The Kindly Ones

by Melissa Scott

  "Alkres?"

  He turned violently away, but not before I'd seen that he was crying. Not quite knowing what I should do, I held out my arms and said his name again. He turned a scowling, tear-marked face in my direction, then, with a silent wail, flung himself against me. I held him, feeling completely helpless, while his body jerked and shook against me. He made no noise, except for his gasping breaths, and somehow that seemed most pitiful of all. At last the sobs slowed, then stopped altogether, but he clung to me for a moment longer before finally pushing me away.

  "I'm all right," he said.

  I nodded, not daring to say anything, and we walked in silence the rest of the way back to our rooms. Alkres stopped outside his own door, one hand on the latch.

  "I'm all right," he said again. "Thank you, Trey."

  "Are you sure you don't want some company for a bit?" I asked. He shook his head. "No, thank you. I'm fine."

  I wasn't at all sure that I believed him, but I couldn't question him without questioning his precarious adulthood. I nodded instead, and went on into my own room.

  I settled myself in the chair I'd drawn up close to the heating unit, and reached across to turn the dial to a higher setting. The machinery whined faintly, and the coils slowly brightened, but it did nothing for the inner chill. As I'd said to Alkres, I had no idea what we were going to do, and the only alternative to taking him off-world—out of the system—seemed to be to lead an attack on Orestes. The idea of smashing Halfrid Brandr was an appealing one, to say the least. I closed my eyes, remembering the ruin of the Halex Tower, picturing the Brandr Tower reduced to the same pile of smoking rubble. At that moment, there were few things I wanted more, and I brought myself back under control with an effort.

  While it would provide me with a great deal of personal pleasure to kick Halfrid's teeth in, as a mediator, I couldn't sanction an attack on the entire Brandr Kinship. If the Halex were not responsible for their genarch's actions, then neither were the Brandr. . . . But the Brandr had taken an active part in the attack, a voice whispered in the back of my mind. They were the main assault force. You can't really equate the two. A mediator's responsibility is to try to keep the peace, but it's also to see that justice gets done, because in the long run that's the only way peace can be maintained. And that's doubly true in this case. The system—the code—is beginning to fall apart. In fact, it's been failing for some time now: the increasing severity is just one sign that it isn't working the way its supposed to. If you help patch it together this time, you're just setting the stage for an even nastier blow-up later on. In this case, the best thing may be to end it now, and see that something better is built after it.

  It was dangerous reasoning, and I knew it, but I didn't see what else I could do, in good conscience. I was just grateful that a mediator's oath allows a certain flexibility. I pulled myself out of the chair, grimacing as I stepped out of the circle warmed by the wall heater. I wasn't competent to make any of the other decisions that would be necessary, or to assess the risks involved—or, for that matter, to know if an attack was at all practicable—but Leith was. I picked up the light throw that lay across the edge of my bed, and went to find her.

  She opened her door at once to my knock, the worried frown on her face changing to a smile. "Trey. I'd hoped to see you."

  "Is something wrong?" I asked.

  "More than your Council's decision? No."

  "It's not my Council," I said, and stepped inside. Her room was very warm, and I let the throw slip off my shoulders. Guil was nowhere in sight, which, I thought, probably explained the unusual warmth. "Guil's out?"

  "Talking to her friend from the port," Leith answered, and shut the door behind us. "I hope you don't mind."

  I shook my head. "I'm just as glad."

  "Ah." Leith settled herself cross-legged on a square tambour, gloved arm drawn into her lap, and waved for me to seat myself. I chose the armchair, a duplicate of the one in my own room, and waited.

  "I thought you might be," Leith went on. "What can I do for you?"

  I hesitated, suddenly unsure of myself and of my motives, aware, too, that Leith was—had been—a Peacekeeper, and that her training in these things was ten times better than my own. She stared back at me, face inscrutable, and I knew I'd have to speak first.

  "It's about Alkres," I said at last. Leith nodded, but said nothing. I took a deep breath, and tried again. "The Council's decision is utterly unfair, and, I'm convinced, will only lead to more trouble if Halfrid Brandr keeps trying to bully the other genarchs. We've tried all the legal alternatives. We've got a warehouse full of arms: can we do anything with it?"

  "The other genarchs seem perfectly happy to let this Brandr bully them," Leith said. "Why should that change? You'll just get him running the show."

  "I don't think so," I said. "He's—he's a pushing man, I think. He'll just keep pushing, until they can't accept it. And then there'll be real trouble."

  "Things're pretty bad now," Leith murmured, an odd almost-smile on her lips.

  "They could be a lot worse," I retorted, stung. "Think about it, Leith, all the Kinships at feud with each other at once. And there's Asbera Ingvarr to think about—she's under the Brandr gun right now, and there's nobody to support her."

  Leith grimaced. "I'm sorry, Trey, I'm just playing devil's advocate, I don't know why." She sighed. "I agree, I don't see what else you can do, except take the kid out-system."

  "He wouldn't go," I said.

  "I didn't think so," Leith agreed. "So what exactly are you asking me?"

  "Two things." I held up two fingers, ticking off each point as I made it. "First, can we do anything effective with the materials at hand, and, second, will you help us?"

  "Help how?" Leith demanded.

  I stared, a little annoyed by her insistence on the strict routine. "In lieu of a more experienced commander, will you take command?" The moment the words were out of my mouth, I could see the problems that would cause. She was an off-worlder; to give her command of the attack force would only exacerbate the Halex problem. Then again, that was what we were fighting to overcome. More important, I doubted the Brandr had anyone who could match her.

  "Do you have the kid's permission to make that offer?" Leith asked. She was grinning again, though for the life of me, I couldn't think why.

  "No, not yet, but I think he'd give it."

  Leith shook her head, the smile fading. "To answer the second question first: one, I was a drone-squad captain, not infantry. I only know theory, not practice. Two, I'd think my running the show would cause you more trouble than it's worth."

  "Maybe," I said, "maybe not. I think it'd be worth the risk, but we can decide that later. What about my first question?"

  Leith was silent for a long time. "Yes," she said at last, very quietly, "there's something we could do with the resources available—something that should be extremely effective—but you're not going to like it."

  When she didn't continue, I raised my eyebrows. "Well?"

  "The Brandr hold Destiny, right? We attack Madelgar."

  I didn't say anything for a moment, and Leith hurried on. "Look, I know there'll be problems with their code, but think about it as a strategic problem for a minute. Most of their troops must be concentrated in Destiny—or elsewhere in the Halex Mandate—leaving Madelgar virtually undefended. If we take their capital in a coup de main, they're forestalled from using a threat to Destiny to stop us from doing anything." She paused, frowning. "It'd have to be a two-pronged attack, of course—a small force leaving from here with the heavy arms to rendezvous with, say, troops from this Ingvarr woman's territory, and anybody else who doesn't like what's going on." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I bet we could get some troops here—Signe should help."

  I couldn't sit still any longer. I rose and crossed to the tiny window, resting my hand against the cold metal of its frame. Outside, the now-cloudless sky was red and gold, charged with the deceptive light of Sunset. The snow-covered
surface of the Closed Sea seemed to glow with a blue light of its own. Agamemnon and Orestes were out of sight overhead. I stared until my breath misted on the cold glass. Leith's proposal was appealing—more than that, I thought it would work. The code wouldn't matter: if the Brandr attack on the Halex Tower was legitimate, then so was any Halex retaliation.

  "The problem," I said aloud, "will be getting other troops to rendezvous with us. How can we let the rest of the Halex know what's being planned, without compromising the plot?"

  Leith smiled. "I think it can be done. We've got enough committed Halex waiting in Glittermark; let a few of them go back to Orestes, carrying the word. Guil's friend down on the switchboard should be able to set up secure communications."

  It all made sense. I broached the idea to Alkres the next morning, and we put it before Landret and Signe at dinner. Patriarch and Heir made only token protests before agreeing, and Signe, in her capacity as Portreeve, offered us the use of ships from the Kinship's commercial fleet. Galar, informed of the plan, offered to recruit troops: there were plenty of Electrans who objected to the Council's decision.

  Over the next few days, we brought the most reliable of the refugees in Glittermark into the plan, and found three who agreed to return to Orestes to recruit support among the dissatisfied members of the Kinship. All three thought they could promise a sizable response, and their first reports, made over the private circuit set up by Guil's friend within twenty-four hours of landing, proved that, if anything, they'd underestimated the response. A fourth refugee, a para'an of Ingvarr, volunteered to contact Asbera, and, once again, the response was better than we'd anticipated. Asbera herself was more than willing, and the Branch volunteered almost to a man.

  Our only failure came in trying to reach the groups of ghosts and para'anin still holed up in the Necropolis. Our first messenger failed to make contact with us; the second was unable even to enter the closed Necropolis, turned back by Brandr guards on all three attempts. She reported this from the lngvarr Hold, where she'd taken refuge, and we decided to leave things as they were. Destiny and its Necropolis would find out soon enough what we were planning. We could rely on them—I could rely on Rehur—to act appropriately.

  Leith assumed the direction of the attack, and, somewhat to my surprise, no one either protested or asked for a clarification of the situation. Guil consulted with the port computers, and came up with a course through the rings. It would be a long flight, almost seventy hours, but if we moved quickly enough, we could reach Orestes during the Eclipse. More rapidly than anyone had expected, the pieces of the plan came together, and on the fifth day of the new month, we sent the final signal to our contacts waiting on Orestes. We would land at Madelgar at noon on the tenth day—a time and place known only to our contacts—and rendezvous with Asbera and her troops then. Six hours before midnight of the eighth day, we lifted for Orestes.

  Chapter 12

  Guil ex-Tam'ne

  The last of the tugs lifted to orbit, a flare of white light on the long-range screen, and Guil checked her coordinates for the tenth time, fitting her own ship into its slot in the line. She was third, behind two class-four freighters, and had been telling herself for days that she was just as glad to trade the prestige of leading the attack for the relief of flying the smaller, more maneuverable Virago. Moraghan was on the lead freighter, of course, with Maturin and the boy patriarch, though Glittermark's senior pilot would be doing most of the work. Briefly, Guil envied the other pilot—envied him the chance to see Moraghan fly, something she herself had never seen—but pushed the thought away as chimes sounded along the board.

  "Toshiba's in line," the copilot reported, unnecessarily. He was a para'an of Rhawn, half of a brother-and-sister piloting team that Guil knew only by reputation.

  "Thanks, Corrie," she said, and turned her attention to the main sensor screen. The image was split, the biggest window showing the enhanced picture from the forward cameras—steering jets flared along the second freighter's side even as she watched, edging its stubby wing in blue flame—the two smaller windows displaying schematics. The left-hand window was just the alignment display, the pale red cross lined up neatly on the freighter's sternbox. The right-hand window showed the radar view of the entire formation, six ships spread out in a ragged line, the curve of the moon just visible beneath them. At the top of the screen, the radar was just picking out the first echoes of the rings. It wasn't much of a formation, Guil thought, at least not compared to the great armadas that had set out to conquer other worlds in the Conglomerate. Six ships, the two biggest a pair of freighters that weren't even rated for interstellar travel, the rest a scattering of tugs and transports that were too small to carry more than a hundred people among them—too small even to carry weapons as well as passengers. . . . It was still the biggest fleet that the Oresteian system had ever seen, and Guil felt a half-guilty excitement at being a part of it.

  "From Andrasteia, " Corrie announced. "It's the go-ahead."

  Andrasteia was the lead freighter, Leith's ship—Leith's flagship. Guil nodded, momentarily afraid to speak for fear she'd betray her leaping pleasure. She swallowed hard, and said, "I'm unlocking the board."

  "I observe you," Corrie said, formally. Then some movement near the rear of the control cabin caught his eye, and he turned, frowning. "I thought you were going to get some sleep, Costa. You need to be fresh for the rings."

  The third pilot flushed guiltily. "I couldn't sleep," she said. "I wanted to watch."

  "There's not that much to see," Guil said, and smiled, recognizing an echo of her own excitement. "Have a seat, if you want."

  "Thanks." Costa hooked an arm through the strap bolted to the rear bulkhead, and swung there, floating comfortably in the lack of gravity.

  Guil turned back to her console, giving the control layout one last glance. It was a standard Conglomerate small-ships board, of Urban manufacture, familiar from years of working out of Destiny port. She reached for her tape case, pulling it free of the couch arm, and stuck it to the edge of the board. "I'm unlocking the board," she said again, and reached overhead to flip the master switch.

  "I observe you," Corrie said again.

  Guil nodded absently, and unlatched the thin case, pulling out the first tape. It wasn't really a tape, of course—the name had outlasted the original technology by centuries—but a paint-sized square of apparently solid plastic, its edge serrated in a complicated pattern.

  "Starting main navigation loading sequence." Guil flipped the series of switches, watching the lights fade from blue to orange to green. One light, set beneath a data port, blinked insistently, and she slipped the first tape into the slot. The navigator's workscreen flashed once, and went dark again, a cursor now blinking in its lower corner. After a moment, the cursor vanished, to reappear in the correct position at the upper left corner of the screen.

  "Main loading sequence completed and confirmed," Corrie said. He touched a set of keys on his own board, and nodded at the results. "And double-checked."

  "All right," Guil said, and pressed a red button set well away from the rest of her keyboard. A two-toned chime sounded, and the computer's flat voice intoned, "Warning. Input will override current data. Warning."

  Guil ignored the voice, and pulled out the second data tape. She held it up, letting Corrie see the lettering on its label, and the other pilot nodded. Satisfied, Guil slipped it into the feeder port, and keyed the sequence. There was a soft whine, barely audible over the whistling of the air vents. After perhaps a minute, the tape popped back out of the port, and the screen flashed the words, "Primary data transfer complete."

  Guil slid the second tape back into the case, and pulled out a third, this one bright blue. Again, she held it up so that Corrie could double-check the label—this was the most recent set of ring observations—before slipping it into the feeder port. The workscreen went blank again, and the familiar whine signaled data transfer. Then it stopped, the cursor reappeared at the top of the works
creen, and the tape was ejected. Guil removed it, and replaced it with the fourth and final tape, the beacon codes that allowed the computer to interpret the ring charts contained on the previous tapes. She reached for the black tape that was her personal log, and stopped abruptly. There were no other tapes in the slots above the logboard.

  Corrie saw the direction of her gaze, and made a face. "I know. It's hard to decide if you really want this flight on your union record, isn't it?" His voice changed, became formal again. "I confirm full check-in procedure. Test sequence?"

  "I'm beginning the test sequence," Guil acknowledged, and pressed the button beneath the workscreen. The screen changed color—another safety device—and a tiny tape port, less than half the size of the main tape ports, slid open. Guil plugged in the five-centimeter test tape, saying, "I gather the two of you decided against it?" She nodded toward the logboard.

  Corrie looked embarrassed. Costa said, from her place on the bulkhead, "Actually, we thought we'd talk it over with you, first."

  "Oh." Guil typed in the phrase that switched her keyboard to the workscreen, and keyed in the first call-up codes, buying time. Did she really want this on her union record, especially when the personal logs couldn't be erased or modified? At least not easily, she corrected herself, and certainly not for a price she could manage. But that was only if they lost. If they won. . . . She smiled to herself, watching letters and numbers spraying across her screen. If they won, there would be hundreds of pilots trying to claim that they had flown in the invasion fleet; she would want the log tape to prove her claim. "I'll log it," she said, as much to herself as to the other pilots, and leaned across to slip the tape into the first-pilot's slot before she could change her mind. The cover slid closed across the port, locking it in place for the duration of the journey.

  Corrie glanced over his shoulder at his sister. "Well?"

  "I say we do it," Costa answered.