by Kali Altsoba
***
Lasalle Five cautions against trusting known plotters, and her words carry far more weight than the first rate agent on Novaya Bator or second rater on Tohoku. She’s the top CIS field agent working undercover in the Imperium, with access to the highest social and policy levels. With her tan skin and natural jade eyes she passes easily for a High Caste beauty, from one of the best Old Families. Even though everyone knows what she really does, or thinks they do: that she’s a courtesan. Although she prefers cortigiana, an independent woman of education and artisan of courtly love. She’s not the Favorite, but it’s rumored that she has pleasured Pyotr.
She plays the part like Aspasia played with Pericles. Her penthouse serves as an intellectual center that attracts the most prominent writers and thinkers and state officials, especially those who like to pose at being politically daring or socially unconventional or intellectually original. She herself poses as a wounded heart with a powerful sex addiction. That draws in all the rest. Neaira is not just trusted, she’s embedded at the top levels in Novaya Uda high society, with access to top military secrets and Jade Court social events. She knows everyone worth knowing. Even those not worth knowing like to boast that they know her, and have shared the exquisite favors of her bed.
She’s a damn good agent. The best there is in or outside the Calmar Union. So when she warns her far off superiors in MoD, and then goes direct to the PM and Admiral Gaétan Maçon in the Hornet’s Nest with an ultrasecret dispatch, she get’s Alliance attention and can change policy. She sends messages using a dot transmitter that bounces laser coms off a micro satellite in high orbit. SRG planted it before the war, dropping it as part of accidentally vented waste from an old cargo ship. That was way back when she reported to Director Sanjay Pradip. They never met, but she always had a creepy feeling about him. The sat floats inside a little cloud of ship’s debris. It’s disguised as a torn bulkhead rivet. Her dot transmitter looks like a flake of rust or maybe vacuum bacteria clinging to a high platform on one of the Kestino elevators, the main one that rises out of the capital and hosts Pyotr’s personal cab. The com beam is super tight, so tight it cheekily bounces off a milneb LP bohr satellite on the way out of the system.
In her latest report to Alliance intelligence, with a copy to Prime Minister Georges Briand, she leaves out the Rikugun general’s crass misogyny. She has to ignore it. She’s a woman living in the Imperium. It’s all around her. But she doesn’t neglect his vanity and greed, or assumption of class superiority, a right of conquest and social mastery. It’s too familiar. It confirms everything. “All those in Alliance High Command, and the pols who want to start backchannel peace talks, must understand that peace is impossible as long as this regime is in power. More than that, peace cannot be negotiated until we militarily throw the Imperium off all occupied worlds. Even then, it is likely we must invade.”
“She doesn’t mean it, does she Gaétan? If she’s right, we’ll be fighting this war for decades.” Prime Minister Georges Briand is depressed. He has had almost nothing but bad news during Year Three. No one says the actual year anymore. Everything is dated to before or after the war. The war is all consuming.
“I’m afraid she does, Georges,” says Admiral Gaétan Maçon. “Moreover, it comports with the intelligence that General Leclerc brought back to you from Amasia. It means we’re in for a very long slog, barring unforeseen events.”
“Only total military defeat of the Imperium will suffice to end the war. It must and will go on until then. No peace can be made or even discussed until the Imperium is militarily humbled and sent reeling back to its so called heimat. There can be no illusions about this. Yes, the Resistance is better than Pyotr for us, but only in the short run. Most of them don’t want peace. They only want the war to end, while they’re winning it. Onur does not speak for them all, or even at all.”
It’s not good enough for the prime minister. He needs, he demands, a face-to-face meeting with the best agent there is inside the Imperium, in all Orion. He insists on it, over the loud objections of his advisers, who fear for his safety and the propaganda calamity that must ensue if he is captured or killed by the enemy when he travels to meet her in secret as he is proposing. Also objecting is every senior intelligence officer in the Hornet’s Nest and with SCG on Kars, who all fear for Lasalle Five’s life should the meeting locale be compromised.
He bulls them aside. He gets his way.
He’s the godsdamned prime minister.
And he has a deep secret he must discuss.
He’s not going to agree to fight a long war.
He’s going to talk to her about how to end it.
Together, they’ll make their own ‘unforeseen event.’
Not even his top aides know that he has a deep ulterior motive. And none know that, as he leaves for the meet on KRN Goliath under the protection of Admiral Magda Aklyan, he’s carrying a small but most special package in his pocket that Dr. Chan Wèi hand delivered to him, from Argos Labs. It’s the beginning of Georges Briand’s descent from inspirational war leader, who gave hope to billions and rescued the Alliance from defeat, into possibly one of the most vile war criminals in all the history of Orion.
He knows it.
He hates it.
He’ll do it anyway.
It’s what must be done.
Will history forgive him?
He knows it won’t, because
he’ll not forgive himself.
***
Briand and Neaira are scheduled to meet deep inside the Palette Nebula. Its bizarre and dangerous patterns, its interplay of fire-and-ice and stellar birthings, are well known to naval intelligence. And known most intimately to Magda Aklyan, who was the first to bohr map it during the Exodus flight from Genève. It’s more important that no ship from the Dual Powers navies ever goes there. Passive detectors that Aklyan dropped off by long distance torps at the nebula’s many dozens of LPs confirm that not even a Kaigun stealth has visited. The enemy has no idea that the Palette Nebula is the tactical key to White Sails. Magda thinks of it almost as her own private piece of space. She uses the huge nebula sprawl for access to border worlds, to jump White Sails in-and-out of Grün territory on butcher-and-bolt raids. So far, given all the dead planets and newborn and stillborn stars inside, she’s never used the same jump zone twice. Now she’s tasked with getting the PM to the Palette Nebula and safely back.
How Lasalle Five will get there not even her handler in Alliance intelligence knows. If he did, he would never let her meet with the PM. It’s bad enough that this deepest of deep cover agents chose the meeting site and laser bohred precise coordinates to Kars. Naval Security says she shouldn’t know them, and Magda Aklyan agreed. But the mission is on. She’s keen to take bearings of this most unusual person in Alliance intelligence. If Magda can stand being with the PM for as long as it takes KRN Goliath to make the trip. It’s a big ship, but no ship is big enough when you’re carrying Georges Briand.
“Mini sub just appeared out of nowhere, admiral.”
“Weapons Officer here: it’s already under our rail guns! We have no firing angle.”
“All weapons on safe mode, now!”
“Yes, admiral.”
It has been a long time since anyone questioned Magda Aklyan’s orders, no matter how odd or off-the-books they might be. She has been proven right, and saved all their lives with oddball orders too often, for any officers or her crew to even think of querying a command she gives while on the Bridge of Golly.
“That’s our contact, XO. Hail it.”
“No need. We’re being hailed by the stealth.”
“Navigation officer here: it’s not giving a name.
“And it won’t. Just send the tumbler code I gave you.” A tumbler is a code from a onetime pad that rotates randomly. Sort of. Well, as close to true random that it’s effectively unbreakable unless you have the twin to match up on the other end. So unless the contact is compromised or a prisoner, you’re secure.
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“Navigation ma’am: I’m getting airlock guidance from the stealth.”
“Good. The codes are matched.”
“Bridge, Docking Room here.”
“Go ahead. Aklyan listening.”
“An unknown mini just docked on its own, don’t ask me how. Now it’s asking for permission to access an airlock. Someone wants onboard, ma’am.”
“It’s one of ours, ensign. Grant permission.”
“It’s not giving us any security information, admiral.”
OK, he’s brand new, right out of the inaugural class that just graduated from the also brand new, three-year old KRN Command School on Orestes Orbital Base that replaced the Naval Academy that Rikugun burned down on Katowice. Or he wouldn’t have hesitated at all. He’s going to catch hell from the First Officer when his shift ends, a real long lecture about respect.
“It’s alright, Docking Room. Permission is granted.”
Magda leaves the Bridge early, to greet her distinguished visitor in person. She takes her time to reach the larboard docking module, enjoying a slow walk through her venerable flagship Goliath. There’s no White Sails fleet alongside on this trip; just a single escort, the Genèven destroyer Resolve under Captain Émile Fontaine, her old XO. Golly’s superstructure is old, but it’s reconfigured with every bell and whistle and high tek advantage the Alliance has. She’s very proud of old Golly. Still, before she heads out on a combat mission she’s going to rejig all the stealth detectors. ‘I know this agent is flying a mini we provided, but even so. That was too easy!’
Magda gets to the airlock exactly in time to receive the disembarking agent, arriving who-knows-how from Kestino. She listens to the click of a maglock disengaging, the clang of thin metal doors, and a hissss! rush of the last escaping air, as pressure evens between the outer and inner lock doors. It thrills her each time she hears an airlock open like this, knowing that only a sheet of metal and magnetic seal stand between her and vacuum, between everything she is and all that she might never be. She’s not poetic by nature, but she recognizes poetry in all of Nature. She has also been reading more in private, since the war began.
She sees a flash of raven hair and tan skin through the inner scuttle, and the famous jade eyes she was told to expect. It’s about all she was told, and she has an Alliance clearance level only two below the PM’s! As her VIP guest steps fully onto the deck, Magda audibly gasps. ‘Gods, she’s beautiful! Tall, buxom, yet slender. That face, those eyes! Somewhere between Salome and Helen of Troy, I’ll wager. There’s not a man on this ship whose head won’t snap around hard as she passes by his station. Some of the women will gawp at her, too.”
“Welcome aboard KRN Goliath, Agent Lasalle.”
“Glad to be here admiral.”
“Is that how you wish to be addressed, as Agent?”
“That will do nicely, ma’am.”
‘She has the voice, too. Deep, sultry, seductive, as if her vocal cords are made from the finest spun black silk. And she knows how to use it, saying so little that she leaves you begging for her to say more.’
“Very good. Follow me, Agent. The prime minister is waiting for you in a secure room. It’s not far: two decks down, here on the larboard side of the ship.” They turn at the next corner, and walk briskly down an empty passageway to an empty stairwell. This whole part of the ship is secured and locked down.
‘Who are you, really?’ Magda takes a stab at levity, to break the silence. “If we don’t arrive quickly the PM will fill the whole room with scented smokes.”
“Yes, I heard that he’s quite a smoker.” ‘I heard? I remember it well, from time with him on Helena. Ah well, lying is what I do now for a living.’
Magda’s not wrong. She delivers Lasalle Five into a blue cloud that smells alternately like bourbon, lavender and sandalwood. Briand has clearly had time to smoke more than one pipeful. She hits the compressor button that closes the door to the secure room with a soft hissss! of pressurization then a double click! Before the second click! shuts her out, Magda hears a staccato chatter begin that’s now almost too familiar to her, after a four day trip to the Palette Nebula with the prime minister onboard. ‘The man never stops talking! Probably even to himself.’ The door sound seals and secure locks behind her. She’s totally cut off from the interior of the sealed room, excluded on her own flagship from a meeting of two civilians.
“Thanks, Golly. Now, can you clean the air in there? I could hardly breathe. If it was just the PM laying down a smokescreen I wouldn’t ask, but we don’t want our Very Important Guest to suffocate.” She could swear she hears Golly give a little chuckle, inside a soft release of air and steam. She has had the thought before, that the battleship has a sense of humor. She’s almost certain of it.
***
“At last! Come in, come in! My, my! As beautiful as ever you were! Sit down. Scotch?” Puff, puff.
“Thank you, but no, prime minister.”
“It’s good to see you again, niece.” Puff, puff.
“Careful, prime minister. Remember my basic cover. But yes, it’s good to see you, too, uncle. I like the new scents, by the way. Here’s a little something for you from Kestino. Blue I think it’s called. You mustn’t smoke it openly!”
“How are you doing out there, all alone? I know my sister misses you sorely. May I tell her that you’re doing fine, that you’re well? Every time I speak your name to her, she weeps.” Puff, puff.
“No. You must let mama believe that I’m dead, or I could easily become so in fact. You must never say! It’s for the best, uncle.”
“So intense! Well, you always were. I remember when you were a little girl bouncing on my knee. One time you…”
“There’s no time for reminiscences. And it’s too dangerous, even onboard this ship in this secure room. Besides, I can’t stay more than four hours. I know that you must have many questions. We have little time. Ask them.”
“Pity, but you're right, Agent Lasalle. Is that how I should address you?”
“Yes, prime minister. It’s for the best.”
“Well then, I’ll fire away. No sense wasting time, so I’ll get to the heart of it, right off. What do you make of these coup rumors?” Puff, puff.
“There is truth to them. Some of the top conspirators known to my network are genuinely opposed to the war. Most others just don’t want to lose it.”
“Well, that’s encouraging! Some are actually opposed, you say?”
“Yes, but we can’t count on them in the long term. They’re anti-democratic and anti-republican. They’re not reformers. They’re retrogrades.”
“They’re what?”
“Aristocrats, and hence reactionaries.”
“Ah! I’m familiar with the type. Though our nobility, soi disant, don’t have formal titles.” Puff, puff.
“That makes a difference, sir. I doubt that you can imagine just how much difference a title makes to a man who thinks of little more each day than how his ancestors have borne it for centuries. It’s arrogance light years beyond the worst Helena wealth snob. A millennia of arrogance, in fact.”
“Perhaps I don’t understand. You had better enlighten me.”
“They seek to restore the Old Order, as they put it. They want to push aside all Pyotr’s people, all his Admitted and favorites and appointments. But they also intend to use the opportunity of this war as cover to rid themselves once and for all of the two major threats to the old ways.”
“I think I know them, but tell me anyway.” Puff, puff.
“First, the hasty young men of the Purity movement. I mean the Special Action Commandos and Sakura-kai. They’re a direct threat to the authority of the officer corps, and a fundamental threat to the entitled and established basis of Old Family dominion. They don’t care about titles. If they win, they’ll reorder all Grün society around their spurious, dangerous genetist theories.”
“And the second threat?” Puff, puff.
“The lecherous old men of the Brot
herhood.”
“I thought they were wiped out by the Red Dowager, 25 years ago?”
“Largely, but incompletely. They’ve been working clone vats hard in the Ordensstaadt. There are many more Brethren and vastly more dāsa soldiers in their growing private army than anyone on Kestino suspects, not Pyotr or GGS or SAC. They’re a real threat to retake power, under the right circumstances.”
“What will Onur and his putschists do, Agent Lasalle?”
“They’re going to act sooner rather than be late. Expect a coup any day now.”
“Will it, can they, solve our Pyotr problem? Puff, puff, puff.
“Understand, prime minister: they’ll kill Pyotr and the other Oetkerts. But then they’ll kill tens of millions to stop either faction replacing traditional ways of the Imperium, the Old Order.”
“These are our bleak choices? Fight forever, support back murderers inside the military masquerading as men of honor and decency, or let the Imperium fall to true fanatics of either a pseudoscience or a pseudofaith?”
“I see yet again why you are the prime minister. Not many could summarize the entire strategic situation so quickly or in so few words.’
“Am I right, then?”
“In a nutshell, that’s correct. Yes.”
“Hmmmm. So, which of these foul choices do you favor?” Puff, puff, puff.
“The retrogrades, sir. They are the best of a bad lot of choices. At least there are some men of genuine and high personal honor among them.”
“You just told me that they’re preparing to commit mass murder.”
“With respect, prime minister, aren’t you doing the same?”
“What?” Briand is so surprised he’s caught in mid puff, his pipe smoldering, a abandoned by his mouth to his outstretched hand, which holds it suspended in air. Little blue wisps are rising weakly from the handcarved bowl.
“Come now, prime minister. Aren’t we all murderers these days? These are the times we live in. We do what we must to save our own and survive. What’s a few more murders inside such a Great War?”
“Fighting a justified war is different than committing murder, let alone mass murder!” Puff puff, puff puff. The briar pipe is back between his teeth, not yet comfortable and comforting. Instead, it’s snorting out blue-white clouds exactly like an ancient steam engine struggling up a too steep hill.
