Shards of Earth

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  “We’ll talk again,” she said. “Think, Idris. There must be something.” Then she was gone, and her escort with her, just before the others piled in. Idris caught Kris looking back as though to say, Wasn’t that…? But the rest were more concerned with making sure their navigator was in full working order.

  “Well, look at you. Awake and everything.” Olli was in a motorized wheelchair, presumably of Partheni issue. He expected there’d been a fight about whether or not she could walk around in the Scorpion. The very thought was exhausting. Idris was glad he’d been dying right then.

  The others looked well. Kris was beaming from ear to ear. Kittering’s arm-screens were advertising what looked like some kind of Hanni pharmaceutical, so possibly he’d cut a deal with his physician. Solace hung back and let them have their moment, shifting aside to let Trine duck in too.

  Idris nodded at the academic. “I’d have thought you’d have abandoned us by now.”

  “We’ve putting on a unified front,” Kris said firmly. “Trine, us. I think even Solace is being coy with her bosses.” Snickering at the Partheni’s expression. “We were waiting for you and Kit to wake up, so we’ve said just about nothing.”

  “We’ve still got the… the things?” Idris asked, wide-eyed.

  “Ah, no, not exactly. The Partheni have the things.” Kris shot a look at Trine.

  “What precisely was I supposed to do?” the archaeologist demanded tartly. “They knew what I was carrying. I couldn’t just pretend to have lost them down the back of my internal backups, could I?”

  “Well they’re not our problem then,” Idris said, feeling weirdly relieved. “Was there any money in it?”

  “Now we have Kit back we are damn well going to try for it,” Kris assured him. “If for no other reason than the Vulture needs fixing up. But first… Solace was saying something about a hearing?”

  “A hearing?” Idris looked blankly at her, then at the Partheni beyond. “That wasn’t what I…?”

  “Not a disciplinary or something criminal, but…” Solace spread her hands. “A lot’s happened. Everyone wants to hear from all of you, and they want to hear it together. Because right now, there’s not a lot of trust going round. So, yes. A hearing. You speak, they hear. And then you can get paid and… go.”

  She’ll stay, of course, because she’s a good soldier. Idris was surprised at the stab of unhappiness he felt at that—and when he met Solace’s eyes, he reckoned she shared it. She’d liked being a freelance spacer. There was even an off-chance she’d liked meeting up with him again. The universe was big enough for such slender possibilities. He wondered if she’d go back on ice now, or if they’d have some other mission for her. Get paid and go, remember. No more war work messing with your head. Except it seemed peace work could do that just as well. He realized he’d been staring at Solace for long enough that everyone was shifting awkwardly.

  “Someone tell me what’s happened, then,” he said. “Apparently I jumped us to Berlenhof but I get the impression all hell broke loose soon after that.”

  “Ah, well,” and Kris had obviously prepared quite the spiel for this very occasion. Yet even as she put her hands behind her back and stepped forward in her best leading counsel stance, a Partheni officer turned up at the door.

  “Myrmidon Executor,” she addressed Solace. “Pret?”

  “Pret, Mother.” Solace turned wide eyes on the others. “They’re ready for us.”

  “They can wait,” Olli growled.

  “‘They’ are humanity’s combined diplomatic staff,” Kris pointed out. “Once you’ve cat-herded them into one room, you can’t expect them to just twiddle their expensive thumbs. Idris, how are you doing?”

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, took to his feet and would have gone face first into the floor if Kris hadn’t caught him.

  “They got another of those chairs?” he asked Olli.

  *

  “That’s Monitor Superior Tact,” Kris identified for him, pointing out a severe-looking older Partheni. “Don’t you love their names, by the way? Sounds like they’re laughing behind your back half the time, doesn’t it?” Although she was grinning when she said it.

  “Kris, please.” Idris said. He found the lights in the big circular chamber over-bright. He was sitting lopsided in the motorized chair, leaning on one arm. He hadn’t been able to drive it properly, juddering and scraping the walls. The frustration it had engendered in him had been out of all proportion to the inconvenience. He was a navigator of starships. A goddamn wheelchair shouldn’t be beyond him. Instead he’d ground and rammed and drifted while Olli had surged on ahead with enviable skill. Now they were here, the lot of them, taking up one third of this conference chamber. The other thirds were for the Parthenon and the Colonies respectively.

  “Okay,” Kris said. “So Tact is a diplomat. And if she’s taking the lead, that tells you how they’re playing it… I think the woman behind her is Fleet Exemplar Hope.”

  Hope looked like Tact’s younger sister, and not much like her name. If Idris had been asked, he’d have guessed at “Suspicion.” There were half a dozen other Partheni behind them, younger, all with variations on the same features. The same ashy-coloured skin and strong cheekbones, a factory-line beauty made uncanny by repetition. Kris didn’t have names for them, just adding, “Hope’s a full-on fighter—but you’d expect her to be present, given we’re on her ship. Tact is Aspirat, dirty tricks and espionage. And, from the look I caught, I reckon she’s Solace’s boss.”

  Idris nodded tiredly.

  “Now over there… that’s Lucef Borodin. He’s out of the High Diplomatic Service Office, here on Berlenhof.” Kris was indicating Tact’s opposite number. Borodin was stocky, greying, a match for Tact in age, but with twenty centimetres on her in height and thirty kilograms in weight. He had a flat, open face and had turned to smile at the lean woman behind him. The smile was still in place when he faced forward again, but it didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes.

  “Lady at his back is Elphine Stoel. She’s supposed to be DipSO too, but I think she’s really Threat Analysis. You know, the sort Hugh keeps around to predict what the other big powers might do next.” Stoel was regarding the Partheni with a fixed intensity. A half-dozen younger diplomats were at her back in turn, along with a familiar face—Havaer Mundy of the Intervention Board, looking like his wife had left him.

  “One of the others is probably covert Mordant House too,” Kris noted. “Mundy’s here because he’s met us, has a handle on us maybe. And I guess you know Herself there, beside him.”

  Saint Xavienne, of course, watching Idris and nobody else. He managed a faint nod to her.

  “You’ll note no military from Hugh, just civvies,” Kris added.

  “That good?”

  “Interesting question. You might think yes, but Borodin’s out of Magda. So though he’s not exactly shilling for the Nativists, maybe he’s skewed that way? Also, maybe not sending a soldier to the Parthenon is a kind of veiled insult or something? I don’t know.”

  “Some help you are.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “Why are we even here?”

  Before Kris could answer that, Monitor Superior Tact finished listening to one of her subordinates and opened proceedings. “Menheer Borodin, thank you for joining us.” She directed a bright smile across the room at the Colonials. “I trust our reception has been to your satisfaction.”

  “Impeccable as always,” Borodin countered warmly. Nobody was looking at the Vulture crew. Yet. “And I appreciate your efficiency in setting this meeting. I’m glad the Parthenon are treating this matter as seriously as we are.”

  Idris gave Kris an odd look. “But they didn’t have much choice, surely? Now they know the Architects are back…” But Kris was listening intently, a slight frown on her face.

  “Perhaps we could commence with the Oumaru wreck and its location, as it remains unaccounted for?” Tact proposed. “As per your request, we
’ve left any questions for the Vulture God’s crew to this meeting.” Except for debriefing Solace, Idris guessed. Because surely they’d done that. Had Solace noted where they’d ditched the freighter’s corpse?

  “Actually,” Borodin put in, sounding apologetic. “I have some preliminary business we need to clear up. Specifically, Hugh requires that the Parthenon repatriates our citizens currently held aboard this vessel.”

  Kris twitched, and Olli leant towards her, demanding, “That us?” in a whisper that could probably be heard across the room.

  “Menheer Borodin…” Tact said flatly.

  “The Council understands entirely the circumstances under which they came into your hands,” Borodin said, conciliatory now, spreading his hands a little. “We appreciate you letting our medical personnel aboard to give urgent care where required. But a swift repatriation really is necessary now. No doubt you’ve seen the tensions we’re facing planetside—and indeed across the human sphere. We very much want to avoid suggestions from certain elements that anything like a hostage situation is brewing up here.” Again that reasonable smile, conveying I-too-can’t-believe-we-have-to-deal-with-this-nonsense.

  “Your citizens…?” Tact echoed, profoundly unimpressed, and Kris murmured, “Welp, this has gone some places fast.”

  “Olian Timo, Keristina Soolin Almier and Idris Telemmier.” Borodin was not looking at the crew, as though their names existed only as a bureaucratic exercise. “I am aware there is a Hannilambra aboard, operating under Accredited Commercial Traveller status. There is also a Delegate registered to the Second Assembly. They or their governments will need to make separate arrangements.”

  Tact leant back a little. “And the Hegemonic regalia…?”

  “Obviously custody of the regalia is the primary concern, for all of us. I’ve just been asked to deal with this bookkeeping first and foremost, which will allow us all to avoid, as I said, any suggestion of Partheni duress.” Borodin nodded very seriously.

  “Do we get a say?” Kris’s voice vanished into the space and she looked up for the ceiling mic that apparently wasn’t on. A moment later there was a loud buzz of static. The Partheni delegation twitched, almost as one. Idris guessed Olli had patched into their electronics with her implants. Must have given their electronic security department kittens.

  “Why don’t you try again?” the specialist said to Kris, her voice loud and clear over the speakers. “I don’t think they heard you.” At least someone was enjoying themselves.

  “I said—” Kris started, but Tact and Borodin virtually trod on each other’s words to drown them out. Idris heard, “If you’ll allow me, as your representative—” from him, and “When you’re called upon to speak—” from her.

  “I am my own representative,” Kris stated. However, the collective diplomatic glower was too much for her and she subsided.

  “We would prefer to leave such matters to the addendum,” Tact said firmly. “Menheer, I’ll be blunt. We were on the point of dispatching the regalia for analysis when your communiqué reached us. Because certain inferences were contained therein, concerning how such Partheni actions might be construed, we put this on hold. I had very much hoped that Hugh was here to propose cross-border scientific efforts. After all, this represents a chance for both the Parthenon and the Council of Human Interests to attain parity with the Essiel Hegemony in the field of safely transporting Originator relics. Delegate Trine has already volunteered to head up this research.”

  “That research is, of course, the main event,” Borodin agreed smoothly. “But our people are being held against their will on a military vessel. Until this is resolved, we cannot be expected to enter such delicate negotiations.”

  “Ah crap,” Idris said, low as he could to avoid it being picked up. “This is about me, isn’t it. Me and the damn Int Program.”

  “Well I hope to fuck so,” Olli said. And either the Parthenon had locked her out, or she’d flicked the speakers off herself. “Because I don’t want any government caring this much about where the fuck I end up.”

  “So, what do you want?” Kris asked him.

  “What? Me?” Idris looked at her, at Kittering’s array of amber eyes and Olli’s exasperated face. Past them, he could see Solace’s unhappy expression and the benevolent beam of Trine’s projected visage.

  “You want to go to Berlenhof planetside, or stay with the angels? Or get on the Vulture—see if we can just take off and leave them bickering?” Kris shrugged. “I’m your lawyer. Tell me what you want and I’ll see what I can throw together.”

  “This is insane,” Idris whispered. “Why is this even happening?”

  “Seriously, Idris,” Kris pressed. “Just make the call.”

  “No, look.” Idris tried to stand up, felt a wave of nausea and sat back down. “Olli, give me a voice, please.” That last word rang out across the room, and suddenly everyone was looking at him.

  “Look—” he started, as Borodin shook his head urgently.

  “I am sure we all appreciate, niceties of diplomatic language aside, just what Menheer Telemmier represents,” the man spoke over him. “I’ll be frank, shall I?”

  “No, look—” Idris tried again.

  “Perhaps you should,” Tact agreed, seamlessly squeezing him out of the conversation. Idris wondered wildly whether the Parthenon actually had a Monitor Frank somewhere in its ranks.

  “The Council cannot contemplate one of its Intermediaries, a veteran of the original Board, being in the Parthenon’s hands,” Borodin set out. “I’m sure you’ll deny that you’ve taken samples of Menheer Telemmier’s genetic material—and we can play the usual games over just what has and hasn’t been done. But our Intermediary has to be repatriated immediately.”

  “Wow,” Olli remarked. “Guess it’s just as well it’s her who’s called Tact, right?”

  All these years, Idris thought numbly, thinking I was out from under. But now he was here, over Berlenhof, in the spotlight. He was here because of the damned Oumaru and suddenly everyone cared what he did. In the worst way possible.

  He could see that a quiet life was no longer an option, not anymore, perhaps not ever. Events had made him a commodity for governments to wrestle over. And abruptly he couldn’t handle it, couldn’t listen to it.

  “You’re both crazy!” he shouted, his voice battering about the room from the speakers. “You know what happened to the Oumaru! The damn Architects are back, and this is what you’re arguing about?”

  There was a profoundly awkward silence. But he didn’t see the shame he’d hoped to provoke. If anything, he sensed they were embarrassed for him. For his outburst.

  “What?” he asked awkwardly.

  “Er… Trine did their thing,” Olli put in, her own voice starting too loud then dropping as she fought the Partheni electronics. “They said the Oumaru wasn’t, ah… wasn’t Architects. That old boy, the cultist, he faked it. He wanted to scare people into joining the Hegemony… right?”

  Idris looked to Trine, wide-eyed. “Say what now?” he managed, very aware that a roomful of diplomats were impatient to get on with their agenda.

  “This is the startling truth of the matter, my old friend and co-credulator,” Trine confirmed, with appallingly inappropriate cheer. “A hoax all along! Who, as they say, would have thunk?”

  Idris looked across the room until he met Xavienne’s curious gaze. He felt sick, physically sick. Something to tell me, she said, and he’d thought she must already know. Of course Xavienne knew all about the Architect threat. Everyone knew. The evidence had been mediotyped across the whole Human Sphere and beyond.

  Except it had been faked. But that fakery didn’t change the truth.

  “But, no, listen,” he said hoarsely. “Listen to me. That’s not it, not at all. They really are back. The Architects are moving out there. I felt them, in unspace, like it was the war. It’s all happening again.”

  27.

  Havaer

  Panic. Screaming. Entreatie
s to a divinity or imprecations against an uncaring universe. Was that what Telemmier had been expecting? If so, he was going to be disappointed. Although if he’d been hoping for dumbfounded silence, at least he had that.

  Havaer could see that the Vulture God’s crew had also been caught on the hop. They were goggling at their navigator, and the lawyer, Almier, was whispering something. Surely something like, No, seriously, what?

  “Menheer Telemmier.” Monitor Superior Tact recovered first. “Perhaps you would like to elaborate?”

  “They’re back. They were there, in unspace.” Idris waved his hands, clutching at something that Colvul had no good words for. “I felt them.”

  “It’s understandable that Architects were on your mind, given what you found,” said Borodin sympathetically. “You survived the war, we understand that. But we have Delegate Trine’s report on the Oumaru, and our own technicians concur with their interpretation of the data. It was a deftly managed hoax.”

  “It’s true, Idris,” Olian Timo added. She looked disgruntled about having to agree with Borodin, or perhaps with anyone. “That son of a bitch said he’d done it. All for the greater good or some bollocks, you know how they talk.”

  Idris was holding hard to the arms of his chair, shaking. That’s some powerful PTSD, Mundy thought. God, someone should just get him out of here.

  “You. Don’t. Understand,” he said. Each word forced out between clenched teeth. “In unspace, when I was dodging the Broken Harvest, I had to go so deep, to escape. I could feel their pilot’s mind hunting me. Like a beast.” He shuddered. “And… I’d gone so far to get away, cut off from every Throughway.” He swallowed, hard. “And they were there, moving in the deep, coming back. Like a wave across the universe.”

  “Menheer Telemmier, perhaps you should collect your thoughts in… appropriate quarters,” Tact said. Not “in the infirmary,” which Mundy reckoned was what got cut off. Why make the poor bastard sound any more mad than he already is?