by John Love
“Travelling into the system.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Towards Anubis 3.”
“Yes, Captain. And She’s still putting out that override signal.”
Copeland’s head cleared like the screen, totally but perhaps too late. Suddenly the decision was easy.
“Captain, we have damage reports.”
“No time. Pilot, Engineering, I want immediate pursuit on ion drive at eighty percent.” He hit the alarms. “Signals, tell Anubis 3 what’s happened, and tell them what’s coming. Weapons, stop destruction of the freighters now. Copeland to Khan.”
“Captain, those freighters will crashland!”
“I said now. Copeland to Khan. Doctor, did you hear that?”
“Captain, Anubis 3 has defences. I don’t. There are two thousand people down here.”
“Doctor, I wish we were down there with you, it’s the safest place to be. If –” Copeland gasped as his impact harness whipped round him. All the seats sprouted impact harnesses; it looked like the ship was attacking its own crew. The alarms increased a semitone, and red Final Warnings flashed from screens and displays. On the forward screen, Sixteen was halfway through landing descent, Seventeen was following and Eighteen had shuffled into position behind it. “If you don’t see what She’s done, I can’t explain. No time.”
“Two thousand people, Captain.”
“I’m sorry. No time.”
The manoeuvre drives flared. The Wulf was wrenched round a hundred and eighty degrees in little more than its own length, but even before the ion drive cut in it was already moving too quickly for its own gravity compensators. Under the force of the turn Copeland was flattened in his chair, blood from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth running up his face, the turning screws of pressure in his eardrums drowning the roar of the drives which in turn drowned the blaring of the alarms, his eyes swivelling left-right-left as a swarm of assorted movable objects, under the force of the turn, slammed against opposite walls with the unison of a shoal of fish changing direction.
The turn was completed, the ion drive cut in, and the Wulf left for Anubis 3. The alarms ceased. The floor of the Bridge was strewn with rubble. Someone had activated the rear screen, but Copeland didn’t look back when, exactly as he’d expected, Sixteen veered away from Khan’s seconds before impact and careered off into deep space. Seventeen did the same. And Eighteen.
“And that,” Copeland told them, “is what will happen to the rest of the convoy. She never attacks undefended civilian targets, remember?”
The Wulf’s ion drive reached and held eighty percent. It was fast enough for the star field on the forward screen to start becoming a tunnel shot with rainbow colours; then the filters cut in and readjusted the spectral bands. She only gave us a fraction of Herself, he thought sourly, like a chess grandmaster playing hundreds of games. We only got a fraction of Her.
“Someone get this mess cleared up. Then I’ll take damage reports. Do we have a visual on Her yet?”
“No, Captain. She’s still shrouded. But Her speed’s dropping slightly.”
“Hold our speed at eighty percent. We stay at battle stations.”
“Signals, Captain. Anubis 3 has acknowledged. And we have a message from Doctor Khan. It says, ‘Thank you, I understand now’.”
Copeland laughed softly. A pity there was no time.
“Pilot, hold our speed at eighty percent. We’ll keep chasing Her.”
“For how long, Captain?”
“Until She catches us.”
A minute passed. There was no time.
“Well?” Copeland said.
“Like you thought, Captain. She’s stopping.”
“Is She still shrouded?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Right, listen. She’s going to turn and face us. When She does, She’ll drop the shroud. If you get a visual of Her, send it to Anubis 3 and keep sending it for as long as you can; it might help them later. Tell Anubis 3 to keep defensive positions only. After engaging us there’s a chance She’ll simply pass out of the system; that’s what She’s done before, and in any case, after us they don’t really have anything.”
No time. I should say more. I wish I’d met Khan.
“Captain, She’s stopped.”
“Cut speed to thirty percent. Hold battle stations. We have the rest of this time to ourselves.”
He settled back in his chair, which creaked loudly, and waited for Her image to form on the forward screen. As it started to form, he thought Face of God
PART THREE
Thahl spoke softly into his comm, and nodded. Foord raised an eyebrow and asked “News?”
“I’m afraid so, Commander.”
“Afraid?”
“Ansah, Commander. Her trial is over. ”
Foord said nothing, and was careful to give no outward indication of what he felt.
“I’m sorry, Commander,” Thahl added. He didn’t entirely understand the dynamics of human relationships, but in his time aboard the Charles Manson he had acquired a feeling for things unsaid. He knew Ansah once meant something to Foord, but wasn’t sure what.
The soft lighting seemed to darken, as if the Bridge had its own artificial summer evening. It turned almost to twilight. Movements flickered discreetly round its edges, and low nuanced voices murmured.
“There’s something else, Commander,” Thahl added. “We’ve been ordered to Horus. To engage Faith when She comes there. Your sealed orders and mission briefing have been transmitted.”
Foord rose, and turned to Thahl. “You have the ship. I’ll view the orders and briefing in my study.”
He never called it a cabin; he used it as a study. It was large and sparse, like the apartment he kept on Earth, and, along with the Bridge, the only uncramped space on the ship. Everywhere else was crowded with functionality.
Without being asked, the screen in his study showed him a digest of his orders and briefing, and he scanned both without surprise. He found, as expected, that they hadn’t repeated the mistake they made at Isis. At Horus—the solar system of Sakhra, Thahl’s home planet—it would be different. He would meet Her alone, as he had always insisted.
He knew what had happened to the Pallas at Bast, to Copeland’s Wulf at Anubis, and—most recently, and most dramatically—at Isis, where they had sent Ansah. She would be their scapegoat; he knew the outcome of her trial, from Thahl’s voice and from his own instincts. When I form any kind of attachment with people they usually leave, in one way or another. In the privacy of his study his heart nearly broke, a process to which he allotted five minutes; then he spoke into his comm.
“Thahl, do you have the transcript of Ansah’s trial yet?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Put it on my screen in here, please…Thank you.”
As the words began to form on his screen, he tried to put pictures in the spaces around and behind them; to imagine what it must have been like for her. Isis trials were inquisitorial, not adversarial, so she would have been facing them alone, without counsel. She would be looking at them with her head slightly cocked to one side, the way she used to look whenever she felt threatened.
•
She looked at them for a moment, with her head slightly cocked to one side. Then she poured herself a cup of scented tea from the immaculate service of white fluted porcelain set before her—not easy considering the manacles, though even these, in deference to the occasion, were slender bracelets of chased silver. She made the operation last long enough for the Chairman to decide to repeat his question.
“Commander Ansah, I’m giving you, on record, a second chance to exercise your rights. Think carefully. You’re charged with desertion and cowardice. As a result of these offences….”
“Alleged,” intoned a lawyer member of the Board.
“….alleged offences, this city has been subjected to an unprecedented and humiliating attack. Ships have been lost. Crews have been lost. You’ve been told the penalty you face if f
ound guilty. You have the right to refuse to stand trial here on grounds of possible bias and to elect for trial on Earth. You don’t seem to regard that as very important, but I do; more important, for instance, than the dignity of this Board, so I’ll ask you again. Will you elect for trial on Earth?”
“I’m not interested in where I stand trial.”
“Unless you formally elect for Earth, it will be here.”
Ansah shrugged. The Chairman nodded and leaned back.
•
The next day, Ansah was back in the same room. It was large and formal, almost ballroom size, with a geometric parquet floor, furnishings of red mahogany and buttoned velvet, and watered-silk wallcoverings. As before, she sat in a comfortable keyhole-back armchair, with a circular drum table to one side, set out with a tea service of white fluted porcelain and silver. She faced the same large curving bay window, through which sunlight streamed, silhouetting the figures who sat before her at the long table whose curve matched that of the window. When she had last faced them there were six and they called themselves a Pre-Trial Directions Board. The same six were there, but now there were six more, and they called themselves a Supreme Court. The Supreme Court.
The trial would be in camera, in view of possible public reaction; it was not even widely known that Ansah was on the planet. Her ship had returned to Earth, with—the story went—her aboard in custody. There was no public gallery, no media presence, and just a handful of security guards. Ansah had only one guard assigned to her, and he was unarmed; but he was a Sakhran.
These procedural matters, which were considered unusual but necessary, had been settled at the Pre-Trial Directions Hearing. Other matters, however, would proceed exactly in accordance with the Isis Legal Code: the conduct of the trial would be inquisitorial and not adversarial, the verdict would be decided by a minimum three-quarters majority of the twelve, and once the verdict was given, the complete record of the proceedings would be put in the public domain. There would be no right of appeal.
The Chairman recited some of these matters, in order to put them, and Ansah’s acknowledgement of them, on the record. He went on to tell her his name and those of the eleven others. As on the previous day, she chose not to remember them, and decided instead to identify them to herself as First Voice, Second Voice, and so on.
She went to pour herself some tea. The Sakhran guard behind her, without apparently asking anyone’s permission, reached in front of her and gently unlocked the manacles. (Those wonderful hands! she thought.) She smiled her appreciation and he smiled back. His teeth were very pointed. The inside of his mouth was dark red.
Someone started reciting charges. The sun Isis rose higher on the left-hand side of the huge bay window, making the figures at the table grow more indistinct, blurring the edges of their silhouettes. She was not unduly concerned at being unable to see their faces clearly. Voices, with their nuances and inflexions, could tell her as much as faces; on her ship, she had acquired some skill in analysing voices.
Third Voice was speaking.
“Commander Ansah, will you please tell us your occupation?”
“Commander of the Commonwealth ship Sirhan.”
“And what kind of ship is the Sirhan?”
“An Outsider Class cruiser.”
“That’s not just any kind of ship, is it?”
“No. It’s considered the Commonwealth’s ultimate warship.”
“How many Outsider Class ships are there?”
“Nine.”
“These nine ships, they’re outside the normal military command structure, aren’t they?”
“Yes. They report to the Department of Administrative Affairs on Earth, not to the military authorities. But that’s not why they’re called Outsiders.”
“I’m aware of that, Commander, we’ll come back to that….Tell me about your title. You’re Commander, not Captain. Can you explain that?”
She smiled faintly. “It’s a kind of symbolism.”
“Symbolism?”
“The Department likes to reinforce the idea that it is the Captain of each of the nine. Those who command from day to day are Deputy Captains; Commanders.”
“So this, symbolism, actually provides a double emphasis. The Commanders are doubly reminded that these extraordinary vessels are… Instruments of the Department?”
“Yes. The Department even uses that word. Instruments.”
“An unusual word. Does it mean that each of the nine is absolutely bound to honour the letter and spirit of the Department’s orders, in every detail?”
Again she smiled faintly. “I see where you’re leading.”
“Just answer the question, please.”
“I’m sorry. The answer is Yes.”
“Commander.” This was another voice. She had heard three so far today, including the Chairman. Yesterday she had heard six, including today’s three, so she called this one Seventh Voice, and committed it to memory.
“Commander Ansah, what brought a ship like the Sirhan to Isis?”
“Faith.”
“Please answer in more detail, Commander. For the record.”
“A single unidentified ship with extraordinary capabilities, making apparently random, motiveless and highly successful raids on several Commonwealth systems…Is that enough?”
“Yes, thank you, Commander, that’s excellent….So again, what brought your ship to Isis?”
“Faith had made eight attacks on the Commonwealth. The last two were on ex-Sakhran systems, Bast and Anubis, so it was thought that Isis and Horus might be next. The Department deployed an Outsider to each of them. I got Isis.”
“Or we got you….Thank you, Commander.”
There were glances and shufflings of paper among the figures at the table. The sun Isis streamed through the curved bay window. It was now almost directly overhead, and its white-gold light drew dust motes circling up to the ceiling. The window showed the city outside; it was breathtakingly beautiful. Only very occasional hints of its smell penetrated the large room’s climate control.
“Commander Ansah.” This was Second Voice, from yesterday. “Department Of Administrative Affairs…Is that a euphemism?”
“It’s a less than completely accurate description of the Department.” She spoke the words with exaggerated carefulness, in a gentle mimicry of the way a politician or lawyer would speak them. It drew some smiles, as faint as her own, from a couple of those at the table; though not from Second Voice.
“Your orders from the Department. Did they give you absolute freedom of judgement and action in the event of an engagement?”
“You know they didn’t, or none of this would have happened. In particular, the city outside wouldn’t be smelling like it does.” She took care to keep any inflexion out of her voice.
“Just answer the question, please.”
“No, my orders didn’t give me absolute freedom of judgement and action in the event of an engagement. Or any freedom of judgement and action.”
“And we’ve heard that you’re absolutely...”
“…absolutely bound to honour the letter and spirit of the Department’s orders, in every detail. Yes; you’ve heard that.”
“Was your ship assigned to a task force of five Isis ships?”
“Yes.”
“What were the ships?”
“There were four heavy cruisers, and…”
“Yes, go on, Commander. Say it. And?”
“And the battleship Thomas Cromwell.”
“Yes, that’s the pile of radioactive rubble that’s still in orbit above us and fouling up our communications, isn’t it?”
“Over two hundred people died on that ship. I think,” Ansah said carefully, “that you didn’t mean to sound so dismissive.”
“I had friends and colleagues among those two hundred, Commander.”
“I think,” the Chairman said, “this would be a good time to adjourn for lunch. It’s been a long morning. I suggest we reconvene in ninety minutes.�
�
Chairs scraped, heels clacked on the parquet, and voices resumed then receded.
The Chairman continued sitting for a moment after everyone left. He was thinking about the wording of Ansah’s orders, and her apparent indifference about where she stood trial. The wording of her orders was unusually explicit and constraining; someone would have to be primed to ask her why. As to her indifference about where she stood trial, he’d initially thought she was being theatrical; now, he wasn’t sure.
Desertion and Cowardice. It seemed a simple case when he first read the pleadings, and that should have warned him. Most things, he had learned, were not simple when you saw them up close.
They took her in an unmarked flier to the De Vere Highlands, a few miles north of the city. Highlands was something of an exaggeration: they were more like gently rolling hills, but they did give a good view of De Vere and its surrounding countryside. They landed in Marling Park, a small formal garden, far enough into the Highlands to make it unlikely that there would be many lunchtime visitors from the city. Ansah walked at leisure, taking in the view, and the Sakhran maintained a discreet distance.
De Vere was an elegant, formal city of white marble and stucco, with palladian architecture, piazzas, colonnades and garden squares. It was the legislative and financial centre of Isis 2, and of the whole Isis system. It was not the biggest city, but was arguably the most beautiful and well-kept; though almost everywhere on Isis 2, city or parkland or country, was beautiful and well-kept. The De Vere Highlands were just far enough, and high enough, to afford a pleasing view of the city’s more expensive districts, without seeing the stains on its buildings or smelling its air.
The Sakhran took out his lunch: dried shredded meat in a leather pouch. He caught up with her and offered her a piece. It tasted vile, as she expected, but she smiled her thanks. Again she thought, Those Wonderful Hands.
Thirty seconds later, she was still chewing. She considered discreetly spitting it out when the Sakhran wasn’t watching her, but realised there was never a moment when he wasn’t watching her; so she steeled herself, swallowed it, and signalled her relish to him. Deadpan, he acknowledged with a brief nod. She walked on.