Alector's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Well… look what we got here…” A bluecoat stepped around the boulder directly across from the Submarshal, his rifle held at the ready, swinging from Submarshal Dainyl to Mykel and back again. “Like to take you for a ride, but looks like neither of you is going anywhere.”

  Mykel couldn’t sense anything about the rebel, unlike the others, even as he stood there and fired.

  The bullet bounced off the Myrmidon’s tunic.

  In that moment of surprise, Mykel squeezed the trigger of his rifle, willing with all the concentration he could muster the bullet to strike the bluecoat. A single hole appeared in the bluecoat’s forehead, and he toppled forward.

  Mykel knew the rifle had not been aimed that well.

  He could feel his vision narrowing, then widening.

  “… if you want us to get through this, Captain… you need to get my sidearm into my good hand… can’t reach it… otherwise…”

  Mykel scrabbled forward, leaving the rifle, crawling, then resting, crawling, until he was beside the Myrmidon.

  His right hand fumbled with the catches on the holster, but he managed to loosen them and ease the weapon onto the Submarshal’s chest.

  “We might… have a chance now…”

  Mykel slumped back. He could barely see… and then… he could not.

  98

  With the pale orange white of a sun that had just crept above the eastern horizon out to his right, Dainyl shifted his weight in the harness and second seat of the pteridon he rode behind Falyna. Ahead, and to his left, were Quelyt and the other pteridon, as the two flew across the old growth forest. As the dispatch from Captain Rhystan had indicated, Captain Mykel had indeed attacked the rebels at dawn. Whatever he had done had scattered them away from the forest, and Cadmians were pursuing, in a measured fashion.

  Both pteridons had circled to the northwest to make a long pass across the rebels heading southeast, in order to avoid the higher cliffs. At that moment, Dainyl Talent sensed the appearance of one of the ancients. He leaned to one side, trying to pinpoint the source of the amber green force. There was a distortion in the sky, just above a rocky point where the rebels had begun to reform. The distortion resolved itself into a greenish sphere.

  Suddenly, the pteridon began to lose altitude as the ancients drew on lifeforce as well, leaving less for the pteridon. Dainyl dropped his shields, except around his head, and let the energies flow to the pteridon.

  “Falyna! Avoid that point, and fire from as far away as you can!” Dainyl leaned sideways to see past Falyna. Her pteridon’s blue crystal beak shimmered in the bright white light of the morning sun. Farther to the south, Quelyt had clearly not seen or sensed the soarer, and he had dropped his pteridon into a dive toward the remaining rebels beneath the rocky point; his skylance flared toward the rebels, a line of blue flame.

  The blue flame that had been aimed at the rebels at the base of the red bluff curved and reversed itself, retracing its path back skyward to the lance and turning green. The shaft of green exploded through the lance, then drove through the impenetrable skin of the pteridon.

  Dainyl blinked. Quelyt slumped in his harness, the upper part of his body a blackened mess. More impossibly, the pteridon’s wings froze, then folded against its body. The pteridon nosed downward toward the rebel force and slammed into the stone above the rebels. The bluish explosion cascaded off the stone and across the rebels below.

  Falyna raised her lance and triggered it.

  “Get away from there! Turn east!” snapped Dainyl. He’d sensed that the soarer was dangerous, almost from the beginning, but he hadn’t thought that she’d get involved in something like a minor revolt.

  A second line of green extended from the green sphere and met the blue flame from Falyna’s skylance. Dainyl saw and sensed the energies flaring back at them and drew all the lifeforce he could, throwing up shields.

  The green lance struck, and Dainyl found himself swatted clear of the pteridon, his harness straps snapped, tumbling in midair. Time seemed to slow, and he reached out with all his Talent, thrusting out force to the ground below, trying to slow himself, to break his fall. The wind past his face seemed less fierce, but was that enough?

  He could see rocks and sand below, and he cast out more Talent force, could feel himself slow… but not enough. From somewhere came another infusion of Talent— green?—tinged with black, and his speed slowed yet more. Then he had no more strength left, and he dropped out of the sky, slamming into a line of rock with one leg. Instinctively, he put out an arm—and wished he hadn’t as he heard and felt it snap as he crashed into another boulder.

  Pain washed over him from too many places for him to count—but he was alive, at least for the moment. In addition to the broken arm and leg, Dainyl’s chest was badly bruised. With his good hand, he tried to straighten himself, to push himself into a sitting position against the rocks beside him. He moved a bit, and then a pinkish blackness washed over him.

  He couldn’t have been unconscious too long, before, in between waves of pain, he could hear voices, but the words were indistinct. Dainyl could vaguely sense three rebels, standing less than two yards away. If he could reach his sidearm… but it was on his right hip, and that was the arm that was broken so badly he couldn’t move it, even blocking the pain with Talent.

  “Need to get the others over here,” said one.

  A single shot rang out, and the rebel who had spoken pitched forward. Two more shots followed, and the other two rebels dropped.

  Dainyl wasn’t surprised when Captain Mykel slipped out from behind the rocks.

  Crack!

  The captain was twisted by the force of the bullet that had slammed into his shoulder, and he went down hard. For several moments, the Cadmian officer lay on the sand stunned, then slowly twisted himself onto his back and used his legs to lever himself into a position against the rocks. Blood was staining his tunic, slowly.

  “There are certain dangers… to commanding from the front, Captain.” Dainyl forced the words out. He could sense someone else coming, but not who it might be.

  The captain laboriously moved the rifle up, but Dainyl couldn’t see how the captain would be able to aim it one handed and one armed—and wounded. Yet there was little Dainyl could do. He was anything but mobile.

  “Well… look what we got here…” Another rebel stepped out from behind the boulder directly across from Dainyl.

  Dainyl could sense that the man had a natural Talent shield, but seemed unaware of it, another indication of how much the captain relied unconsciously on his Talent.

  “I’d like to take you for a ride, but looks like neither of you is going anywhere.” The rebel smirked, then fired directly at Dainyl.

  The bullet blasted into Dainyl’s tunic. For a moment, he could sense nothing, except pinkish blackness, and, as he came back to quick consciousness, the pain radiating through his already bruised chest.

  A second rifle went off—the captain’s—and Dainyl felt the focused Talent that twisted a horribly misaimed bullet right through the forehead of the rebel. The man toppled forward, dropping his rifle and landing facedown in the sand just short of Dainyl’s less injured leg.

  Talent—potentially strong Talent. Dainyl had known many alectors who did not have a fraction of the Talent the captain might have—if he were allowed to live to develop it.

  For the moment, Dainyl could do nothing about that. Even if he could persuade the captain to reach his sidearm, the weapon was best saved for any more rebels who might appear before the Cadmians did.

  “If you want us to get through this, Captain,” Dainyl said slowly, with more effort than before, because every breath hurt, “you need to get my sidearm into my good hand. I can’t use it otherwise.”

  The captain eased sideways, then stopped, then moved some more. Dainyl could sense the pain, pain that the captain could have controlled better if he knew how to use his Talent. Finally, Mykel was almost beside the Myrmidon. His good hand fumbled at the catches,
but he finally loosened them enough to ease the sidearm clear and ease it onto Dainyl’s chest.

  Dainyl had to force his left hand up to take the weapon, but he had it. “We might have a chance now.”

  The captain slumped back, unconscious.

  Dainyl looked at him. The captain was still bleeding, enough that all Dainyl had to do was nothing, and a Talented lander would die, and no one would know.

  Dainyl looked at the captain who had risked his life to save him. He was so young, and he would die young in any case. He might never develop his Talent more, either, Dainyl told himself. With the tiniest point of Talent, he reached out and fused the point where the bleeding was the worst, then in a second place.

  His eyes closed, and he tried to listen, since he could not see. For a time, he did neither.

  When he could open his eyes again, he heard voices.

  “Captain! Captain Mykel!”

  “He’s over here!” Dainyl rasped out. He smiled, raggedly, waiting.

  99

  Alectors who govern should avoid explaining their actions, if at all possible. Life is complex and filled with conflicts, and few of even the most intelligent know the background information. Fewer still can calculate the implications and ramifications of a decision. For these reasons, the facts and conditions that underlie a ruler’s decisions, or the decisions of an alector who administers for the Archon, can seldom be presented fully in a manner that will accurately describe the rationale for such action.

  Even if all such information could be presented, doing so would be useless, if not dangerous. Both steers and less discerning alectors demand certainty in their life, yet the only certainty is uncertainty.

  Equally important is the fact that they do not want to study the world around them and all that lies behind it. Nor do they wish to spend the time necessary to master understanding. They wish simple explanations to support their baser desires and a sense of certainty in their lives. To this end, they delude themselves that they understand their world. In point of fact, they will perform all manner of contortions in thought to retain that illusion of understanding. That illusion is the fundamental basis for their acceptance of their society and their world.

  In the vast majority of instances, the simple and appealing answer or explanation is inaccurate or misleading, if not both. Therefore, the wisest course for an alector is never to explain. If an explanation is necessary, however, the one given should be simple and straightforward, couched in a manner that appeals to the simplistic beliefs of those for whom it is intended. There should be no lies and no inaccuracies, for those can often be easily determined, merely the use of what is factually correct in a manner supporting the decision at hand.

  Views of the Highest

  Illustra

  W.T. 1513

  100

  Mykel did not remember much after shooting the last bluecoat. There were images of the Submarshal looking at him strangely, and warm pressure across his chest, and being carried somewhere on a stretcher, then rolling in agony in a wagon.

  After that, there had been blackness, and heat and chill. He remembered liquids down his throat, and voices, but not whose voices or what he had tasted. He could recall talking to someone, more than one person, but his words had made no sense, not even to himself. Through it all, his left side and his head had been splitting, or throbbing dully.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes. He lay in a large bed that looked out through two open doors to a balcony. Beyond the balcony railing were trees, deep green, not because of summer, but because of the late afternoon sunlight. The chamber walls were all of white plaster, wide golden wooden shutters folded back from the windows, and fabric hangings, showing trees and flowers. He was propped up in a half-sitting position with pillows. His left shoulder was heavily bound, and dull aches throbbed everywhere.

  A Cadmian ranker stood inside the closed oak door.

  Mykel coughed.

  The ranker turned, and Mykel recognized Wejasyr. “Sir? Are you awake?”

  On the surface, it was a stupid question, but Mykel understood what he meant. “If you’re asking whether I’m in my right mind, Wejasyr, I think so.”

  “Yes, sir!” The ranker rapped on the door. “Captain’s awake.”

  Within moments, an older woman came through the guarded doorway first, carrying a tray, on which were a beaker and a pitcher. She filled the breaker and tendered it to Mykel. “The more you drink, Captain, the faster you’ll heal.”

  “Thank you.” He accepted the beaker and took a swallow. The ale tasted good, very good, Mykel had to admit, and took another long swallow.

  By then Rhystan stood by the foot of the large bed. “I’m glad to see you’re back with us.”

  “How is Fifteenth Company?”

  “Bhoral has them in line. You only lost five men, and seven wounded. Amazing, really, given all that mess.”

  “What about Sixteenth Company?”

  “We had three wounded. That was all. A few rebels tried to leave the forest, but when we shot at them they didn’t want to try. Later, we let them surrender, those that were left.”

  Mykel moistened his lips, glad that things had held together after he’d been stupid enough to get shot—and after the battle had been largely won, at that. “When is it? What day?”

  “Londi afternoon.” Rhystan smiled.

  “That long?” Mykel knew he hadn’t been himself, but… he hated to think of what he might have said, because he recalled saying things, but not what they had been. He hoped he hadn’t said anything about his shooting or about Rachyla. It would be best if he hadn’t said what he had seen when the pteridons had been destroyed. “I must have been raving for days.”

  “You weren’t raving. You mumbled a lot, and some of it didn’t make sense. The only thing that did was that you couldn’t let them shoot the Submarshal. You kept saying something about soaring, several times—must have felt like you were flying.”

  “I didn’t feel that way. Maybe I wished that I had been.” Mykel offered a soft laugh.

  “You lost a lot of blood, almost too much, but they said you should be all right. They were more worried about your head. You whacked it against the stone pretty hard after you were shot, the Submarshal said.”

  “The Submarshal? How is he?”

  “He’s tougher than… he’s tough.”

  “You were right,” Mykel replied slowly. “It was problematical—and foolhardy.”

  “I’m glad it was you, but it worked. There aren’t any rebels left, and the handful of seltyrs who survived pledged full allegiance to the Duarches.”

  “No rebels?”

  “A few. We rounded up maybe thirty, and there were others who ran and don’t want anyone to know that they were part of the bluecoat force.”

  Mykel nodded slowly.

  The door opened again, and another figure entered the chamber. More properly, the Submarshal was rolled through

  • the doorway in a chair with wheels that creaked as it moved.

  The ranker who pushed it must have been from Sixteenth

  Company, because Mykel didn’t recognize him.

  The Submarshal’s left leg and right arm were both splinted, and the leg was supported by a plank fastened at an angle to the rolling chair. A large bruise covered the left side of his forehead and his cheek. Mykel could sense a purplish pink aura around the alector. Was it his eyes? He glanced at Rhystan and the older woman, who had stepped back, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary with them.

  “Captain, I’m glad to see you’re recovering,” offered the Submarshal. “Without your courage and abilities I would not be here.”

  Mykel smiled crookedly. “I’m afraid I didn’t handle things as well as I could have.”

  “You did far better than any had a right to expect. Far better.”

  Rhystan nodded emphatically.

  Mykel took another swallow of ale. It eased the dryness in his throat, as well as the headache he hadn’t been totally aware tha
t he had.

  “There’s one thing I’d like to know…” Rhystan said slowly, looking from Mykel to the Submarshal and back to the Mykel.

  “What’s that?”

  “How did the rebels manage to shoot down the pteridons?”

  Mykel would have shrugged, but that would have hurt far too much. “I don’t know. I saw them go down. The first one was flying too low, I think, but the Submarshal would know.”

  Both captains turned to look at the Submarshal.

  Dainyl smiled ruefully. “You may recall that one of the reasons why the Cadmians were sent here was because of the nature of the Murian Mountains. Some mountains are more dangerous than others. There are downdrafts and other problems. We had known about those just north of the mine, but not about those above the plateau behind the forest. We should have guessed from the nature of the ground, but when you are pursuing a foe, you don’t always see things so clearly. Because of the problems that caused the first pteridon to crash into the cliff, my flier was distracted, then was hit—I would guess—by a lucky shot from below. The lack of guidance and the terrain combined to cause the second impact. I was fortunate—mostly fortunate—to have been thrown clear.”

  Mykel could sense a combination of truth and misleading statements although not quite lies, in the Submarshal’s words. He also understood that the Submarshal would say nothing else except along the same lines.

  “I saw you flung clear,” Mykel said. “I wasn’t sure you would survive, but we thought you might.”

  “For that, Captain, I am most thankful.”

  There were no conditions or evasions in those words, for which Mykel was most grateful.

  “We will be here for several more days, at least,” the Submarshal said, “until we have healed further. Overcaptain Dohark reports that all is calm and quiet in Dramuria, and that there is no need for haste in our return.”

  Mykel stifled a yawn.

  “I think we have tired Captain Mykel enough,” said the Submarshal.