In Her Name

by Hicks, Michael R.

  As if reading his mind, Thorella asked, “What about Reza and the two blues?” He wanted them most of all.

  “In time, Markus, in time. I shall not deprive you of your rewards. But his public visibility makes him a very valuable political commodity, much more so than Mackenzie or that cretin Camden. So you shall have to have your fun with them until Reza’s raison d’être is no more.”

  Thorella nodded. It was what he expected, and it would do. For now. “Is there anything else you want me to work on in the meantime?”

  Borge shook his head. “No, my friend. The wheels have been set in motion, and now we must simply wait.” He smiled. “I suggest that you retire to our new ship and… enjoy the wait.”

  His pitch black eyes twinkling, Thorella thanked his master and left.

  Behind him, Borge quietly laughed to himself.

  ***

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” Enya asked quietly, her eyes darting up and down the corridor to see if they had been followed.

  “This is where he said–” Braddock did not get the chance to finish as the stark gray metal door to one of two dozen container storage rooms lining the corridor suddenly hissed open.

  “Quickly,” a heavily accented voice said from the darkness beyond, a dimly seen hand gesturing for them to come in. “Voiditye. Enter.”

  Exchanging a worried glance, Enya and Braddock did as they had been ordered. The door closed behind them, the lock bars automatically sliding into place to hold the door closed.

  “Admiral?” Braddock asked the shadowy figure looming in front of them.

  “Da,” Zhukovski’s voice replied. The darkness was suddenly peeled back a meter or so as he turned on a small electric lamp that stood on a hexagonal container squatting between the three of them. Beside it was a device with shifting numbers and tiny waveforms on its display: an anti-surveillance unit. “Forgive choice of place for meeting,” the admiral said, gesturing about them at the shadowy stacks of containers and pallets, “but circumstances dictate… radical approach to most basic problems.”

  “Why are we here, admiral?” Enya asked cautiously. “Surely, this is not some crude joke?”

  Zhukovski allowed himself a humorless smile. “I most sincerely wish that it was joke, young lady,” he told her, leaning against the container with his good arm, “but things are most serious, and – I fear – out of control. You see, Admiral L’Houillier and I believe that fleet is on course for rendezvous with disaster. Admiral Laskowski, fleet operations officer, has illustrious president’s ear, and has convinced him that our fleet can destroy Kreelans.” The smile flickered away. “And, for insurance, we have kryolon bombs to finish job.”

  “Lord of All,” Braddock whispered. “I thought those were only a… a myth. I’d heard about them – everyone in the fleet has – but I never thought they were real. My God, I thought the thermium bombs were horrible enough…”

  “They are real, young Councilman,” Zhukovski said ominously. “All too real.”

  Enya suddenly interrupted. “What are these things?” she demanded, not sure that she really wanted to know.

  Braddock turned to her. Even in this light, she could tell that he was pale, and she began to feel afraid. “They’re doomsday weapons, Enya,” he told her. “If rumor holds true, any one of those bombs can destroy a star, setting an entire system aflame, destroying every planet in its orbit.” He looked at Zhukovski, who nodded.

  “But why would anyone build such weapons?” Enya asked, horrified at the magnitude of it.

  “Simple,” Zhukovski said. “They were designed for time such as this, when only apparent solution to conflict is stellar genocide. And that might not be bad idea if only one weapon existed. But there are over a dozen, exact count even I do not know because of stringent security.” He eyed the other two. “Slight overkill even for Kreelan homeworld, da?”

  Braddock’s insides turned to ice. “A dozen of those things controlled by Borge…” He let the thought drift off into the darkness of the abyss it promised.

  Enya finished the thought for him. “No planet in the Confederation would be safe, ever again, from the threat of total destruction,” she whispered. “Borge would hold absolute power over everyone. And if they have some now, they could build even more.”

  “There is worse.” The old admiral looked at the floor, then at Enya. “Your young Camden is under arrest,” he said softly. “He was charged with treason, and is being held in location that I have not yet discovered.” He looked into Enya’s eyes. “Sentence was by presidential order: he is to be put to death, along with Gard and Mackenzie.”

  “No,” Enya breathed. “No! I don’t believe it! Borge cannot get away with such a thing! I’ll–”

  “He can, dorogaya,” Zhukovski interrupted gently but forcefully, “and he will, unless he is stopped. Borge’s insanity knows no bounds, and all those around him have begun to fear him. That is why we must meet like this, because nowhere else is safe. People fearing for their own welfare will gladly point finger at someone else to escape suspicion. This fear has become fire, fanned by winds of Reza’s alleged treason and proclaimed chance by president for victory over Kreelan enemy. And if what I believe is true, Reza and others – including Camden – will not survive coming encounter. Borge will have no more use for them; having won his great victory and returning home like Caesar, they will disappear, no doubt in unfortunate accident.”

  “And the Council is just as bad,” Braddock said. “They’re all terrified of him… including myself.” He clenched his fists. “But, what can we do?”

  “Kill him,” Enya said quietly. She had lived her entire life under oppressive human rule, and knew that any cruelty visited upon humanity by the Kreelans had been inflicted a thousand-fold by Mankind upon itself in times past and present. And future, she thought bleakly, a vivid image playing in her mind of Erlang’s sun exploding, obliterating her home and everything they had lived, suffered, and died for all these years.

  “Enya,” Braddock said uneasily, “I don’t like Borge any more than you do, but he’s the legal successor to Nathan, and–”

  “I wonder,” Zhukovski grumbled. At Braddock’s questioning glance, he continued, “I have uncovered… discrepancies… in Borge’s past, and in past of others who now are closely associated with him. Questionable things have been – how do you say? – tidied up. And I do not believe that Reza Gard killed Nathan. Assuming assumption is correct,” he smiled at that particular turn of phrase, “hypothesis leaves obvious question of who did?”

  “Thorella,” Braddock murmured to himself, thinking of how he and Borge seemed to work together a bit too closely, and how so much of what the younger man did was concealed in shadows, out of sight. From what he himself had seen, and from what he had heard from Reza and Nicole over the years, the man certainly had what Braddock considered an antisocial personality, to say the least. “Borge had the motive,” he went on, thinking aloud. “He never made any secret about his ambition to become president, although he had hardly advocated assassination to get there. He and Nathan had been friends for years.”

  “Reza and Thorella gave him both the opportunity and the instrument he needed,” Enya joined in. “Reza was the perfect scapegoat, the one person no one would believe because he had been raised in the Empire, and it would be easy to label him a turncoat and a traitor. And enough people in key positions knew that if Reza had really wanted to, he could easily have killed Nathan. No security system could stop him.”

  “But Thorella was the actual killer,” Braddock continued. “With Borge’s backing, he could have gained access to the security system and somehow reprogrammed the sentinel monitors to show Reza killing Nathan.” He shook his head. He knew that what they were thinking was pure speculation, but there did not seem to be any other explanation, and too many of the known facts fit the theory all too well. “Lord of All,” he whispered.

  “Almost perfect crime,” Zhukovski said quietly. “If we allow hi
m to succeed, he will have begun with murder of President Nathan what could be murder of millions of people, whether we win or lose in coming battle.”

  “Are you planning a coup, admiral?” Braddock asked. In his heart he knew the answer, and from the grim set of Enya’s jaw he saw that she had already thrown her lot in with whatever Zhukovski had in mind, but he had to ask the question. For the sake of posterity, if nothing else.

  Zhukovski suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Councilman, I have served Confederation for many years,” he said slowly, “and always have I served civilian leaders. That is not only tradition and written law; I believe with all my heart that it is best way, best for all people in Confederation. So do many other officers who are not content with present leadership. They are not fools, they can see darkness in future, but they are bound to laws that have kept Confederation and its predecessors free.” He looked squarely at Braddock. “There will be no military coup,” he said firmly. “But… senior officers in Navy and Marine Corps will support new civilian leader.” He paused. “They will support you.”

  “Me?” Braddock almost laughed. “Why me?” he said.

  “Because there is no one else they would trust, Tony,” Enya told him. “You know that as well as I.”

  Zhukovski nodded. “You are only survivor of purge that has swept vestiges of previous government away, Councilman. You have done well in your time in office, and fact that you are well-decorated Marine does not hurt either. You hold respect of officers and enlisted alike.” He shrugged. “If you will not accept, then we must face destiny with Borge at the helm.”

  “That doesn’t leave me much choice, does it?” Braddock asked quietly.

  The old admiral shook his head. “None, councilman,” he said. “None, if you wish to save Confederation from tyranny.”

  “Erlang is with you,” Enya said, giving Braddock a reassuring squeeze with her hand. Turning to Zhukovski, she asked, “What must we do?”

  Fifty-One

  “Ma’am,” the Internal Security guard said uneasily, “I can’t just let you in there!”

  “Then you can explain to President Borge why his instructions were not carried out, sergeant,” Nicole said icily. “I’m sure he would be most sympathetic to your concerns.” When the man hesitated, she shook her head as if pitying the poor sod, knowing what was in store for him, and turned on her heel to leave.

  She had taken all of two steps back toward the main door to the brig when she heard him call from behind her, “Captain, wait!”

  She didn’t stop.

  “Ma’am, wait, please!”

  This time, she did turn around. “What is it, sergeant?” She could see a small film of perspiration on the man’s forehead, and she could swear that she could feel his fear. But that was impossible, of course. Wasn’t it? “You’ve already wasted enough of my time.”

  “I’ve reconsidered your orders, captain,” he said nervously. “I mean, there’s no need for… That is, if the president himself sent you down, I don’t see any reason why there should be anything wrong.”

  Nicole frowned, but said nothing.

  Gesturing toward the mantrap that sealed the brig cell in which Reza and the two Kreelans were being kept from the rest of the brig, the sergeant told her, “Step into the chamber there, and I’ll tell you when it’s safe to move into the cell. If they give you any trouble, just give a yell and we’ll zap the bastards.”

  “Very well,” she said, moving through the narrow doorway and into the gleaming half cylinder that protruded from the wall. The force field grid hissed on behind her, barring the only exit.

  “Stand by,” the guard said. A moment later, the cylinder began to rotate, and the opening she had come through sealed. For a long moment she was in a completely enclosed tube that she knew was armed with all sorts of devices to disable and – if need be – to kill a potential escapee. It was not a normal accessory on warships, of course; the regular brig was more than enough to handle the average sailor who was sent down here after captain’s mast, or even a Kreelan prisoner, had there ever been any before now. No, this was something that had been specially installed in a rush before Warspite had sailed for Erlang. Borge had known there would be use for it.

  Suddenly, the force field that guarded the cell side of the contraption came into view, and beyond the blue-green electronic haze of the force field stood Reza.

  The cylinder stopped rotating around her, having fully unmasked the opposite door. “Okay, captain,” the sergeant said through the man trap’s intercom, “the grid’s going down… now.”

  The field suddenly dissipated, leaving behind it only a slight scent of ozone. Without hesitation, she stepped across the threshold to the far side, the oddly misshapen reflections she cast on the polished walls of the chamber following her like silent alter egos.

  As she stepped into the cell, the force field snapped on again behind her, and she could hear the cylinder rotate again, sealing her in.

  “Nicole,” Reza said softly, his swirling green eyes both mournful and pleased. He had known she was coming.

  “I… I had to see you,” she said unnecessarily, wanting to reach out and embrace him. But that would have condemned her in the ever-present eyes of the security cameras, and then she would be of no help to him at all.

  “I knew you must come,” Reza whispered.

  A young but proud voice suddenly asked in the New Tongue, “Who is this animal, Father?”

  Reza smiled at his son. “She is my friend of many, many cycles, Shera-Khan,” he told him. “Do you understand what friendship is?”

  The boy nodded. The priestess had taught him what she knew of the concept, what she had learned from Reza as he was growing up; among the Kreela, such relationships did not exist, for they were all bound by their very blood and spirit to the Empress. “I am honored to meet you, friend-of-my-father’s,” Shera-Khan told Nicole in Standard.

  “Thank… thank you,” Nicole replied, flabbergasted. She turned to Reza. “This is your son?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” Reza told her, his own sense of awe undiminished at the miracle that stood in their midst. “His name is Shera-Khan.”

  “Is she of the Blood, my son?” Tesh-Dar suddenly asked, speaking in the Old Tongue as she lay in her bed, her eyes closed. Her voice was soft, but still carried the power of command that Reza had known since the first time that he had heard her speak.

  “She is, my priestess,” he admitted. He suspected that Tesh-Dar was greatly disappointed that he had shared the fire that flowed in his veins with another who was totally alien to the Way. “She and I have known each other since before I came to the Way. When I returned to them, I needed someone who could… understand who and what I was. I chose her.”

  “Bring her to me.”

  Reza turned to Nicole, who was utterly confused at the rapid exchange, not a word of which she could understand, except something that sounded like “friendship.”

  “What is wrong?” Nicole asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do not fear, Nicole,” he told her. “There is nothing wrong. The priestess – her name is Tesh-Dar – wishes to… become acquainted with you.” He took her hand and guided her past Shera-Khan to the great warrior who lay on the hard bed that protruded from the cell’s wall.

  The two of them knelt down next to Tesh-Dar, who continued to lie still.

  “Is she dying?” Nicole asked.

  “Yes,” Reza responded sadly. “The warriors – the clawed ones among our race – do not atrophy before death as humans do. Their bodies remain strong until very near the end. But when the time comes to die, everything fails at once, and quickly – usually a matter of days or a week – is it over.”

  “I am so sorry, Reza,” Nicole told him. “I–”

  Tesh-Dar’s eyes opened, startling Nicole with their intensity, and before she could react both of the warrior’s huge hands were cupped gently around Nicole’s face. The Kreelan’s flesh felt warm, hot, aga
inst her skin, and Nicole began to feel faint, as if the blood to her brain had been cut off. She felt herself floating, drifting above a world that she knew she had seen before. Looking down at her arms, she saw that they were sheathed in black armor, and at the ends of her fingertips were silver claws. The flimsy uniform that she was accustomed to wearing was gone.

  And in her heart, in her blood, burned the fire of the Bloodsong. She had sensed it before, as a deaf person might sense the vibration of music, but now she felt it as it was meant to be and was overcome by it, became a part of it. Every cell in her body burst into a roaring flame, joining the symphony of infinite harmonies that intoxicated her senses, that overwhelmed her brain.

  The tide of the song crested, then slowly began to ebb. At last it began to fade away, and she felt the warmth of the mourning marks spreading down her face, blackening her blue skin like the falling of night over the plains of Wra’akath. She felt around her neck, her fingers touching the collar that she had worn since her youth, an oath of her own honor toward the Empress and Her Children, and of the Empress’s love for her.

  “Nicole,” a voice spoke softly from a distance, from somewhere beyond the horizon and the rising Empress Moon. It was a voice she knew. It was the voice of someone she loved.

  “Reza?”

  “Come away now, Nicole,” he told her in the Old Tongue. He stood beside her now. “Take my hand.”

  She reached out for him, taking his hand as he had asked. “Do we have to leave, Reza?” she asked, looking over her shoulder, back at the mystical world that had been like home to her in her dreams for so many years.

  “Yes, Nicole,” he told her gently. “This world belongs to others,” he said. “You must return to yours, where you belong.”

  Sadly, Nicole turned away from the golden light that reflected from the spires of the Great City, and suddenly found herself falling… falling…

  “Nicole.”

  Her eyes flew open and she sucked in her breath in a gasp as if she had been thrown into freezing water. The Homeworld – if that is what it had been – was gone, replaced by surroundings and sensations that should have felt more familiar than they did.