Aftershocks (29 page)

“We have always had to calculate our responses to Straha and everything that has to do with him most carefully,” Atvar replied, to which Kirel returned the affirmative gesture. The two of them had been the only males in the conquest fleet who outranked Straha. What would Straha’s rank be now? That, at the moment, was the least of Atvar’s worries. But it would not be shiplord again—so he vowed.

He peered out the window toward the west, the direction from which the landcruiser would come. And there it was, like a bad dream brought to life. The outer armored gate of the compound slid back to admit it. As soon as it had gone through, the outer gate closed and the inner gate opened. The two gates were never open at the same time; that would have invited the Big Uglies to fire a gun or launch a rocket through them.
As if they need an invitation to make trouble,
Atvar thought.

A voice came from the intercom: “Exalted Fleetlord, the passenger has entered the compound.”

“I thank you,” Atvar replied, one of the larger lies he’d ever hatched. No one felt easy about speaking Straha’s name in public. He’d been an object of reproach among the males of the conquest fleet since fleeing to the Americans, while males and females of the colonization fleet had trouble believing such a defection could have taken place; to them, it seemed like a melodrama set in the ancientest history of Home, back in the days before the Empire unified the planet. For a hundred thousand years, treason had been unimaginable—except to Straha.

“Exalted Fleetlord, ah, what shall we do with him now that he is here?” asked one of the males at the gate.

Shoot him as soon as he comes out of the landcruiser,
Atvar thought. But, however much he was tempted to imitate the savage and barbarous Big Uglies, he refrained. “Send him here, to my office,” he said. “No—escort him here. He will not know the way. The last time he had anything to do with the business of the conquest fleet, our headquarters were in space.”

“It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord,” came the reply. The male down there was properly obedient, properly subordinate. Atvar wished he hadn’t been.

Kirel spoke in musing tones: “I wonder what he will have to say for himself. Something clever, something sneaky—of that I have no doubt.”

“Straha knows everything,” Atvar said. “If you do not believe me, you have but to ask him.”

Both Kirel and Pshing laughed. Then, as the door to the fleetlord’s office opened, their mouths snapped shut. In strode Straha, two armed infantry-males flanking him. The first thing Atvar noticed was that he wouldn’t have recognized Straha in a crowd. The next thing he noticed was that Straha’s body paint was not as it should have been. Irony in his voice, the fleetlord said, “I greet you, Shuttlecraft Pilot.”

Straha shrugged. “I needed the makeup and the false body paint to get away from the American Big Uglies. They worked.” Only then did he bend into the posture of respect. “And I greet you, Exalted Fleetlord, even if neither of us much wants to see the other.”

“Well, that is a truth, and I will not try to deny it,” Atvar said. “You relieve me in one way, Straha: you are not claiming friendship, or even comradeship, as I feared you might.”

“Not likely,” Straha said, and appended an emphatic cough. “As I told you, I did not do what I did for your sake. I did it for the sake of my friend, the Big Ugly. Having done it, though, I thought I might get a warmer reception here than among the American Tosevites.” He waggled an eye turret at Atvar. “Or was I wrong?”

“As a matter of fact, I truly am not sure,” Atvar replied. “You know the harm you did the Race when you defected.”

Straha made the affirmative gesture. “And I also know the service I just did the Race with those documents I sent you.”

“Is it a service? I wonder.” Straha spoke in musing tones.

“Fleetlord Reffet would reckon it one,” Straha said slyly.

“Fleetlord Reffet’s opinion  . . .” Atvar checked himself. He did not care to advertise his long-running feud with the head of the colonization fleet. Picking his words with some care, he went on, “Fleetlord Reffet has had a bit of difficulty adapting to the unanticipated conditions existing on Tosev 3.”

Straha laughed at that. “You think he is as stodgy as I always thought you were.”

Atvar sighed. Evidently, he didn’t need to advertise the feud. “There is some truth to that,” he admitted. “But we have just fought one war that was harder and far more expensive than anyone thought it would be. There was, I am told, a Big Ugly who exclaimed, ‘One more such victory and I am ruined,’ after a fight of that sort. I understand the sentiment. I not only understand it, I agree with it. And so I am something less than delighted to receive these documents, though I cannot and do not deny their importance.”

“Tosev 3 has changed you, too,” Straha said in surprised tones. “It took longer to change you than it did me, but it managed.”

“Perhaps,” Atvar answered, knowing the renegade shiplord was right. “Tosev 3 changes everyone and everything it touches.”

Straha made the affirmative gesture. “We discovered that even before we made planetfall,” he said. “Now, if this were up to me, what I would do is—”

Atvar let out an angry hiss. Before he could turn that hiss into coherent speech, Kirel said, “I see there is one way in which Tosev 3 has not changed you at all, Straha: you still want to give orders, even when you are not entitled to do so.”

“Truth,” Pshing put in.

Straha ignored Pshing. He did not ignore Kirel. “You have not changed, either: you hatched out of Atvar’s eggshell right behind him.”

“And something else has not changed,” Atvar said: “We are taking up the quarrels that preoccupied us before your defection as if you had never left. It is, if you like, a tribute to the power of your personality.”

“For which I thank you.” Yes, Straha sounded smug. Atvar had been sure he would.

The fleetlord went on, “But Shiplord Kirel is correct. You do continue to seek to take command where you have no authority. It is possible”—the words tasted bad on Atvar’s tongue—“it is possible, I say, that by providing these documents to the Race you have made it unnecessary for us to punish you for defecting.”

Straha’s hissing sigh held nothing but relief. “You
are
stodgy, Atvar, even yet. But you do have integrity. I thought you would. I counted on it, in fact.”

“Do not waste praise too soon,” Atvar warned. “You may perhaps be allowed to live once more in lands the Race rules, to rejoin the society of your kind. But, Straha, I am going to tell you something that is not only possible but certain: you will live here as an ordinary citizen, as a civilian. If you think for an instant that your past rank will be restored to you, you are completely and utterly addled. Do you understand me?”

He watched the male who had come so close to overthrowing him, watched with the greatest and closest attention. Ever so slowly, ever so reluctantly, Straha made the affirmative gesture. But then, still full of self-importance, the ex-shiplord said, “A civilian, yes, but not, I hope, an ordinary one. When I went over to the Americans, they interrogated me most thoroughly on matters pertaining to the Race. Now that I have lived so long in the United States, do you not believe I will know things about these Big Uglies you could not learn elsewhere?”

“Well, that is undoubtedly a truth,” Atvar agreed. “We will indeed debrief you, and no doubt you will provide us with some valuable insights. Perhaps we will even use you as a consultant, should the need arise.” He gave his old rival such salve for his pride as he could before going on, “But I repeat: under no circumstances will you ever return to the chain of command.”

“Count yourself lucky that you enjoy the fleetlord’s mercy,” Kirel added. “Were his body paint on my torso, you would not be so fortunate.”

“Were the fleetlord’s body paint on your torso, Kirel, the Big Uglies would be ruling all of Tosev 3,” Straha said.

Unadulterated fury filled Kirel’s hiss. “Enough!” Atvar said loudly, and tucked on an emphatic cough. “Too much, in fact. Straha, you would do well to remember that your continued wellbeing depends on our goodwill. For example, you are known to be a ginger addict. Perhaps, in gratitude for the services you have performed, a supply of the herb will quietly be granted you. On the other fork of the tongue, perhaps it will not.”

Straha shot him a baleful glare. “Maybe I spoke too soon when I praised your integrity.”

“Maybe you did.” Atvar gestured to the guards who had accompanied the returned renegade into his office. “Take him to Security. Let his interrogation begin now. Tell the staff there that I will want him questioned by particular experts in Tosevite affairs. I do not wish to lose any possible information we might gain from him.”

“It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord,” the more senior of the two guards said. He and his comrades led Straha away.

The door had hardly closed behind them before Kirel said, “As far as I am concerned, the Americans were welcome to him.”

“I agree,” Atvar said. “But he
is
here, and he
has
given us valuable information.” He paused for a moment. “And oh, by the Emperor and by the spirits of Emperors past, how I wish he had not!”

“Exalted Fleetlord, we have sought this information for years,” Pshing said.

“Yes, and now, having obtained it, we are going to have to act upon it, one way or another,” Atvar said. “I was not lying when I told Straha this war would be harder than the one we fought against the
Reich.
The American Big Uglies have a larger land mass, more industrial capacity, a larger presence in space, and, if reports are correct, more missile-carrying submarines full of explosive-metal bombs. I do not relish the prospect of fighting them.”

“Given all this, how can we possibly avoid fighting them?” Kirel asked.

“I do not know the answer to that, either,” Atvar said unhappily. “And I blame Straha for putting me in this predicament.” As long as the renegade had returned, Atvar intended to blame him for everything he could.

Ttomalss had not wanted to go down to the surface of Tosev 3 again. His visit to China had found him a prisoner of the Big Uglies. His visit to the Greater German
Reich
hadn’t involved him in any physical danger, but had been acutely frustrating, leaving him wondering whether the Deutsche truly were rational beings. The hopeless war they’d launched against the Race had shown him he’d had good reason to wonder, too.

But, when the fleetlord of the conquest fleet personally commanded him to report to the Race’s administrative center in Cairo, what choice had he? None whatever, and he knew it. And, he had to admit, the prospect of talking about the Big Uglies with a returned expatriate was intriguing.

Traveling from the shuttlecraft port to Shepheard’s Hotel—for some reason, the Tosevite name had stuck—was almost enough to give him a panic attack. Cairo reminded him too much of Peking, where he’d been kidnapped, in its astonishing crowding and equally astonishing medley of stinks. Oh, the Big Uglies here wore different kinds of wrappings and spoke a different language—the bits of Chinese he remembered did him no good at all—but those, he thought, were incidentals. The essences of the two places struck him as being all too similar.

When he got his first look at the administrative center, he exclaimed, “This was once a place where Big Uglies came for pleasure? I know Tosevites are addled, but the notion strikes me as improbable even so.”

With a laugh, the male who was driving him replied, “We have somewhat improved the defensive perimeter, superior sir.”

“Somewhat, yes,” Ttomalss replied with what he thought of as commendable understatement. “I note a double wall, machine-gun emplacements, and rocket emplacements. I am sure there are also many other things I do not note.”

“That would be an accurate assumption, yes, superior sir,” the driver said as the first armored gate opened for his vehicle.

When the second gate closed behind it, Ttomalss said, “I must admit, I feel a good deal more secure now. This may be an illusion—I know such things often are on Tosev 3—but the feeling is not to be despised anyhow.”

The chamber to which he was assigned had plainly been built with Big Uglies in mind. Its proportions—especially the high ceiling—and the plumbing fixtures proclaimed as much. But the sleeping mat, the furniture, the computer in its little alcove, and the heating system that made sure Tosevite chill did not creep into the room made it tolerable, perhaps even better than tolerable.

As soon as Ttomalss had stowed his effects (which didn’t take long; he wasn’t a Tosevite, to have to worry about endless suitcases full of wrappings), he telephoned Straha. The computer in the ex-shiplord’s chamber said he was out and could not be immediately reached, which annoyed Ttomalss till he realized he couldn’t be the only member of the Race questioning Straha. He recorded a message and settled down at the computer to find out what had happened in space and around Tosev 3 while he was traveling down from the starship and making his way through Cairo.

None of the news channels mentioned Straha’s return to the eggshell of the Race or the inflammatory information that had made the return possible. That struck Ttomalss as wise; things would only be worse if a public clamor made coming to a wise decision more difficult. The lead story was consolidation of the Race’s informal control over the subregion called France. Ttomalss heartily approved of that. Informal control did not seem to raise the Big Uglies’ ire, and had a good chance of leading to formal control some time in the future.

Ttomalss was still getting the details of the story about France when the computer’s telephone attachment hissed. “I greet you,” he said.

“And I greet you, Senior Researcher.” The male a screen window showed was wearing the body paint of a shuttlecraft pilot, not a shiplord.

That presented Ttomalss with a problem. After giving his own name, he asked, “How shall I address you?”

“Superior Nuisance seems to fit,” Straha answered, and Ttomalss’ mouth fell open in startled laughter. The renegade went on, “The Big Ugly named Sam Yeager respects your work, Senior Researcher, for whatever that may be worth to you.”