Edward M. Lerner (39 page)

So many deaths, and yet dangers still lurked. Arblen Ems refugees had once fled into exile in a cometary belt—and from there staged raids on their enemies. Might they do the same in Sol system? The risk was unacceptable: UP warcraft on the flanks and rear of the flotilla would destroy any ship that wandered from its assigned course.

At last they reached the waiting UP cruiser. Art and Eva shuffled up the ramp and into the inviting airlock of
Actium
. A peculiar keening startled Art as the inner door cycled open. He looked wildly about for its source, only to encounter the eagle-tattooed and smiling face of Capt. Aaron O’Malley. An honor guard standing stiffly at attention lined both sides of the corridor.

The bosun’s whistle cut off abruptly. O’Malley gave a smart salute. “Welcome aboard, Ambassador. Doctor Gutierrez.”

Art popped off his helmet. “You can’t believe how good it feels to be back.”

Actium
launched moments after O’Malley, Art, and Eva entered the bridge. They watched in silence as what remained of the abandoned starship, still tumbling about three axes, still jetting gases randomly as more and more of the traumatized hull gave way, receded into the distance. Its farms and parks were dying or dead, its emergency fuel cells were exhausted, its stockpiles drained. The shattered, hemorrhaging wreck seemed neither victorious nor harmonious, only sad. You were a fine ship, Art thought. You deserved better.

He found Eva an empty seat on the bridge, then claimed another for himself. His eyelids drooped. The purposeful sounds of bridge operations washed soothingly over him.

Someone cleared his throat loudly. Art forced his eyes open.

“I
said
, Art,” O’Malley said, “that there’s a cabin waiting for you. Your work is done. Go get some sleep. We’re pretty full this trip, though, so everyone is doubling up.”

Art turned toward Eva and found her already looking at him. They shared a nuanced glance which said everything that needed to be said. “That won’t be a problem,” Art replied.

“Now, let’s go home.”

Ariel Colony
: the United Planets protectorate inhabited by the Snake residents of Sol system (see related entries,
Harmony
/
Victorious
Hijacking and Himalia Incident).

No matter how aggressive or territorial a civilization, to be self-sustaining most of its members must make something other than war. In historic times, no more than ten percent of any K’vithian clan were ever warriors; fewer than five percent of the clan Arblen Ems survivors of the Himalia Incident were. Few combatants bore any responsibility for setting clan policy toward humans or Centaurs.

Most K’vithian evacuees were, by human standards, civilians: children, workers and administrators, infirm, and elderly. Although some evacuees might justly have been treated as prisoners of war, all were homeless exiles. Many became refugees long before
Harmony
first approached Barnard’s Star.

Thus, in the aftermath of the Himalia Incident, the UP victors confronted a diaspora more than a defeated army. Any policy other than genocide had to address that unexpected reality, and hope in time to inculcate among the K’vithian exiles respect for the rules, and ideally the values, of the United Planets.

As a first step toward the UP goal of integration, clan Arblen Ems was settled for orientation and rehabilitation on a middling moon of Uranus: Ariel.

—Internetopedia

Arblen Ems Firh Glithwah, Foremost, as she always did upon entering her office, took a moment to study the desolate topography outside the well-insulated windows. Her view to one side was into an ancient crater, and to the other side, into a deep ravine. The gorge was but one minor example of the many interconnected valleys extending for hundreds of kilometers across the surface. On this face of the tidally locked moon, Uranus dominated the sky.

Ariel was half rock, half water and methane ices. Some of the scattered craters, including the one upon whose rim this settlement perched, had been made by large metallic meteors. Deuterium/tritium scooped from the beautiful blue planet that hung tantalizingly overhead satisfied all their energy needs. And therein, despite the abundance of resources, lay the problem—the clan was permitted no ships. That prohibition was what made the “protectorate” a prison.

The human norm for an office demanded a desk, and so her office had one. She did all her work and kept all records in cyberspace, securely encrypted. Everything on the desk, like the desk itself, was mere decoration. Be truthful, she told herself. Some items were sentimental, like the hand-carved wooden chess set. It was one of the few items salvaged from the Foremost’s cabin before
Victorious
had been abandoned.

What would Uncle have said of their situation—besides that chess was simplistic and limiting? She missed his guidance, never more so than when unwanted guests arrived. Yes, she had become, as had her uncle and great-grandfather before her, the Foremost—but however confidently she presented herself, she took her responsibility as proof mostly of the clan’s heavy casualties. Did anyone ever feel ready?

In minutes, ready or not, she had visitors.

With no more exertion than the occasional flexing of a boot sole or the feather-light press of fingers against a wall, the man known to everyone on Ariel as Carl Rowland propelled himself through the unusually crowded main corridor of Customs/Security. That effortless grace was the product of extensive practice; he had lived here for many years. None of the gawkers paid him any attention, which was fine with Carl. All eyes were on the woman he escorted, whom he had greeted at the Customs lounge with a bear hug.

Ten years after the linked destructions of Himalia and
Harmony
, Corinne Elman remained among the most recognized beings in the solar system. Her 3-V docudrama about battle aboard and escape from the starship was a bestseller in
two
solar systems—and probably in others from which sales figures had yet to arrive. Had she not assigned ninety-nine percent of her royalties to victims’ families and survivors of Himalia, she would also have been not just wealthy, but fabulously, stinking rich. The only thought passersby gave to him was surely: How does
he
know
her?
They would never know the answer: as Helmut Schiller. That name, and the face that went with it, were buried. Who better than the UPIA to convince the world the Frying Dutchman in all his reincarnations had finally died? Who better to give him a new identity?

On the home/prison world of Arblen Ems, even the rich and famous, even friends of the normally dour deputy of the UP’s viceroy, underwent the full security protocol. Corinne and her luggage were X-rayed, chemically and biologically scanned, and hand-searched. She took it in good spirits. “It’s great to see you.”

And how unbelievably good it was to see her. They arranged to cross paths every year or so, but never before on Ariel. “Welcome to my world, shipmate. When we’re done here, I’m buying you the finest breakfast on the planet and giving you the grand tour.” Neither commitment was as generous as it might have sounded, especially the breakfast part. Ariel offered two human-safe restaurants and a staff mess hall. “Then we can tend to your interview.”

He should have known better. Soon after their meal, they were in the terrestrial-conditioned side of the Foremost’s spartan but spacious office. Carl understood clan-speak, of course, but only someone with two independent sets of vocal chords could speak it fluently. Firh Glithwah as a matter of principle conducted business only in clan-speak. Pashwah-qith would handle the translations.

“Thank you for seeing me, Foremost.”

“You are welcome, Ms. Elman.”

“Corinne. I congratulate you on your recent ascension to this position.” They traded courtesies a few times; long, by Snake usage. “You know why I asked to see you.”

“To share your wealth with those who made it possible?” Pashwah-qith’s closed captioning added, “Sarcasm,” faster than Carl could net, “She’s joking.”

“Because your uncle was Foremost when the hostilities occurred. Because you can now combine what you might have heard as his closest surviving relative with records possibly only available to someone in your new position.”

“I see.” Glithwah did the ironic-laughter head circle. “All will now be revealed.”

Somehow Carl doubted that it would.

Glithwah had been Foremost for months. Corinne’s answer notwithstanding, the obvious reason for this interview was an upcoming “event”: ten human-standard years since the destruction of
Victorious
. Humans fixated on anniversaries, which provided this human yet more opportunities to profit from the clan’s misfortune.

Whatever the impetus, human curiosity was always a danger—the mental leap was too short from analyzing old motives to speculating about new ones. Glithwah strove always to keep the clan’s captors fixed upon rehabilitation, on reinforcing their wishful thinking that acculturation was progressing. It mattered not that she preferred to avoid questions altogether; declining interview requests could itself raise suspicions.

This reporter had good cause from personal experience to be skeptical. She also had a huge human audience, and apparently the ear of UP security. It all made her dangerous. Could Glithwah mislead as adeptly as had Uncle? “Your questions, Corinne?”

“When Mashkith surrendered, he did so to K’Choi Gwu ka. Why was that?”

Because we had just killed thousands of humans. And because the Unity, unlike the UP, never had a death penalty. Surely this was obvious? “A sudden decision at a very desperate time. Reasons lost with Foremost.” Glithwah allowed the repositioning of an excavation rig deep within the crater to distract her for a time. “Absence of data. Very regrettable.”

“Was surrender to the ka in recognition that the ship was Centaur? Might Mashkith have been making deathbed amends?”

“Perhaps, Corinne.” Certainly not.

“Let me preface my next question with an observation.” Corinne interlaced her fingers. “Imagine the lifeboat hijacking had gone undetected. The lifeboat rendezvoused with
Victorious
.
Victorious
set off to Barnard’s Star, fully fueled. My question is: then what?”

“A very broad question.” And a perilously perceptive one.

“Not really. Put another way: Could Arblen Ems possibly have prevailed once it arrived home? News of
Victorious
’ appearance in Sol system returned home at light speed. Your own return would have been at, what, a third that? Long before Pashwah was quarantined, she must have sent word of your arrival in Sol system to the Great Clans. The UP’s trade agent on K’vith would have, too. The other clans had ample time to prepare for your eventual reappearance.”

Hunters do not fidget—especially not a Foremost. When Glithwah picked up the black queen from the chess set, it was quite intentional. It was a subliminal suggestion to her visitors: Think chess. Trust in predefined constraints. Believe in the polite and predictable taking of turns. Think inside the box. “Plentiful antimatter in our control. Opposition to clan Arblen Ems too dangerous.”

“He may have intended divide-and-conquer tactics,” Rowland said. “Ally with one or a few powerful clans more interested in their own welfare than in solidarity with the other clans.”

Her thumb stroked away. Think chess. Think boundaries. Uncle had devoted years to strategy; did they think to penetrate his subtlety in minutes? Why should she instruct them? “Without insight for you. My apologies.” Get bored with this session, please.

Besides, it was a novice’s analysis. The risk of betrayal would have been apparent to the Great Clans for as long as they awaited
Victorious
. Exchanging hostages and co-locating key assets were time-tested countermeasures. There were many such possible dependencies to discourage treachery from within their coalition. Did the humans think Mashkith so desperate or imprudent to bet everything on hopes of undermining an alliance?

Conjectures flew. When Glithwah could, she left the humans to rebut and confound each other. Her most common reply, when pushed to speculate, was the pleading of ignorance. In this manner, they discussed without resolution: Would antimatter weapons used freely destroy the value of the conquest? Could antimatter weapons used sparingly overcome vastly superior numbers on the other side? Might the opposition clans’ leadership exhibit Lothwer’s death-before-dishonor fanaticism? How in each case might Mashkith have responded?

The question about Lothwer cut deeply. She pleaded ignorance once more, this time honestly so—she had been merely a deprived child of exile when the flight to Sol began. Let them believe Lothwer’s weaknesses were more typical than Mashkith’s devious brilliance. Glithwah’s sincerest and never expressed worry was whether she had inherited the Firh family talents—or the family flaw of overreaching.

Rowland refused to drop the topic. “I don’t see Mashkith embarking upon a strategy that involved a bloodbath. It doesn’t fit what we know of him.”

That was insightful—and hence, bad. It would not do for the UP security officer to understand. “Omelets versus eggs. Human metaphor.”

He shook his head. “Mashkith was scary smart, but not a mass murderer. He might have threatened to attack major human settlements, even Earth itself, with antimatter—especially after he was the one holding all of it. He didn’t.”