisthenics, vaguely similar to human tai chi, when a knock came at the door. He closed his eyes, looking beyond the metal confines of the room as he ran an impromptu test of his weakened psychic abilities.
Evgeni Zhukovski, someone he had not seen in many years. And he had a very, very troubled mind. He put on a plain white robe for the admiral’s benefit.
“Come,” he said as he turned toward the door.
He heard the electronic buzz as the security lock was released, and Zhukovski quickly pushed through with his good hand.
“Welcome, admiral,” Reza said, taking Zhukovski’s hand. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“I wish I could say same, Reza,” Zhukovski said sadly. “You as man condemned does not appeal to me. Counselor Braddock has told me of your situation. I wish there were something I could do. I am sorry.”
Reza nodded. Zhukovski understood him.
“I know this is unfair, Reza,” Zhukovski went on as the two of them sat at the tiny table in Reza’s room, “but something has come up, and I find I must ask your help.”
“I will try,” Reza told him.
The admiral nodded, and over the next few minutes explained what he and Admiral L’Houillier had discussed the previous night.
After he had finished, Zhukovski said, “Well, how do you think?”
Remaining silent, Reza stood up and walked to the armored window that looked out over a tree-filled courtyard. It was also backed with an invisible force field. While he was still technically a patient, he was very much a prisoner, at least in the minds of his keepers.
“Something has gone wrong with the Ascension,” he said quietly, his fists clenching at his sides to keep them from trembling with anxiety. “The Empress is in distress.”
“What does that mean?” Zhukovski asked. “Is she sick? Dying?”
Reza shook his head. “It is not so simple as that,” he told him. He had never spoken to anyone of the Empire, save for what he had told Nicole and Jodi. But now, after hearing what Zhukovski had told him, he felt the old admiral had a right to understand. “The Empress is really two entities, one of flesh, the other of spirit. Her body is that of a warrior who is determined in life to be the vessel for Her spirit. When the reigning Empress is near death, the Ascension takes place, and the spirit is passed from the old Empress – whose body then dies – to the chosen vessel. That process has not been interrupted in over one-hundred thousand Standard years… until now.”
Zhukovski was shocked not so much by the event itself, but by the longevity of the unbroken chain. One-hundred thousand years, he thought to himself with amazement. So long ago, early humans had not even scrawled primitive paintings upon the walls of their caves, and these aliens already had a global, perhaps even interstellar, empire. “What could have caused this?”
“I cannot be sure, but it must have something to do with what took place on Erlang. You see, there is another, a third entity, that of the First Empress, whose spirit fled to what you might call Purgatory many, many centuries ago. It was said in legend that someday Her spirit would return to us; that, joined with the reigning Empress, She would grace Her Children with t
he ancient powers which had for so long been lost to us.” He turned back to Zhukovski, a look of genuine fear on his face. “She has returned. I know this to be true. But something has gone wrong.”
Zhukovski did not know what to make of Reza’s explanation, Kreelan religion holding little interest for him, and the rest sounding like fantasy from ancient legends. He was interested only in its effects. “Is this why they fight so poorly?” he asked. “They are… preoccupied with these events?”
“‘Preoccupied’ is hardly the word, admiral,” Reza told him, fighting the nausea that rose from his stomach. Esah-Zhurah, he wanted to cry out, what has happened? “The will of the Empress is their will, their motivation, their reason for existence. They are not telepathic as you might understand it, but there is a psychic bond that links every heart in the Empire together unless, as in my case, it is intentionally severed by Her hand. If the Empress is in distress… if the vessel of Her spirit has died prematurely… they will not know what to do. They will be lost.” With difficulty, he managed to find the chair opposite Zhukovski, slumping into it like a dying man.
It was difficult for even Zhukovski’s natural cynicism to stifle his growing excitement. “If what you say is true, now could be our opportunity. If we struck at them, at their homeworld…” He slammed his fist against the table. “But we do not know where to strike! We know where their ships are gathering, which must be around their homeworld, but our information is not yet accurate enough.”
“Do not ask me to help you find the Homeworld, admiral,” Reza told him, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper. “For even if I knew how to guide you there, I would not.”
Zhukovski shook his head. “I would never ask you such a thing, Reza,” he said apologetically, alarmed at how old Reza suddenly looked, how tired. How afraid. “I am sorry that you are caught between humans and Kreelans like deer between charging tigers. I do not envy you. But as human, I can only hope worst for your people, that your Empress is dead, that they will be helpless before us for just this once.”
In Her Name Page 74