“S’Bitka, I speak directly to you. I demand justice: justice for the New People and justice for my four dead companions. If you can hear and see me, S’Bitka, and if you have the courage, respond,” the Guardian said.
The image froze. S’Bitka? That must be the Guardian form of Captain Samuel Bitka’s name, but Brook had never heard Te’Anna address him so in any of the recorded interrogations. And four dead companions? Of course. P’Daan didn’t know Te’Anna was still alive and their prisoner, and that meant he couldn’t know how much she had told them.
“I see and hear you,” Bitka’s hologram responded. “You know what I want? Justice for my six dead companions, who yours butchered and ate like cattle. I’m not sure I have it yet, but to save lives I am willing to call it so. You’ve experienced some of our weaponry. Believe me, you don’t want to experience the really nasty stuff we haven’t used yet, so why don’t you just let us go in peace?”
The captain froze the image and then his hologram looked over at Ka’Deem.
“May as well grab some lunch, XO. The light-speed transit time back to Destie-Four is about fifty-five minutes, and then as long for his reply to get to us. Stupid way to carry on a conversation, but I guess if you’re immortal, time’s not as much of an issue. I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on.”
He lifted his helmet visor and disappeared. Ka’Deem lifted his own and sat quietly for a moment, considering the distances involved even in this comparatively short voyage across a star system. P’Daan’s ship orbited Destie-Four. They were bound for Destie-Seven and had already come a billion kilometers. A billion kilometers, almost a light hour, and they were less than halfway to the large gas giant. He had served as a commissioned officer in the United States Navy for ten years, most of that time spent in spacecraft and almost half of it in starships, but he had never quite come to terms with the enormous distances involved. He knew the numbers, but they were so large as to be meaningless except as values to plug into equations. He shrugged and went back to work.
Two hours later he closed his desk workstation, put on his helmet, and lowered the visor.
“M’Eetos gave you creatures the interstellar drive!” P’Daan thundered when his hologram reappeared. “Are you too primitive to understand even that? Your drive bears his coded signature. I believe he raised you all up, gave you sentience, and how have you repaid him? What did you do with M’Eetos?”
The hologram froze, so P’Daan was waiting for a reply, already had been for an hour. Ka’Deem wondered if he was having lunch.
“Never even heard of M’Eetos, or any other Guardian before we got here,” the Captain replied. “I honestly have no idea where he is or what happened to him. And if you think he raised us up, you’re kidding yourself. We are independently evolved. Every species in the Cottohazz is.
“And this little trip was not our idea. You brought us here, without asking us, and if things went bad when your underlings decided to eat some of us, that’s not our fault.
“You’re obviously right about the origin of the drive, though. It must have passed from your pal M’Eetos to the Varoki and then they passed it off as their own invention. There are five or six Varoki trading houses that I figure owe you, or M’Eetos, or somebody, about three hundred years’ worth of back royalties. But I think everyone who paid them those royalties is going to have a claim for fraud as well, and that could get complicated. It’s not really my problem, but if you like I could recommend a couple good intellectual property lawyers.” He froze the image.
What the hell was the captain trying to do? Instead of looking for a deal, he was practically taunting the Guardian!
“Take five,” the captain said with a grin Ka’Deem couldn’t fathom, “or two hours, if you like. We’ll see what Mister Big says next.”
Two hours later, P’Daan’s reply came.
“I am the law,” P’Daan said, and then cut the connection.
“So,” the captain said, “I think that went pretty well.”
Was he insane?
* * *
An hour later Ka’Deem Brook hesitated before the doorway to the Varoki diplomat’s quarters. He had no more regard for Loptoon Haykuz than did anyone else on the Bay, and he realized that what he was doing might be seen as undermining his own captain’s authority. Most of his instincts rebelled against what he contemplated doing, but his greater responsibility was to the ship, to its crew, and to its passengers. Instead of touching the door’s chime he took several steps back and around the corner of the corridor and then squinted up Haykuz on his commlink.
Yes, Lieutenant Brook, the Varoki answered. What can I do for you?
“I wonder if it would be possible for the two of us to speak confidentially about a matter of great importance? Perhaps in your quarters?”
The Varoki paused before answering. In confidence, you say? I am happy to speak with you and I can assure you of my discretion, but I cannot guarantee absolute silence if the subject should stray beyond . . . certain boundaries.
“Of course, Mister Haykuz. That goes without saying,” Brook answered, although it was not at all the answer he had hoped for. Well, he would have to be discreet as well, feel out Haykuz. Six weeks ago, he would have felt far more confident of where the Varoki stood on the subject of their captain but everything had become confused and ambiguous since the massacre on Destie Four. The ground had shifted and he no longer knew where anyone stood.
Seconds later the tall Varoki met Brook at his door and gestured him in, offered him water or hot tea to drink—tea from Earth. Suddenly Brook wondered how many other Humans Haykuz had entertained over tea lately. How many others had come here to sound him out? How many others had he invited here in order to sound out himself? Why had Brook not thought of that before?
“Water will be fine,” he said.
They sat in chairs which Brook found higher than he was used to and his feet barely touched the cabin floor, as if he were a child sitting in an adult’s place. The stateroom was undecorated, like a blank slate, revealing nothing of the Varoki’s personality. Was that deliberate? Haykuz, ears spread wide and face clear of color, waited patiently for Brook to begin.
“As you are an experienced negotiator, I was hoping you could help me understand an exchange the captain had with the Guardian P’Daan over the course of today,” Brook said. “I was somewhat surprised the captain did not invite you to join the conference, given your position as our senior diplomat.”
“You compliment me twice, Lieutenant Brook,” Haykuz answered, “and more than I deserve, in describing me as an experienced negotiator and a senior diplomat. Really, I am neither. My experience in both realms consists of observing others. But whatever insight I have gained from that is at your service.”
Brook shifted uncomfortably in his chair, not certain how to proceed. Was Haykuz genuinely that humble? He had never seemed so before, while he had been the diplomat e-Lisyss’s flunky. Then he had seemed a reflection of his superior’s arrogance. Brook had at least understood that arrogance, but this Varoki was a stranger.
But he was here. He had to go on. All he knew to do was relate the holoconference between Captain Bitka and P’Daan as simply and directly as he knew how. He did not ask why the captain had seemed to throw away any chance of negotiating a compromise, or what purpose was served by that, but surely the unasked question was clear. Nevertheless, when he finished the Varoki simply studied him for a moment before speaking.
“And what can I help you with, Lieutenant Brook?”
Brook took a breath before answering, and then pressed ahead.
“Why do you think he decided not to negotiate with P’Daan?”
“Ah. Well . . . negotiate what? The terms of our surrender?”
Caught off guard, Brook learned forward. “Surrender? Do you think we should surrender?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Certainly not yet. But it seems to me we are in a very weak position. It is difficult to negotiate from weakness. I would th
ink the captain would want to put off serious negotiations until he can demonstrate strength somehow. Of course, we did that at Destie-Four, but the arrival of P’Daan with his fleet has changed the balance, hasn’t it? It is certainly difficult to see how best to proceed.”
“But he seemed to deliberately antagonize P’Daan,” Brook answered. “That will make negotiations harder. Why burn bridges?”
“Why indeed?” Haykuz asked and looked away thoughtfully. Then he bobbed his head and looked back. “My late superior, the Honorable e-Lisyss, always attempted to begin a negotiation by pretense of injury or offense, to put his opponent on the defensive. I suspect he did it thinking this made an error in judgment more likely. I wonder if P’Daan did not intend something similar by beginning his communication with an accusation. Perhaps the captain understood that and deliberately refused to respond as P’Daan intended. Perhaps . . . perhaps the captain knows he will have to fight P’Daan before they can negotiate. If the captain can force P’Daan into an error in the fighting—and is there a more frequent cause of error than anger?—he will be able to negotiate from a position of greater strength when the time comes. That is a possible reason. But really, Lieutenant Brook, why do you not simply ask him what he intended?”
“Well . . . I don’t want him to think I am questioning his judgment,” Brook answered. “He might take offense.”
“Ah. He does not strike me as one who would do so, but perhaps he is different with his officers than with civilians such as myself. I confess to having little experience with the military. But short of asking him directly, I do not see how your curiosity can be satisfied.”
Brook sipped his water and wondered what he had expected to accomplish here. He had been looking for a possible ally, he supposed, but an ally in what? Someone to back up his assessment of the captain when and if they got home? And who was going to get them there?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Seven days later, aboard USS Cam Ranh Bay,
outbound to Destie-Seven
16 June 2134 (one hundred twenty days after Incident Seventeen)
Captain Bitka, I have a Mister P’Daan holding for you on line one, he heard Signaler Lucinda Weaver say inside his head. Will you take the call?
Sam laughed.
“Again? Can’t we comm-block him or something? Okay, please give my compliments to Mister Haykuz and have him helmet up as well. Once he’s ready, I’ll take it.”
Aye, aye, sir.
Sam sat up and swung his feet off his bunk, rising slightly in the air as he did so in the low gravity. Damn, why did P’Daan always call when he was asleep? And these calls were getting so common they were becoming pointless exercises: four times in eight days. He padded across the floor of his day cabin, his bare feet scarcely touching the floor, and retrieved his helmet from the rack beside his desk.
Captain, Mister Haykuz is ready.
“Okay, let’s go.”
Sam lowered his visor and saw the hologram of Haykuz. After the first conference, which took him by surprise, he’d asked the Varoki diplomat to sit in. P’Daan appeared, today taking the conference in what appeared to be his spacious personal quarters. The Guardian was as physically imposing as ever, but Sam realized these repeated harangues were probably tactical mistakes on P’Daan’s part. The first time the alien had had a chilling majesty, much of which came from the strangeness, the novelty of his appearance and demeanor. Now, Sam was getting used to him. A couple more holoconferences and he’d probably be just one more big, annoying bird.
Well, annoying and deadly.
“One less day in your fleeting existence, S’Bitka,” P’Daan began. “If you should survive to become my prisoner, the sweetness of the memory of these days will make you weep for a century. You know what I did to the New People who dared attack us. They now live in eternal torment, and I will do exactly the same to you. Do not pretend you are not afraid. I know better. I know the desperation with which mortals cling to the pathetic moments of their lives. You are no different. You cannot escape from this star system. Your only escape is death, and if you fall into my hands, I will deny you even that.” P’Daan’s image froze.
“And good morning to you,” Sam answered brightly. “I was just thinking that at a carnival you actually have to pay to have your fortune told, but I get it from you for free. You know, you’ve lived thousands of years, maybe millions, and I bet you’ve never been to a carnival. Now that’s sad.”
Sam froze the image and turned to the Varoki official. “We’re up to a little over two hours in turn-around time, Mister Haykuz. We can take a break, get some work done, but before we do, any observations?”
The Varoki thought for a moment, perhaps comparing this P’Daan to that of the earlier messages.
“He seems different today, more resolute. He does not seem to be speaking to provoke a specific reaction from you or create a particular impression. I believe he has made a decision.”
Sam hadn’t noticed a change but now as he thought back he could see what the Varoki meant. There was something different about the Guardian’s attitude today. There was always plenty of arrogance to go around from P’Daan, but today there was a big shot of don’t-give-a-damn, too.
“Interesting observation. Thank you. Comm will call you in about two hours, when the reply comes through.” Sam lifted his visor and the virtual environment of the holocon gave way to his stateroom. He picked up the hologram projector of Cassandra from his desk, turned it on, and watched several cycles, then froze it at the end.
“What are you thinking?” he asked the hologram. “And what’s that Guardian son of a bitch up to?”
After a few seconds Sam squinted up the commlink code of the OOD, Lieutenant Sylvia Norquist.
Yes, sir, she answered immediately.
“Ms. Norquist, let’s go to Readiness Condition Two.”
Aye, aye, sir, Readiness Condition Two, she answered, without a question even in her voice. Man, the crew had come a long way in a couple of months, he thought, in more ways than one.
Two hours later he donned his helmet and lowered the visor.
“Enjoy your illusions, S’Bitka,” P’Daan began. “In the end they will undo you. As for all mortals, your weakness is your addiction to illusion. The only thing real is this moment. That is where I live, in the moment. You divide your time between past and future, between memory and illusion. And make no mistake, the future as you imagine it is certainly illusion, the sort of future where you have made a difference, where you have changed the world in some noticeable way.
“Let me tell you what the future is: entropy. Energy inevitably slips from higher states to lower states, matter breaks down from elaborate structures to more simple ones. In the end the universe will be a uniform temperature and consist of a uniform distribution of atoms: hydrogen, helium, iron, carbon. There will be no way to tell which of those carbon atoms were once part of you, S’Bitka, because every carbon atom is indistinguishable from every other. Nothing you do, no matter how heroic or how base, will change that final distribution of atoms at the end of time.” P’Daan’s image froze.
Sam had to admit he found that prospect depressing, as P’Daan undoubtedly intended. And just because his enemy intended him to feel a certain way didn’t make it wrong, did it? P’Daan was right, that’s how things ended up. It still seemed too remote to worry much about, though, and then he realized that for P’Daan and the other Guardians it was not so remote a prospect. When they thought about the heat death of the universe, they saw their own inescapable mortality.
And then Sam laughed and switched the holosuite to transmit mode.
“See, you think a lot bigger than I do. You want to change the universe, and you can’t. My ambitions are more modest. I want to make a few people’s lives a little better, and I might be able to accomplish that. And you know why I want that? It pleases me, I guess because I share an emotional bond with other people. I like people, some of them anyway. I’m even getting to like a few Va
roki, like my quiet friend here.”
“Thank you, Captain Bitka,” Haykuz said.
“You’re very welcome, Haykuz. But I have to say, P’Daan, I’m not all that crazy about you. And I just figured out something: you’re a fraud. I mean, that’s a good pitch you have there, about how nothing really matters in the grand scheme of things, so I guess we mortals should just collapse in despair, right? And that bit about the carbon atoms? Nice touch!
“But here’s the thing: nothing you’re planning on doing to us will make any difference to the carbon atoms at the end of time, either. You’re going to live thousands, maybe millions of years, possibly even a billion, and you’re not going to influence one more carbon atom than I will. How do you like them apples? Here I am, a lowly mortal who’s going to be gone in the blink of an eye, and I am every bit as important to the universe as you are. Man, that must really burn your ass. And all this stuff about how we mortals are here only for an instant, unlike you guys? I bet that’s exactly what those other Guardians were thinking as they were eating my friends, but we’ll never know for sure, will we? It’s too late to ask them.”
Sam felt his commlink vibrate and simultaneously he saw the interrupt warning appear as a text hologram above P’Daan’s head.
General Quarters it read in flashing orange letters.
Sam immediately lifted his helmet visor, cutting the holocon feed, and heard the general quarters gong sounding throughout the ship. He pushed off in the low gee for the door of his day cabin as he squinted open the commlink. The incoming ID tag read Lieutenant Sylvia Norquist, the OOD.
“What’s happening, Norquist?”
Jump emergence signature, sir. Two large targets, range one-nine-seven-triple-zero, bearing two-niner-seven, angle on the bow fourteen, closing at three kilometers per second. I sounded general quarters on my initiative.
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