Revenant Gun

by Yoon Ha Lee

  “Jedao,” the woman said in a low purr, and suggested something the actor could do with his—

  Jedao couldn’t help it. He turned off the episode just as the two actors entangled themselves with each other, then bent over laughing until he was out of breath. “I only I wish I were that good-looking,” he said to the air once he was able to stop. Was it vain, perverse, or merely mortifying to be attracted to the actor playing you?

  So much for Labyrinth of Foxes. Maybe he’d have better luck with the historical documents after all. “Do you have records of Hellspin Fortress?” he asked the grid.

  Jedao’s eye was caught by one of the top results, a video of the massacre’s first moments in the command center of the fangmoth One Card Too Lucky. “Play that one,” he said recklessly, and sat down to watch.

  The moth’s combat record started innocuously enough. He didn’t recognize any of the Kel visible in the command center, but he studied himself in dread and fascination. I look older, he thought inanely. The rational part of his brain pointed out that it was the same face, age and all, that looked back at him from the mirror. Yet the Jedao in the video did look older. It was in his sharp eyes; it was in the way he leaned back in his chair, that air of utter assurance. Jedao was sure he didn’t appear that way to his Kel. Or if he did, he didn’t feel like it inside.

  Two of the Kel were talking to each other about a logistical matter. Without any warning, without so much as a flicker in his expression, Jedao-then whipped out his gun and fired twice. Two bullets, two kills. Blood and a leakage of brains.

  “Stop,” Jedao hissed. When had he gotten up? His hand was opening and closing uselessly. He’d reached for the sidearm he didn’t have.

  He was the only officer in Kujen’s swarm who didn’t have a gun, and he’d never noticed before.

  He had started toward the video as if he could stop himself, or wind back time to take the bullets for the hapless Kel soldiers. The video had paused obligingly on a frame of one in the midst of falling.

  Jedao walked into the next room. Asked the grid to image him something pretty for meditation. It provided him with a tidy garden with petals falling artistically off the flower-laden trees only to vanish before they hit the floor. He watched the evanescent petals for twelve minutes.

  Then he walked back to the video. The Kel hadn’t come back to life. He thought to ask who it was. Not like he had any idea. The grid informed him that this first victim was Colonel Kel Gized, General Shuos Jedao’s chief of staff.

  “Kel Gized,” Jedao said out loud. The name meant nothing. He didn’t know who she was. He stared at the round face with the bloody dark hole dead center in her forehead, the gray hair, mussed in the fall. How could he remember nothing about someone he’d murdered in cold blood?

  What kind of man am I?

  It had been one thing for Kujen and Dhanneth to tell him that he was a mass murderer. It was quite another to see himself committing one of the murders.

  “Keep going,” Jedao said at last, because he owed it to the fallen woman. What he wanted to do was run to the toilet and throw up, except even his nausea was abstract, as though it belonged to someone far in the distance. How many dead bodies have I seen?

  Even through his revulsion, Jedao was impressed by his older self. He hadn’t known real people could be that good with firearms. No fancy choreographed scenes, just messy, businesslike killing. He tried to keep count of the victims, measuring his monstrosity, but the numbers flew out of his head like burning birds.

  At last he reached the part where Jedao-then shot several Nirai technicians in the back when they tried to run. He couldn’t take it any more. “Stop,” he said hoarsely. “Make it stop.”

  The grid blanked the slate. It couldn’t do anything for the images in his head.

  Jedao waited until his breathing had slowed. Then he said, in a spirit of self-flagellation, “I want to see my execution.” He wasn’t sure he deserved to feel better, exactly, but it seemed fitting.

  The grid could only provide him with one record. For some reason they hadn’t given him a public execution. His death had been overseen by two people. One was a Nirai seconded to the Kel. He had wavy hair and was unusually pretty, but given his lack of rank insignia, Jedao assumed he was just a technician, no one important. The syringe in his hand was full.

  The other was a thin, gray-haired woman with sad eyes, a Kel high general in full formal. She was contemplating the older Jedao, who was in an open black casket under sedation lock. The general looked as though he was sleeping, except for the terrible residual tension around his eyes. The high general stroked his hand gently and murmured something.

  Jedao wanted to smash her face in. Didn’t she know what he had done to his Kel? How could she have any sympathy for him?

  The video stopped there. Which was fine, because Jedao couldn’t endure any more of the Kel general’s misdirected sentiment. He looked down and found that his hands were clenched. His palms hurt where his fingernails had been digging into them.

  Now he understood why the Kel disliked him so, and he still didn’t remember any of it. But he didn’t think it was a hoax, either. He couldn’t undo any of the past. All he could do was act honorably moving forward, knowing all the while that no penance would suffice.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Present day

  BREZAN WAS DUE to meet his opposite number in one hour, give or take a few minutes depending on whose calendar dominated. All he could think about was how the three tiered necklaces he was wearing weighted his neck down like nooses. According to his protocol adviser, the heraldry carved into each cabochon pendant—Ashhawk Skyward Falling, Ashhawk Vigilant, and Ashhawk in Glory, to be precise—would reassure all right-thinking Kel, including his expected guest, of his trustworthiness.

  Brezan’s objection to this had been threefold. First, as the most notorious living crashhawk, unless you counted Cheris, no amount of jewelry, however ponderous, would change people’s perception of him. Second, it wasn’t as if anyone could discern the specific ashhawk symbols except by grabbing his neck and peering real closely at each cabochon. While Brezan had been a staffer and not infantry Kel, his default reaction to people getting handsy was still, “Fuck you, how do you enjoy getting hit?” Third, he doubted that Protector-General Kel Inesser cared about trifling bits of personal ornamentation.

  Everything about the room they’d installed him in made him itch. After nine years, you’d think he’d have gotten accustomed to pointless luxuries, even on a starbase the size of Isteia Prime. Intellectually, he accepted that his job as head of state was standing around looking impressive while the elected premier did the real work. “You’re the glue holding our Kel together,” was how Mikodez had put it. Brezan had bitten back his retorts on the grounds that it was impossible to offend a man known for backstabbing the other hexarchs. But the heavy glittering tapestries and amber-paned lanterns and ashhawk sculptures made him itch. He would have happily sold the lot in exchange for some dimly lit office in someone else’s command.

  Mikodez had offered to handle the negotiations for him. Brezan wasn’t so proud that he couldn’t admit that the Shuos hexarch was vastly more experienced, not to say ruthless, at this sort of thing. However, Inesser flat-out refused to talk to Mikodez. By now Brezan’s alliance with the Shuos was no secret. The more practical of his Kel accepted that, without Shuos aid, coordinating their military would have been an impossible task. But a great many people remained suspicious of Mikodez. He’d already been notorious after assassinating two of his own cadets years back; assassinating the hexarchs had only cemented his reputation. It worked against them as often as it worked for them.

  “Sir,” said the protocol advisor, Oya Fiamonor, her voice neutral, “you’re picking at your nails again. Through your gloves. Don’t do that.”

  “At least I’m not picking my nose,” Brezan retorted.

  “Don’t do that either.”

  Brezan stifled a sigh. Mikodez had convinced
him that an Andan-trained aide was a brilliant idea. The Compact didn’t have so many Kel that they could dedicate one to protocol. And if Fiamonor excelled at anything, it was protocol. She also made Brezan feel like a fidgety six-year-old.

  For nine years Protector-General Inesser had refused all diplomatic contact with the Compact. And now she wanted to meet. Brezan had misgivings, but Premier Dzuro had wanted him to go, so here he was.

  “Because I’m expendable?” Brezan had said the last time he saw her.

  Dzuro had patted his arm. Brezan hated that, but by now he was better at controlling his reactions. “You’re better at reading body language. When you’re not picking fights with people. Find out what Inesser is up to.”

  Isteia System was the subject of dispute between his Compact and Inesser’s Protectorate. Brezan hated thinking of the Compact as “his.” He’d merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. In particular, he’d never wanted a career in politics. General Khiruev and General Ragath handled military affairs. And Cheris was still missing, which was too bad, because he would have liked to shove “Jedao” in Inesser’s face.

  Protector-General Inesser had made a great concession in agreeing to meet in Compact territory. Brezan suspected her of being up to something devious, but what? Even Mikodez, who specialized in being up to devious things, had approved the location. But then, Mikodez would back anything that promised an afternoon’s divertissement, no matter how much it annoyed everyone else. At least Brezan didn’t fear that Inesser would assassinate him. (He did wonder about Mikodez, but face it, if Mikodez decided to off him, he was fucked anyway.) Inesser cared so much about her reputation as the universe’s most honest Kel that if anyone threatened him, she’d eliminate the attacker herself.

  The grid alerted him of a call from Operations, which Brezan accepted while he was adjusting his black gloves for the dozenth time: “The forward defense swarm has reported a sighting of 219 bannermoths and one cindermoth traveling in formation River Snake.”

  Brezan recognized the voice. It belonged to Nirai Hanzo, a man who liked to improvise jewelry from cast-off mothdrive components. He had given Brezan a surprisingly handsome bracelet “in case you ever want to impress someone.” More likely Hanzo was hoping Brezan would show it around and serve as free advertisement. The smart thing would have been to pass it off to one of the courtesans he visited from time to time. Instead, Brezan occasionally caught himself wondering if Tseya would have liked it—but the chances that he would ever see Tseya again were close to zero.

  “Let me guess,” Brezan said. “The cindermoth is the Three Kestrels Three Suns.”

  “Just so.”

  In all the hexarchate’s history, Kel Command had only honored a single general by naming a warmoth—a cindermoth, even—after her personal emblem. That general was Inesser. As if he didn’t have enough of an inadequacy complex already. Mikodez had offered to name one of his shadowmoths anything Brezan pleased as a sort of consolation prize, which Brezan had turned down. He didn’t even have an emblem, although both Mikodez and Fiamonor had pushed him to select one. He’d been obdurate on that point, though. Instead of a personal emblem, he used the Compact’s Bell and Scroll. Premier Dzuro had approved, and while she wasn’t right about everything, she was right about this.

  “I hope no one’s planning on assassinating Inesser,” Brezan muttered. He grabbed a slate from the mostly decorative desk—even its drawers were fake, for love of fire and ash, who did that?—and looked up the number of Lexicon Primary formations a swarm of 220 warmoths could instantiate. Not that the list meant anything to him beyond bad news.

  He did know that Inesser’s choice of River Snake was a taunt. The formation provided no defensive benefits. I trust you won’t do anything stupid was what it meant. As for the size of the swarm—well. He was Kel enough to know about taking succor in numbers. The Kel never traveled alone if they could help it.

  Fiamonor’s expression was grave. “It would be indecorous to assassinate the general after having invited her all this way,” she said.

  Sometimes Brezan couldn’t tell when Fiamonor was pulling his leg. Not worth picking a fight over, though. Sometimes he managed to hold onto his temper.

  “Three Kestrels Three Suns requesting permission to dock,” Hanzo said a little while later.

  “I hate you,” Brezan said.

  “... sir?”

  “Not you,” Brezan said. “Her.” But he would smile, and talk to her like a responsible adult, because being a responsible adult was his new job. Funny how he still thought of it as “new” even after nine years.

  The hexarchate—the old hexarchate, before Brezan had helped break it into fragments for foreign powers to chew on—had possessed six cindermoths, its largest and most powerful warmoths. One, the Unspoken Law, had perished retaking the Fortress of Scattered Needles during the Hafn invasion. Another, the Hierarchy of Feasts, General Khiruev’s former command moth, had fallen in a hotly contested defensive action several years back. They’d lost good people in that battle.

  To Brezan’s aggravation, and Khiruev and Ragath’s everlasting worry, the Protectorate controlled the four surviving cindermoths. He couldn’t even blame Inesser for bringing one of them—and the one named after her emblem, at that—to the parley. It made a spectacular statement.

  “Sir, they’re repeating the request.”

  Brezan bared his teeth. “Let them dock,” he said.

  While they waited for security to clear their guests, Fiamonor adjusted Brezan’s collar. Brezan endured her brisk touch. The room had plenty of mirrors. He couldn’t see anything wrong with his collar, but maybe Fiamonor got nervous too.

  Security called to inform him that General Inesser and her entourage had passed inspection. Of course they had. Brezan had given explicit instructions that she and her own guard be allowed to keep any sidearms. Fire forbid that Kel be separated from their damn guns. For his part, Brezan lived with the prickling knowledge that you could have all the firepower you wanted and it didn’t matter if you were the worse shot. He hardly went to the firing range anymore on the grounds that Security could hit targets better than he could and he might as well attend to whatever paperwork the premier flung his way.

  By the time the doors whisked open, Brezan had resorted to meditation to calm himself. He hated meditation, but the breathing exercises helped. The ordeal wouldn’t be over quickly. They’d meet and exchange pleasantries for the first hour—if he was lucky. (He’d learned.) They’d dance around the topic while Inesser tested him for weaknesses. Only after she’d satisfied herself as to fruitful avenues of approach would she open negotiations. Luckily, he’d also spent the last several years sparring with Mikodez. He had a chance.

  All his preparations winged out of his mind the moment he saw the two women Inesser had brought with her.

  His gaze went first to the taller of the two, who was swathed in layers of blue gradients. Silk blouse over an asymmetrical silk wraparound skirt. A paler blue lace shawl and a scarf to match, both glittering with star sapphires and blue diamonds whose hearts shone like cracked ice. A blue-and-silver comb adorned with yet more gems held her upswept hair in place. Even her hair was a black so dark that its highlights sheened blue. Only her eyes weren’t blue.

  The last time he’d seen her, they had said a stiff, formal farewell before she retreated to an Andan-dominated colony. She’d claimed to have forgiven him for betraying her, but he wondered. Andan Tseya, as beautiful as ever: a daughter of the assassinated Andan hexarch, and once his lover.

  Tseya regarded him with her lips quirked upward, seemingly calm. A hundred hundred questions choked and died in Brezan’s throat, because the other woman was his sister, Colonel Kel Miuzan.

  Brezan hadn’t talked to anyone in his family since that last disastrous chat with Miuzan. But sometimes, in a rare free moment, he took out a video that his middle father had taken of Miuzan giving him a “dueling lesson.” The part that hurt his heart wasn’t the dueling�
�he was used to Miuzan walloping him—but his other two sisters in the background, quarreling amiably over who had eaten more riceballs.

  Miuzan had changed little in the intervening years. Her uniform was in full formal. Even her hairstyle was the same, a regulation crown of braids pinned back severely from her face.

  He almost blurted her name out. But her chin was up, and the absolute hostile opacity of her dark eyes told him that she hadn’t come along because she wanted to wish him well. When all was said and done, they were still on opposite sides.

  Then there was Inesser herself. Inesser’s ivory-fine skin belied her age except the telltale small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but then, most people chose to look younger than they were. Her uniform was also in full formal, and no more elaborate than Miuzan’s, except the general’s wings at her breast where Miuzan had a colonel’s star. Inesser’s one concession to personal vanity was her hair, dyed Andan blue at the tips in homage to a beloved Andan great-grandmother. Brezan didn’t care about the hair so much as the fact that she was smiling at him with the kind of delight usually reserved for slow-moving prey.

  “Welcome to Isteia Prime, General,” Brezan said, focusing on Inesser’s face. He had a duty as host. Besides, it saved him from the awkwardness of acknowledging that he had his ex-lover and his angry sister in the same room with him. “Might I offer you refreshments?”

  Fiamonor hoveringly indicated the range of snacks available, from standard high table fare to the delicacies they’d been able to scrape up. Brezan had mortified the kitchens by offering to help cook. He still regretted that he’d been too busy reviewing security precautions with Emio to kibitz, especially since he wanted to know how they had contrived that fancy coulis for the taro cake. Some of Brezan’s staff had a bet going as to whether Inesser would touch the spiced pickles. Brezan’s personal rule was to avoid betting, especially with staff, but honestly, why would anyone eat what they ate every day during a parley?