Raven Stratagem

by Yoon Ha Lee

  Sfenni reached into a drawer. Brezan tensed, but all Sfenni did was retrieve a pill dispenser and dry-swallow one of the bright green capsules. “All right, look,” Sfenni said after a painful-sounding coughing fit. “Can we level with each other, Colonel? You’re in holding on Minner Station”—Where? Brezan wondered—“and this is the most boring place in the march, for all that it’s become very exciting lately. The thing is, some of us appreciate boredom.”

  Brezan knew where this was heading.

  “So here’s the thing, Colonel. I understand that you hit the ceiling of your career”—Brezan bristled, but Sfenni didn’t pause—“and you’d like to be seconded to the Shuos or retire to some nice planetary city and dabble in energy market intelligence or whatever the fuck. But Shuos Zehun is known for being unforgiving when people waste their time. Things around here could get very uncomfortable, and some of us like our comforts.”

  If Sfenni said ‘some of us’ with that particular greasy inflection again, Brezan was going to throttle him. “I don’t care about your philosophy of life,” he said, and Sfenni’s eyes became moistly reproachful. “Would you get to the fucking point already?”

  “Well,” Sfenni said, “inconveniences are inconveniences, you know.”

  Then, to Brezan’s massive irritation (that note in his profile about anger management was never going away at this rate, but this one time surely he was justified?), Sfenni got up and trundled over to a decorous cloudwood-or-next-best-thing cabinet. “What’s your poison?” he said.

  Oh, for—Brezan bit down on what he’d been about to say. Sure, he shouldn’t be randomly getting drunk, but if it got this loser to get him to that fucking terminal, why not. It couldn’t make the inside of his mouth taste any worse than it did anyway. “Peach brandy,” he said. He despised peach brandy, but it was the most expensive drink he could see from where he was sitting.

  Sfenni pulled out a decanter, then two snifters. “Sorry, my collection of brandies is atrocious,” he said, as if Brezan cared, “but my supply has dried up of late.” With fussy courtesy, he poured for them both.

  Brezan took the tiniest sip that could still be construed as polite and forced himself to smile. Overpriced brandy or not, he couldn’t tell, and anyway it didn’t matter. He needed this despicable man. Sfenni would come to the point in his own time.

  “I’m not an unpatriotic citizen,” Sfenni said. It had been so long since Brezan had heard ‘unpatriotic’ without an expletive attached to it (or ‘patriotic,’ for that matter) that he almost burst into laughter, and he only just caught himself in time. “But the administration of Minner facilities requires more funding than we’re usually able to wheedle out of regional headquarters.” He let the statement hang there.

  ‘Administration of Minner facilities,’ his ass. More like every ill-gotten mark that Sfenni received in bribes went into cultivating that garden of books. Brezan didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or lunge across the desk. Kel Command wouldn’t care that much about a transgression like bribery, under the circumstances, especially if he reported it before they uncovered it independently. And especially if he had a good excuse, which he did. Brezan cared fuck-all about Shuos opinions on the matter. But Brezan did very much care about having to compromise his principles like this, even when the need was so great.

  Get over yourself, Brezan told himself. No one cares about your petty irrelevant scruples.

  But sometimes—sometimes he wished someone did.

  In the meantime, his higher duty had not changed.

  “Since we’re being so delightfully candid,” Brezan said, “I have funds, yes.” Unlike General Khiruev, he didn’t go on leave and shop for staggeringly overpriced antique trinkets. Brezan’s vices were simpler and less expensive: alcohol (just not peach brandy), the obligatory spot of dueling, and the occasional cooking class, because sometimes the best way to understand people was through their food. All this meant that he was reasonably well-off.

  “Then an accommodation is possible—?” Sfenni said.

  “I know how to make a transfer,” Brezan said. “I don’t know how to keep the transaction from being traced.” Not completely true. He’d learned odd tricks from the people he talked to. He just thought those tricks wouldn’t fool a full-on audit.

  “I can instruct you,” Sfenni said. “But an honest man like myself—”

  At the end of this whole unreal interlude, Brezan was either going to emerge as the hexarchate’s best actor, or he was going to spontaneously self-combust.

  “—needs to take precautions.” Sfenni’s eyes crinkled suddenly. “And in case you’re thinking that an honest Kel would rather take precautions of his own, I assure you that this will go more smoothly if we come to our agreement peaceably.”

  “I wouldn’t have imagined otherwise,” Brezan said.

  Sfenni passed a tablet to him. He named a sum.

  Brezan didn’t bother to hide his contempt. “Fine.”

  As promised, Sfenni’s instructions were easy to follow. Brezan made note of the fancy accounting tricks. They weren’t far off what he’d already known.

  “Excellent,” Sfenni said. “We’ll get you settled while that goes through. For our mutual protection, you understand. Do you want me to have more brandy sent up to you while you wait?”

  Tempting to make Sfenni waste the stuff, but... “That won’t be necessary,” Brezan said as diplomatically as he could manage. His parents would have been proud of him.

  Sfenni tapped out a summons on his terminal. After an agonizing wait, the tasseled woman appeared again. “Hi there,” she said with no sign of diminished cheer. “What do you have for me now, Sfenni?”

  “Take our guest somewhere comfortable to wait,” Sfenni said. “Make sure he’s fed, hydrated, the usual. I absolutely must deal with that damnable Vidona envoy now.”

  “Sure thing,” the woman said, and dimpled at Brezan.

  Fuck, he hoped she wasn’t flirting with him. Not because she didn’t attract him, but because she did, and right now he desperately needed fewer distractions in his life. Thankfully, the woman left it at that.

  They took the lift again, to an entirely different level. To distract himself from his misgivings, he cataloged the decor. Whoever had decorated this level liked monochromatic paintings of ice planets bordered by dizzying fractal swirls. Nice work: Brezan wasn’t artistic himself, but his youngest father was a children’s illustrator with a chronic inability to look at artwork without vivisecting it.

  By the time they arrived at the waiting room, it had already been set up with a tray of little dishes, everything from a bowl of noodles topped with half a boiled egg to platters of sliced fruit. Even a shelf of books that Brezan had no intention of touching. The room was overwhelmingly blue-and-cream, so soothing that Brezan’s shoulder blades itched.

  “And that’s that,” the woman said. “Anything I can provide to make this less aggravating?” She dimpled again, hopefully.

  Tempting, but—“No, I’m fine,” Brezan said. His dilemma wasn’t her fault.

  “All right, then. I’ll fetch you later.”

  Brezan had just enough time to sag into a damnably comfortable chair and wonder what it would be like to go through life so blithely. Then, appallingly, he fell asleep. He woke up an indeterminate amount of time later with a horrible crick in his neck. The remnants of the peach brandy tasted foul, although he had scarcely touched it. And the tasseled woman was nowhere in sight.

  Deliberately, Brezan hauled himself up, stalked over to the wall, and began writing on it with his finger:

  FOXES ARE COMPLETELY TRUSTWORTHY

  over and over again, like a children’s writing lesson. Could handwriting be sarcastic?

  The waiting room opened into a compact but complete bathroom. He knew what this implied about how long they planned to stash him here. He demanded to talk to someone in charge. This didn’t work, but he hadn’t expected it to.

  Resigned, he ate the food. Pure military prac
ticality. Besides, that milk-and-carrot pudding was tasty. He’d have to try to duplicate it if he ever got out of here, which was looking increasingly unlikely.

  More waiting. More food trays, always deposited through a slit that looked like it would guillotine his hands if he put one in. More sleeping in chairs, in spite of his resolution to do better. His sergeant back in academy would have been ashamed of him. The next time he saw General Khiruev, he swore he would apologize for ever thinking of watch repair as a frivolous hobby and ask for engineering lessons.

  Finally, scant moments before he tried ramming the door with his shoulder, the kind of stupid stunt even a Kel would only do in a Kel joke when trapped in a Shuos building, the tasseled woman showed up.

  “There you are,” she said, as if she hadn’t been the one to deposit him here. “Let’s go!”

  She might have made small talk on the way to Sfenni’s office. Brezan responded with distracted grunts. Still, he envied her the ability to be unoffended by his terrible manners.

  “Sfenni,” the woman said once they’d made it to the office with its menagerie of books. “Here he is. Enjoy!”

  Her teasing voice would have made Brezan smile grudgingly at her on another day, but not today.

  “There’s been a complication,” Sfenni said as soon as the door shut behind Brezan.

  Brezan’s heart sank. Sfenni wanted another bribe, the wormfucker. Which could be managed. That wasn’t an issue in itself, since at this rate he was going to die of exasperation before retirement became pressing. But what guarantee did he have that Sfenni wouldn’t string this out until Brezan was broke, and all without ever delivering the promised terminal access?

  FOXES ARE COMPLETELY TRUSTWORTHY, indeed.

  “It’s your turn to listen,” Brezan said coldly, without bothering to sit, no matter how much his legs would have appreciated it. Out of habit, he stuck to the polite forms of verbs, and the more-or-less polite pronouns. “I bet you know to the hundredth how much I have left in my primary account, and my obligatory health and retirement accounts, and my independent investments, and everybloodything else. Just clean it all out and buy yourself a few libraries, or hell, hire yourself a planet of bookbinders. I need to get that warning out. Name your price. The real one this time.”

  Sfenni didn’t blink at this outburst. But then, who knew how many just like it he had weathered? Instead, matter-of-fact, he slid his tablet across the desk. “I know you hawks are used to the big, wallopingly fancy terminals that look like ancient shrines from back when people sacrificed chickens to fox spirits,” he said, “but this is a Shuos model, and it is secured.”

  The hexarchate’s six-spoked wheel with its faction emblems sheened gold-silver-bronze against the black of the tablet’s display. Sfenni said, “I’ll leave the room so you can make your call. You’ll be monitored in the sense that alarms will go off if you try to set anything on fire—which I don’t recommend, by the way, I’m positive some of that paper is made of weird toxic shit—but otherwise you’ll be left alone. Believe me, don’t believe me, it’s all one to me.”

  “Then what do you mean, ‘complication’?” Brezan said, because he couldn’t let well enough alone. What he should have done was snatch up the tablet, although admittedly he expected it to be rigged to zap him. Shuos Sfenni, collector of bribes, gardener of books. What had changed? “I don’t understand.”

  “We received word that the Swanknot swarm had been subverted about a month ago,” Sfenni said. “You’ve been out of it for a few weeks.”

  Brezan hissed in despair.

  “We only found out about your outlandish claim to be a personal agent of Shuos Zehun’s because an analyst was double-checking the usual torrent of nonsense messages to find something especially funny to tell their teammates about. Your story was sufficiently odd that we looked into the matter. We figured we’d better evaluate your motives before dumping you back on the Kel, because it was clear that you’d had some kind of breakdown. Let’s not kid ourselves, Kel Medical’s solution to broken birds is usually to throw them in the stewpot.”

  “And—?” Brezan said, flabbergasted.

  “Let me guess,” Sfenni said. “You couldn’t get anyone to believe a crashhawk”—Brezan didn’t bother correcting him—”so you played up a glancing connection to Shuos Zehun back in academy in the hopes of getting your warning out. It’s the Immolation Fox, isn’t it?”

  The world shuddered dark. “General Jedao,” Brezan said. “Jedao’s made his move and I’m too late.”

  “Don’t be like that,” Sfenni said kindly. “Any information you have might yet be useful in putting down the hawkfucker for good. Now, go ahead and make that report. And don’t bother looking for the green pills in the desk unless you’re into foul-tasting rubbish. They’re not real anxiety medications, and something tells me that placebos don’t do you a whit of good.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE DAY AFTER the hexarchs’ council, Mikodez skimmed through a pile of reports examining Jedao’s responses to Hafn movements and making educated guesses about what he’d do next. The best one came from an analyst whom Zehun kept trying to fire. Zehun was correct, but the analyst in question came up with the best scenarios. Her latest suggested that Jedao had induced an army of ghosts to possess the swarm and that an assault on the laws of entropy was next. The woman was wasted in intelligence. She should be writing dramas, but Mikodez was too selfish to let her go.

  None of the reports had suggested what Mikodez considered to be the obvious next step. Zehun had remarked that he was going to do as he pleased so no one was bothering to dissuade him. In the meantime, Line 3 was blinking bewitchingly at him. He’d instructed Zehun and Istradez not to interrupt him unless the interruption promised first-rate entertainment. Zehun had given him a very tolerant look. Istradez had laughed at him and threatened to pop in partway through to confuse matters.

  “All right, I’m ready,” Mikodez told the grid. “Put the call through.”

  A woman’s face, framed by a neat bob, appeared on the terminal. Mikodez wasn’t fooled. It looked like Jedao’s body had lost weight since Brevet General Cheris had reported in from her final assignment, not surprising given the circumstances. He considered telling Jedao to feed his stolen body better, although Zehun and Istradez would both have laughed at the thought of him, of all people, lecturing anyone on eating properly. Jedao’s uniform was in full formal, unnecessary but touching.

  “Fair day, Jedao,” Mikodez said in a deprecated language. He hoped he was pronouncing it right. It had been a while.

  Jedao blinked. “I haven’t heard Shparoi spoken in a very long time, Shuos-zho.” He was speaking the high language with the same Shparoi drawl he’d had when they first met, decades ago, at the black cradle facility.

  Mikodez had always suspected that Jedao could shed the accent any time he cared to, based on his language evaluations from academy, but there was no need to press. For that matter, the use of -zho, an archaic honorific reserved for hexarchs (or heptarchs, back when), was pure affectation, a reminder of Jedao’s age. “I thought it would only be polite,” Mikodez said.

  “That’s considerate of you, Shuos-zho, but I’m not sure I could speak Shparoi myself anymore. I’ll make the attempt if it pleases you, though.”

  “Speak whatever suits you. I’ll figure it out. I make a point of keeping on hand interpreters who speak everything you ever did, even Tlen-Gwa.”

  “I have to admit,” Jedao said, “I’m not entirely sure why you requested to speak to me. You’ve got to reckon that I’m not surrendering the swarm to Kel Command. It’s the only leverage I have left.”

  Everything up to ‘I’m not surrendering the swarm’ was a nearly verbatim replay of an exchange that Mikodez had had with Jedao thirty-five years ago. If Nirai Kujen had told the truth then, Jedao himself no longer remembered the exchange. Jedao had only used a different word for ‘considerate,’ one less ironic than his original choice: remarkably little drift. For once M
ikodez was inclined to believe Kujen, who had had an unhealthy obsession with controlling the contents of a dead man’s memory. There was a chance that Kujen had messed up and Jedao had found time to coach Cheris about the old exchange, or that Jedao himself was messing with him, but Mikodez doubted it.

  “No,” Mikodez said, thinking that if he had been shoved into a black box with no one to talk to (but maybe Kujen) for the better part of four centuries, he wouldn’t be eager to go back in, either. “I didn’t expect any such thing.”

  “You’re lucky I’m not in the Citadel of Eyes with you,” Jedao said icily. “If you wanted to shoot me, fine. There was no need to massacre my swarm to get at me. Soldiers, technicians, medics—they didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel guilty?” Mikodez said incredulously. “That only works on people with consciences, so both of us are immune.”

  Jedao started to speak. Mikodez raised a hand, and Jedao subsided. “I realize you’re insane,” Mikodez said, “but look at the situation rationally. There isn’t a schoolchild anywhere who doesn’t know what you did at Hellspin Fortress. Not to mention your perfect battle record.”

  “Not perfect anymore.”

  “Stop being modest, my dear. The Hafn were routed, even if they failed to be obliterated. Anyway, we had some indication that you were slipping Kel Command’s control. The thought of you running off and randomly slaughtering another million people—more, if you put your mind to it—bothered me. In that context, sacrificing 8,000 people to be sure of putting down a ruthless and effective killer was a bargain.”

  “Then why not leave me to rot in the black cradle?”