“Goddamnit, what in the hell is that feathered freak trying to pull?”
“Good morning, Admiral,” she answered, crossing to his desk. “I take it you have been watching the early flat vid feeds of P’Daan’s nocturnal broadcast concerning the state of negotiations.”
Cedric waved her into the chair across from him. “Of course I’ve been watching. Who hasn’t? Does he really want the whole Cottohazz Executive Council to come here to talk to him?”
“Who can say what goes on in his mind?” she said. “I have been reading the summaries Commander Atwater-Jones put together of the reports of Doctors Johnstone and Däng. I will want to interview Johnstone before he leaves, and we may wish to retain him here for at least a few weeks. He could be useful. The main point of consideration is that the Guardians have never contacted a separate civilization. Ever. All the cultures of their elevated subject races are of their own creation. Those cultures are hierarchical and authoritarian, and are structured not only to serve, but also exalt, the Guardians. Although they may have to negotiate among themselves, they are used to doing so with other beings similarly endowed with absolute decision-making authority.”
“Good luck finding that here,” Cedric said.
“Yes, sir, that is precisely the point. P’Daan clearly grows impatient with our inability to commit to anything on behalf of the Cottohazz. It is the very diffuse nature of authority that frustrates him. We received word that the Council has sent a special envoy plenipotentiary to begin formal negotiations. His ship arrived in-system yesterday but he is still days from K’tok, and even when Envoy e-Lotonaa arrives his authority will be limited. Were the entire Executive Council to come here, they would still not be able to satisfy P’Daan. He demands we accept his authority over all the worlds of the Cottohazz, that it in effect we become a protectorate under his authority. Even the entire Legislative Assembly does not have the authority to accede to that, no matter what sort of limitations he might be willing to accept. It would require plebiscites throughout every political jurisdiction, and the outcome would be by no means certain.”
That’s for sure, Cedric thought. What would the average voter gain? Nothing. And what would they lose? Some freedom, for sure, and maybe more than just some. Whatever deal they came up with, he didn’t think anyone could sell it.
“Captain Chakrabarti, I need to know where you stand.”
“Sir?” she asked, clearly surprised by the question.
“The things we’ve devoted our professional lives to, the traditions and values we cherish, are all wonderful things, but their time may be coming to an end. The world—our world—is changing very quickly. The old systems may be slipping away forever, and the time between when they cease operating and a new order takes their place is likely to be very brief. People who understand that must be ready to act and act with decision. When that moment comes, I have to know where your loyalty will rest.”
She looked somewhat frightened by his words and he saw her swallow and think before nodding. “I trust you, Admiral. Who else can guide us through this?”
“Good. P’Daan has been negotiating with the armistice commission, because that’s the highest civilian authority in the K’tok system, at least until the Cottohazz special envoy gets here and that won’t be for a week. We already know they aren’t going to get anywhere, so we need to open talks with him ourselves.”
“Ourselves? But . . . we don’t have the authority—”
“Yes, we do. They have armed ships in the system and we are responsible for seeing that no unfortunate incidents occur. To that end, we need to open a regular liaison channel with them to coordinate ship traffic and avoid misunderstandings. Isn’t that so?”
She smiled. “Of course, sir. I assume that at some point the subject matter of those talks may broaden.”
“I don’t see how we can avoid it. P’Daan wants firm answers and someone who can back them up. He’s not going to get either of those from any delegation the Cottohazz sends. If it comes to a question of survival of our species or loyalty to the Cottohazz, it’s not even a contest for me.”
“And what is our negotiating position? What do we want and what can we offer in return?”
“I’m still working on the details, and I need to learn more about how he thinks, but what he has to offer is simple: peace, the stars, and immortality. It’s what we’re willing to give up for those—that’s where the negotiations will get complicated. But let’s start assembling a small working group of people who we can trust and who can help with this.”
Chakrabarti shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I know there are personal issues between you and her, but I’d like to have Atwater-Jones working with us. Right now, she’s really the top person on Guardian culture, technology, and psychology.”
Cedric shook his head. “We get copies of all her work and we have access to her database. We don’t need her here and she’ll never go along with me on this. I’ll tell you something, Captain, she is really not very intelligent. She’s one of those people who acts more intelligent than everyone else and so foolish people believe her. Bitka’s another one. They were made for each other. Neither one of them’s smart enough to see what it takes to solve a big problem; they’re just clever enough to cause trouble. It’s a good thing that uBakai admiral in the last war was such a fool. Anyone could have beaten him, even Bitka.”
* * *
About forty thousand kilometers below USS Olympus Mons, in the fleet headquarters complex on K’tok, Doctor Däng Thi Hue followed the young man in the strange naval uniform. After half a year on board Cam Ranh Bay, she had grown used to seeing service people in a shipsuit and nothing else. Shirt and slacks seemed both casual and old-fashioned by comparison.
They reached a door and the young mariner pressed the entry panel. “The commander’s waiting for you,” he said as the door slid into the wall. Hue saw the tall British woman rise from her desk and walk briskly around it to meet her, her hand extended. She was not beautiful, Hue thought, so much as striking, with her sharply pointed features and shock of curly red hair. Hue realized it was largely the woman’s self-possession which rendered her particularly attractive.
“Doctor Hue, I am very glad you were able to make time for me,” Atwater-Jones said. She gestured to a sofa against the wall and they sat. “I hope the period of quarantine was not too unpleasant. I know you must be very anxious to return home.”
“Home,” Hue repeated, and she wondered where that was. The concept had become somewhat diffused in the last six months. USS Cam Ranh Bay was now part of it, in a way. She had been offered priority transport back to Earth, and she would take it, but she felt disloyal doing so, as if she were abandoning a friend who had given much to bring her home.
“I had planned to come see you as soon as I was able,” Hue said, “and then received your request for an interview. May I ask why?”
“Certainly,” Atwater-Jones answered. “I am a military intelligence specialist currently attached to the staff of Rear Admiral Goldjune. He has tasked me with assembling a complete assessment of the nature and capabilities of this new civilization you encountered, especially given the unfortunate circumstances of that encounter. I have already had a very enlightening holoconference with Lieutenant Alexander, the ship’s senior tactical officer. I have appointments with Doctor Johnstone and Ms. Choice this afternoon, and I hope to speak with Lieutenant Ma as soon as he has recovered. But I wanted to speak with you in particular and face to face. No one understands their biology better than do you. I have read your very extensive report, of course, those parts which I was able to understand, but I was wondering what personal insights you could add.”
“Personal insights,” Hue repeated, and thought about that. “I had personal interaction with two Guardians, the ones called Te’Anna and K’Irka, and I viewed a number of holocons and messages from the one called P’Daan. Of course, I also witnessed the video of the slaughter of our landing party as it was taking place, and
I think that may render my personal insights . . . biased. But based upon the behavior of those three examples, I would characterize the Guardians as highly idiosyncratic with distinctly different personalities and worldviews. What they share is a lack of empathy—to varying degrees—and a tendency toward self-absorption.”
“Don’t you think that is a natural product of their extended lifespans?” Atwater-Jones asked.
“Possibly, although I am reluctant to accept a conclusion based more on prejudice than facts—even a prejudice I fully share with you. I will be happy to explain my thoughts to you later, but for now I have a task of my own to complete. I mentioned I had intended to meet with you before leaving and it was for personal rather than professional reasons. I disliked Captain Bitka very much when I first met him but came to respect and value him greatly, although we were never intimate friends. Before we parted, I told him a poem. He took no possessions of any kind with him other than the shipsuit he wore, so he made me repeat the poem several times so he would remember it.”
“I didn’t know Bitka fancied poetry,” Atwater-Jones said, and Hue saw surprise and regret in her eyes. There must be much about the captain she did not know, and now never would.
“I don’t know that he did, as a general rule,” Hue said, “but this one touched him. I shared it because the captain reminded me of the author of the poem in many ways.”
“You know the author?”
Hue smiled. “That would be difficult. He has been dead for nine hundred years. He was a warrior, a rebel, an adventurer, a leader of guerrillas in a time of great trouble, later a general, a man of unbending principle—which was in some way his undoing—a lover, and eventually a poet. He was Chinese, his name was Xin Qiji, and this is the poem I gave to Captain Bitka. It is called, ‘To the Tune of the Ugly Slave.’ I should explain that this style of poem was not actually named, but was meant to be recited with a song played in the background, and it followed the rhythm of that song. Unfortunately, we have no record of what that song originally sounded like, but here is the poem.”
When I was young
and hadn’t known sorrow,
I loved to climb high places,
loved to climb high places
and write poems
that strained for sorrow.
Now that I have tasted
all there is to know of sorrow
I hesitate to speak of it,
hesitate to speak of it.
Instead I say, “This cool
autumn weather is so fine.”
Hue sat quietly for a time after finishing the poem, allowing Atwater-Jones to regain her composure, or rather struggle to maintain it, a struggle which at length she won. Hue then understood something of Atwater-Jones.
“You hesitate to speak of it as well.”
Atwater-Jones’s mouth trembled again for a moment and she nodded, a single firm, quick gesture.
“I have two other things for you which the captain entrusted to me for delivery. I believe the first of them is a sort of diary directed to you.” She drew the data tab from her pocket and handed it to the British officer, who sat for several long seconds looking at the tab resting in her palm. Then her eyes closed as the fingers of her hand curled over it, and she held it against her chest for a moment before slipping it into the pocket of her uniform blouse.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“And one last thing. I know this will upset you and for that I am sorry, but it is necessary. This is the last possession Captain Bitka gave up as he left.” She handed her the hologram of herself. Atwater Jones looked at it as it played through its recorded sequence and then again closed her eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks but her shoulders did not shake and her mouth remained firm—a woman of extraordinary self-control. Hue gave her a minute or more to shore up the composure which clearly was so important to her.
“Commander Atwater-Jones, whatever influence you have in the strategic counsels of your military, use it well. P’Daan, and whatever Guardians share his worldview, will enslave us if they can. I think they will attempt to seduce us first, with the lure of immortality.”
“Would that be so terrible?” the British woman asked.
“Captain Bitka believed it would be and I now do as well. I have thought a great deal about what moves us, Commander. About what molds us. The universe is built of facts, but facts do not move us. They have no meaning by themselves. Stories change us, because stories have meaning. Do you understand?”
“Perhaps. But why can’t an endless life have meaning?”
“Because a story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. The end is what gives the story meaning. Without an end it is not a story, it is only a tiresome, rambling, and pointless anecdote.”
“I don’t know that I believe that,” the British woman said. “I don’t think it has to be that way.”
Hue examined the woman’s face and saw something Captain Bitka’s love and admiration must have blinded him to: her fear. Fear was the great enemy, always. Every contemptible act she had seen Ka’Deem Brook commit, he had committed from fear. Every moment of anger Hue had felt, every shameful desire for retribution, had been her own fear speaking.
This woman had weaknesses Captain Bitka had never understood, but that did not mean she could not find her strength when the time came. Hue had no option but to trust she would.
“Whether we accept their offer or not, Commander, the Guardians’ self-image will not allow them to live with us as equals. On the moon Destie-Seven-Echo, which they call Haydoos, Captain Bitka saw what could be our future. He sacrificed himself in part so you—specifically you—could know the enormous evil and terrible danger facing us. He did not simply love you; he trusted you to find a way to stop P’Daan.”
* * *
Six hours later, Vice-Captain Takaar Nuvaash again realized that he never quite got used to Rear Admiral Jacob Goldjune’s habit of simply striding into Atwater-Jones’s office unannounced and flopping into a chair.
“Alright. Now look, Commander, I have about twenty minutes before I have to be at a reception for the U. S. congressional fact-finding delegation headed by the senior senator from the great state of Jalisco, so tell me what you’ve got and then I’ll go. In fact, you should grab your hat and come along.”
“Senator Ramirez y Sesma is here?” Nuvaash asked, unable to remain silent at this news.
Rear Admiral Goldjune, brother of the Coalition CNO, frowned at him. “How is it you know who the senior senator from Jalisco is?”
Nuvaash tilted his head to the side. “It was my responsibility, as Speaker for The Enemy, to study the political as well as military command structures of all the nations of your coalition. Ramirez y Sesma is the vice chair of your Senate Armed Services Committee, and if Senator Perkins does not run for reelection, as is rumored, and assuming the Federalists continue to hold a majority in the Senate, Ramirez y Sesma will become the chair in another year. He is rather strident in his anti-Varoki beliefs.”
The admiral stared at him in disbelief.
“Really, my knowledge is not that extraordinary,” Nuvaash said. “Commander Atwater-Jones, who is the uBakai deputy minister of naval armaments?”
“Sodanl e-Tso’ja,” she replied immediately, and when the admiral’s astonishment was directed at her, she shrugged. “Everyone knows that, sir.”
The admiral shook his head. “Damned birds of a feather. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, you had something for me.”
“Just this, sir. For the last several days the Troatta ships have been launching small probes. We believe they are sensor probes, passive collection devices. They are not emitting in any frequency or wavelength except for what appear to be routine telemetry and diagnostics.”
The admiral frowned. “How many?”
“Fourteen to date.”
“Fourteen? What’s orbital control doing about it?”
“Nothing, sir. They have received orders from Admiral Stevens, First Combined Fleet commander,
not to interfere with them. I made a discreet inquiry and it seems the order came to him from your brother, the CNO himself, but only in response to a request from the armistice commission to do nothing which might provoke a breakdown of the negotiations with P’Daan.”
“Why on Earth . . . ?”
“As I understand it, the armistice commission is most concerned with your brother’s possible response, and I have to say, sir, with some reason. During the recent war, he justly earned a reputation as an officer quick to take provocative action and consider the possible consequences at his leisure.”
“Well, that’s Cedric all right,” Admiral Goldjune said. He frowned, his eyes on the floor. “Those probes—not weaponry?”
“That is impossible to say positively, sir. Given the Guardian aversion to nuclear warheads, it is difficult to see how something this size could be any sort of conventional weapon. It could have an offensive electronic warfare function. It is of course possible they are what the Troatta claim. On the other hand, I have been reading the summaries of the negotiations with P’Daan. They are going over old ground. It is as if P’Daan had a script but has exhausted it and is starting over.”
“That makes no sense,” the admiral said.
“I am sure it makes sense to him, sir. We just cannot fathom his intentions. But it seems to me he is waiting for something.”
The admiral snorted his skepticism and then stood up. “Okay, I’ll make some discreet inquiries of my own, maybe even comm Cedric. Brothers need to stay in touch. Grab your hat, Commander, and I’ll introduce you to the VIPs. They will find your accent charming.” He turned to Nuvaash. “But not you, Vice-Captain. I’m looking to charm Ramirez y Sesma, not infuriate him.”
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