“On a different subject, sir, what is our cover story for my exclusive first interview with the Guardians?”
Te’Anna requested it.
“Will your brother accept that?”
He’ll have to. It’s the truth. She asked for you by name. They’re on the needle now. Expect them in your office in two hours.
He signed off and Cassandra thought through what she would need. They knew Te’Anna spoke good English, and Cassandra had the best version of Destie autotrans loaded in her commlink, so even if the others spoke she would be able to understand them. But would Te’Anna have to translate everything Cassandra said to the other two?
She pinged her yeoman administrative assistant on her commlink.
Ma’am?
“Jones, I need a vox-box, something like what they used on Cam Ranh Bay. And I need it programed for English to Destie. And I need it in under two hours.”
Aye, aye, ma’am, he said, as calmly as if all she had asked for a watercress sandwich and a cup of Earl Grey. He really was extraordinary, a member of that informal network she had heard one of her US Navy colleagues call the E-4 mafia. Chief petty officers knew everything about how to get things done, but had certain constraints on their behavior due to the positions of responsibility they held. The petty officers first and second class had ambitions to become chiefs. But petty officers third class—whom Americans loved to call by their pay grade, E-4—had no such lofty goals and a select number of them were, so far as she could tell, both fearless and contemptuous of Navy regulations. Some day they might develop ambitions, those who were not summarily discharged along the way, but in the meantime, they navigated the tortuous passageways of Navy bureaucracy like ninjas with a death wish, and Yeoman Third-Class Jones, Thomas K., was her ninja.
Less than an hour later, Jones delivered her vox-box. She also received a brief commlink call from Nuvaash, who reported a very successful meeting with the diplomat Haykuz, details to follow. She spent the remaining time refreshing her familiarity with what was known of the three Guardians and going over a short list of key needs, the first and most important of which was a means of repairing their jump drives, as soon as possible. From what she understood, the Guardian called H’Stus would be critical for that task, as he was the one who headed up the ship construction operation back in the Destination system.
She received a commlink notification the three Guardians had arrived safely at Downstation and that Rear Admiral Goldjune had provided a platoon of Mike Marines, half of them in powered armor, as a security detail. That seemed rather much, Cassandra thought, but better too careful than not enough. The admiral mentioned the Marines, one of the two uninfected platoons from Cam Ranh Bay, had volunteered for the duty. The Guardian Te’Anna had been instrumental in recovering their stricken comrades from the Destie-Seven-Echo Highstation. US Marines were every bit as serious about repaying their debts of honor, at least in her experience, as were Royal Marines. Gambling debts were a different matter, of course.
She received notification when they left the underground shuttle tube at the platform under the headquarters building, again when they left the lift on her floor, and then her commlink vibrated again with the ID tag of Yeoman Third Jones.
“Yes,” she said.
Ma’am, your 1630 appointments are here, he said in that infuriatingly calm voice.
“Thank you, Jones. Please show them in,” she said, in as blasé a tone as she could muster, and then she added with a smile, “Oh, and I don’t think we’ll be needing tea.”
The door slid open and Jones stood to the side, gesturing politely in, rather like a doorman. Te’Anna was first, much more imposing in person than in vid-feed. Cassandra rose from her chair in welcome. The Guardian was a good two meters twenty in height and ducked her head a bit passing under the door frame, even though it had originally been constructed for Varoki use. Her aura glowed yellow around her head, her plumage colors were soft, mostly white and pale gray, and Cassandra particularly noticed her strikingly large gray eyes, with no sign of white in them. Her expression changed as soon as she entered the room, eyes growing even wider, and her mouth curved in what was unmistakably a smile.
“Oh, you look just like the hologram!”
K’Irka was second, somewhat shorter, not much over two meters tall, aura pinkish, plumage more yellow and pink, incongruously feminine-looking to Cassandra. Given the reports that K’Irka seemed less emotional and empathic that Te’Anna, a more monochromatic palette might have been a better fit. K’Irka looked around the office, her large gray eyes taking in its objects, recording the information without apparent reaction. Cassandra was just one more of those objects.
H’Stus was the third through the door, H’Stus whom they had never seen before. He wore a Guardian SA frame, the sort she had seen in the video record of the landing party massacre. His aura glowed blue, plumage deep black except for his head, which was mostly white, and a splash of deep red on his throat and upper chest. His large, ornamental shoulder feathers filled out more to the sides, emphasizing his breadth of shoulder, and his neck was shorter. My God, Cassandra thought, he looks like a vulture! Unlike K’Irka, he looked directly at her, only at her, and it made her uneasy.
Before Cassandra could speak, Te’Anna apparently heard a noise in the anteroom for she turned and reacted. “Oh, look! It is Doctor Däng! Come, K’Irka, you will like her best of all the Humans,” she said and dragged her Guardian companion with her, leaving the other one, the vulture in leg braces, standing alone in Cassandra’s office staring mutely at her. The door slid closed. What was going on here? Te’Anna had asked for a conference with her by name and then wandered off. Was she always a scatterbrain? As the seconds stretched out and the creature’s gaze did not waver, Cassandra became even more uncomfortable and began fumbling with the vox-box. She doubted any of them but Te’Anna could speak English.
“You don’t need that,” it said. She swallowed and looked at it, and for the first time in recent memory Cassandra was certain she was going to faint. The towering Guardian clumped across the floor and sat heavily in the chair, which creaked under its weight. “I didn’t mean to stare,” it said in Sam Bitka’s voice, but lower, rougher. “It’s just so good to see you again. I didn’t think I ever would.”
She sat down herself, her knees no longer supporting her. She looked at it, unable to speak, unable at first even to breathe. Finally, she managed two or three gasping breaths, and felt the hot tears run down her cheeks.
“Oh my God!” she whispered. “What have they done to you?”
CHAPTER FORTY
At the same time, on board Troatta Ship Ninety-Six,
en route to join the Troatta main fleet
27 September 2134
Chief Helm Kakusa by-Vrook through-Kuannawaa sat in the detention cell on Ship Ninety-Six and awaited her fate. It would not be long now. When the other four operational Troatta ships from P’Daan’s Realm had gone with P’Daan as escorts, Ship Ninety-Six had joined the Troatta Main Striking Armada, waiting in deep space to join P’Daan when it received the signal. She had felt the space-bending when they moved into the enemy system and were moving on the enemy principle world. That much her sister Tamari, commanding helm of Ship Ninety-Six, had told her. She had also told her that Lord Y’Areez, their Guardian creator and master, their living God, accompanied the armada. He would deal with her disobedience directly, and she knew he would do so without mercy.
Why had she defied P’Daan and made the truce with S’Bitka, the one which allowed his ship to escape, even if S’Bitka himself remained behind as P’Daan’s eternal plaything? More importantly, what would she tell Y’Areez when he demanded an accounting?
The truth. She would tell him the truth. No lie she could construct would gain her any measure of mercy, so she would speak the truth to God, so that God would know the truth. But what was the truth?
Guardians could die. Gods could die! That was a truth she had learned. S’Bitka had destroy
ed a world, but he had killed three Guardians as well. The New People had whispered this by tight beam to them, safe from the ears of the surviving Guardians in P’Daan’s realm. Should she tell Y’Areez this truth? No. He might decide the heresy must be rooted out, destroy all of her sisters who had been sent to P’Daan’s realm, and they were guilty of nothing but heroic service at considerable cost. Almost one part in five of the Troatta who had gone to P’Daan’s realm had perished, fighting a battle which was none of their concern.
Guardians could make errors. That was another truth she had learned. P’Daan had underestimated S’Bitka, a mortal like Kakusa, and P’Daan had been bested by S’Bitka repeatedly, despite having overwhelming force. Guardians could be bested by mortals. Another truth she would not share with Y’Areez.
The message panel above the doorway pulsed a rainbow of colors and made a soft tone. She inserted one arm in the communication sleeve beside the room’s single chair.
“I am here.”
Sister, she heard Tamari say, her voice thick with emotion, the time has come. Prepare for a holocommune with Lord Y’Areez.
“I am ready. Goodbye, Tamari my sister.”
Goodbye, sister of my soul.
The holorecorders in the corners of the room glowed, capturing her image, and then two figures seemed to materialize in the room with her, side by side and standing no more than two spans distance. One was Troatta, like her but a male, his carapace painted the sacred reddish-black nightshade color of a holy interlocutor. The other, the Lord Y’Areez, towered over both Kakusa and the interlocutor, nearly twice their height. His feathers were a uniform blood red and his features ferocious. Kakusa by-Vrook through-Kuannawaa faced God with the courage which comes from having abandoned all hope.
Despite herself, Cassandra leaned back away from the Guardian before her who spoke with something that sounded like Bitka’s voice.
“I’m sorry to scare you like that,” it said. “but we had no choice. We monitored enough of the comm chatter to know how things stood. P’Daan has made me the bad guy and Admiral Goldjune is looking for a bus to throw me under. If they know I’m here, I’ll spend all my time answering charges, and we don’t have time to waste with that.”
“But what did they do to you? They’ve turned you into a Guardian!”
“God, no! This is a disguise, like our skin masks, only a little more elaborate and . . . alive. I’d take it off and show you but we can’t repair it down here, so you’ll have to take my word for it. It’s still me—physically me—under this.”
“A disguise? But . . . your height.”
“It’s this SA frame. We had to modify it so the knee joints are higher up and the shins longer, see? Basically, a set of stilts, but you have to look hard to notice. K’Irka did do some alterations to me, but not what you think. I’m still human, still mortal, still got all the standard equipment. She double-crossed P’Daan on that deal.”
“Some . . . alterations? But why change you at all?” The unreality of the moment, sitting and talking to a giant bird which had Bitka’s voice and vocal mannerisms, left Cassandra feeling detached from herself, as if watching the scene play out to someone else.
“Had to,” it said. “They changed my digestive system, but that’s all they fiddled with, and most of that was changing my gut bacteria rather than me. There was only so much Human food left behind and once it was gone, I’d have starved. They had to do it to save my life.”
“Your voice sounds different,” she said. “Is that because of their . . . alterations?”
“Indirectly. They had to make it look real. I didn’t know myself till later. P’Daan was watching me by video feed at first and some things you can’t fake, so . . . I had to go through the process without anesthesia.” It paused and looked away. “I found out why people scream under torture. It makes it hurt less. It really does. The louder and harder you scream, the less pain. So, I screamed and screamed, as loud and as long as I could, until I blew out my vocal cords. When they healed, my voice was lower and rougher.” It looked back at her. “Don’t look like that. It’s okay, really. It feels like it happened to someone else.”
She wondered if it did happen to someone else. She wondered to what extent this thing really was Bitka.
“How did you escape?”
“I didn’t. I was rescued, but even that sounds more melodramatic than it was. P’Daan had already left the system, once he was sure I was being altered and wasn’t enjoying the process. Te’Anna came back to the station for me, persuaded K’Irka to release me and come with us. It wasn’t that hard since K’Irka had already agreed to not go through with the full slate of modifications to me. The hard part was convincing the New People on the station this was on the up and up.”
“Why did she?”
“Why did K’Irka agree? I’m not sure. She’s an odd one. I almost said ‘an odd duck,’ but with all the feathers that sounds too much like a joke. No joke here, she is seriously strange.”
“No,” Cassandra said, “I meant why did Te’Anna come for you? That is a remarkable step, to turn on her own species like that, and suborn treason by another member of it.”
It looked down and to the side in thought, a gesture which seemed so familiar to Cassandra it sent chills down her spine to see this alien do it.
“I’m not sure she thinks of it as treason. Turning on her species, I mean. I don’t think she feels much, if any, loyalty to her species as a group. Maybe she did once but now her loyalty has become . . . personal.”
“But you captured her, wrecked a planet she helped govern, killed those other Guardians. What would make her give that sort of loyalty to you?”
The thing’s mouth twisted in Bitka’s ironic, self-effacing smile and Cassandra felt a sudden tightness in her chest and throat.
“Me of all people,” it said.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that!”
“Yeah, I know you didn’t. As to Te’Anna, I just accepted it for the gift it was. It seemed sort of rude and ungrateful for me to demand an explanation. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
“I believe I shall.”
For a while they sat in silence, the thing calling itself Bitka looking at her.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing,” it answered and shook his head with another Bitka smile. “It’s just really good to see you. For a long time, I had to rely on memory.”
“How do I compare to your memory.”
“You look older,” it said.
“Gawd, just what every girl longs to hear!” Why should it bother her that this thing said that? Why should it bother her that Bitka would?
“Older’s not so bad,” it said. “It means you’re mortal and, scary as that sounds, I have a whole new appreciation for mortality, having nearly lost mine.”
She looked away and shook her head. “This is so . . . surreal. You talk about losing your mortality the way young girls talk about their virginity.” She took a long, slow breath, then let it out and looked back at the alien. “Very well. I cannot completely accept this on an emotional level but I must accept it intellectually. What is your plan?”
“Stop P’Daan.”
“That is not a plan,” she said. “It is merely a goal.”
“Yeah, I know, but I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” it said, one eyebrow raised.
She felt a momentary flash of irritation, a so, so familiar irritation which, once she recognized its source, sent a pain lancing through her chest and momentarily took her breath away.
“Oh God! You really are Bitka!” And then she turned her swivel chair around so he would not see her as she finally gave way and sobbed uncontrollably. He didn’t rise and come around the desk to comfort her. He didn’t make little solicitous sounds. He just waited, as she knew he would. He was good at waiting for her. Better than she had ever been at waiting for him.
An hour later, Cassandra kept the first meeting small: herself, Nuvaash, Rear Admiral Goldjune, Te’Anna, and Bi
tka, although neither the admiral nor Nuvaash knew his identity yet. Admiral Goldjune was the last to arrive, and when he entered the conference room, she and Nuvaash stood up, as did the Guardian known as H’Stus. The admiral’s eyebrows went up a bit at that. He gestured to the vox-box on the conference table.
“Please tell him I appreciate the courtesy but it is not necessary for him to stand.”
Cassandra looked at the vox-box for a moment and then back to the admiral. “As it happens, sir, he is obliged to stand in your presence. You may want to sit down for this.”
The Lord Y’Areez never spoke directly with his flock, always through an interlocutor. Kakusa listened to the questions from the nightshade-painted Voice of the Lord but then gave her replies directly to Y’Areez himself, being careful to never look into his eyes. She did not know whether Y’Areez and the interlocutor shared a communication link or if God could somehow place his thoughts in the mind of his servant. But if so, why not put them in her mind instead? That, she realized, was yet another blasphemous question.
“Why did you agree to the first truce with S’Bitka?”
“He showed us the approach tracks of his missile patterns, and our sensors confirmed them. They would certainly have destroyed both Ships before we could close to engagement range. I was willing to sacrifice the ships entrusted to me, but only if it could achieve the end Lord Y’Areez desired. To throw them away for nothing would be to injure my Lord’s interests, not safeguard them.”
“Was that your decision to make?”
“Yes, it was.”
She thought this answer surprised at least the interlocutor. She could not, or rather would not, see the expression of Y’Areez. After several heartbeats’ worth of silence another question came.
“And the second truce? Did P’Daan not order you to attack the Human ship?”
Ship of Destiny Page 40
