In Extremis

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “But this is only the beginning,” the Usurper said. “I may sit on the Emperor’s pillow but to ensure that my beliefs spread I must force them on others. This is my most important task. It is why I have left Second to the tiresome work of dealing with this war.”

  “The war is likely to be costly.”

  The Usurper waved a hand. “And? I expect it to be.”

  Surprised, Jahir said, “You do?”

  “Of course. It is the only way to remove the males who are most committed to the concept of power as an expression of physical might. They are the ones with wealth, with ships, with the lusts that need slaking. The very males who threaten my hold on the throne are the ones most likely to be at the forefront of the war with the freaks and—if the alien military is as competent as you claim—they will be the ones who die there. If this plan works, I solve one of my problems immediately.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then I will have to bomb the lords’ worlds,” the Usurper said. “Which would be a waste, as most of them have old and useful planets, with complacent and productive populaces. But planets can be retrieved after orbital bombardment with enough time, while there are few better ways to solve the problem of intractable would-be leaders.”

  Jahir’s mouth dried. “I see.”

  “Either way, I achieve my objective,” the Usurper said. He cocked his head. “Maybe I should be thanking you. It would only be fair. You helped bring about my predecessor’s downfall, which opened the way for my coup.”

  “I would be glad to accept your gratitude in the form of my freedom.”

  The Usurper hissed a laugh. “Yes, I thought you would say something you thought witty. No, I am not minded to give you your freedom. If you were free, Ambassador, you might help your allies in the war, and we can’t have that.”

  “I thought your aim was to see your lords and naval admirals die?”

  “Yes. But I am not served by losing the war, either. I don’t plan to become subject to the sovereignty of animals.” The Usurper’s nostrils flared. “No, you are good where you are, Ambassador, and not at large where you might confound my plans. And when Second is done razing the Alliance, I will give you to him for a gift. You will serve your final purpose under his claws.” He sneered. “You would like that, yes? Being one of these creatures who lusts for the transitory pleasures of the body. You must miss straddling a Chatcaavan master.”

  To that, Jahir said nothing.

  “Mmm. Yes. That is best, I think. And for that, you must live.” The Usurper pointed at him. “Follow the Surgeon’s instructions exactly.”

  “As I said, I have no desire to die yet.”

  “Strange alien,” the Usurper said. “To nurture hope, here.” He turned, tail lashing once. “Sleep now. Stop wasting away.”

  But Jahir didn’t sleep. He stayed curled in his blanket, trembling, wondering why the Pattern had pushed him here. Had the God and Lady intended him to use the training he’d received in the Alliance to influence the Usurper’s character? The more he listened, the more he thought it improbable that he might somehow redeem the Usurper, as Lisinthir had redeemed a different Emperor.

  Yet to be a healer who destroyed! He remembered the feel of sunlight on his shoulders, falling like a shawl in the pattern of leafshadow, and his cousin’s somber question about the just use of their talents. Of whether it was moral to kill with the mind-talent. When Lisinthir had advanced the question to him, all his doubts had been concentrated on the method of the hypothetical killing: with mind-talent, with sword, barbaric or with dignity. None of his thoughts had revolved around the very real probability that he didn’t know whether the killing would help. Because if he slew the Usurper—if he did it with talk alone, or with his mind if he could decide how—what then? Would the Alliance be better served by an Empire in turmoil? Would there even be turmoil, or would the transition happen with the swiftness of a viper’s strike? And place in power a male even more aggressive than the Usurper?

  He had told Lisinthir they should beware arrogation of the rights of the God and Goddess to themselves. What he’d failed to understand was the reason for doing so: because he lacked their omniscience.

  Or was that sophistry intended to excuse him from the burden of action?

  Jahir rested his brow on his fist, felt the weight of his racked body sag against the unyielding floor. Though he knew it to be ill-advised, though the roquelaure immediately began its complaints, he let his mind sink through the stone, expand outward, downward. He suffused the air, trailed through stairwells, touched the minds of the Chatcaava in the tower. They did not feel any more alien to him than the people he’d worked with in his xenotherapy practice. Most of them had Oviin’s self-effacing auras. Some had jagged presences that radiated far enough to brush the minds of other Chatcaava near them: lords and courtiers. One of them was familiar: the avarice of the Twelveworld Lord, bubbling with ambition and energy.

  The Usurper’s he located nearby, in the study, pulsing like a heart into those thin traces, like circuits.

  Jahir drew back when his stomach began cramping, setting his palm on it and wincing. Focusing on the bare ceiling, he asked the God and Lady what They needed, because he was having no luck guessing.

  The following day Jahir stared at the map—had ample time to stare at the map because the Usurper entertained no guests. This time, though, as the Chatcaavan worked Jahir fought his fatigue to eavesdrop on the messages he read and wrote and the reports he compiled and examined. Most of them involved intelligence on the strength of his allies, but not just in ships: in worlds, and wealth, even in progeny. Each of these notables was being examined for his utility to the new order and separated onto different lists based on whether the Usurper thought they should be killed or could be used. His activity was unsurprising, given his aims, but Jahir found it disturbing to stay in his mind, even at the surface level that gave him access to his immediate and conscious processes. The fleets on the map crept closer, but the Usurper ignored or de-prioritized information on their disposition. When such data appeared it was dismissed with the reflexive thought: “Second’s problem.”

  One too many of these thoughts spurred Jahir to finally speak into that silence. “Do you plan to have Second killed as well? By this war?”

  “What?” The Usurper looked up, scowled.

  “You said that males who believed in the old expressions of power must die or be brought to heel,” Jahir said. “Is Second one of the former or the latter?”

  For a long moment the Usurper didn’t answer, and Jahir felt him struggling to find some context for an answer. At last, he said, “Second is a huntbrother.”

  “You do not believe in huntbrothers,” Jahir said, because no emotional resonance attached to the concept in the Chatcaavan’s mind. “Nor should you, given the hunt’s association with physical prowess.”

  “The intellect can also hunt,” the Usurper said dismissively.

  “Puzzles are not hunts,” Jahir answered, remembering Lisinthir’s hands on him, the thrill communicated through palms and fingers. “They should not incite baser emotions.”

  Again a pause. “True.” The Usurper frowned at him. “Second is useful to me.” A lightening of internal pressures as he latched onto this explanation. “So long as I have these more barbaric males to manage, Second is a useful bridge. He speaks their language, though he understands more rarified pursuits.”

  “But does he speak their language? Or has he learned yours?”

  The Usurper’s fingers clenched on the desk. “You are attempting to foster doubt again. You forget I know Second’s motivations. He cannot betray me because I know what he desires.”

  “Surely the ultimate power is a throne.”

  “If he wants it he will come back here for it,” the Usurper said, with a sound in his head like a lock clicking closed. “And I will kill him then. But he does not want a throne. He wants to kill the freaks. And fortunately there are a great many of you.”

/>   “You can never know all a person’s motivations,” Jahir said, quiet. “The one that seems to have primacy may fall back in favor of a different one if the situation merits.”

  “People are not that complicated, alien.”

  “People are ultimately complicated,” Jahir replied. “Beautifully so. And if you think you can predict them by reducing them to a series of mechanical inputs and outputs, you will fail.”

  “I have not failed yet—”

  “You have never been tested on this level before.” The Chatcaavan raised his head, eyes burning, and Jahir said to him, “Maybe you should step down, before you misstep. A fall from this height will kill you, and a great many other people with you.”

  The Usurper jerked to his feet and stalked out of the room, tail and wings stiff. He returned with a guard and pointed at Jahir. “Put the gag on him.” As the guard approached, the Usurper said, “When I want your opinions, freak… I will ask for them.” Seating himself again behind the desk, the Usurper added, “Don’t take it out until he’s done for the day. I’ve had enough distractions.”

  By the time the guards delivered Jahir to the bathing chamber he needed help to keep his feet. Oviin held out his arms for him, exuding his fears like a poison. “Help me lay him on the tile, please. Thank you. Your assistance is no longer necessary.” The extra auras withdrew. The gag twitched in Jahir’s mouth as the straps moved, and Oviin was pushing his jaw down. “Gently,” the Chatcaavan whispered. “Your mouth is bloody.”

  Prophet, bloody, bloody-mouthed prophet

  The guards hadn’t been gentle pushing it in. He was glad to be quit of it, found himself too mazed to lift his head. Oviin murmured, “The Surgeon sent me this…” A hiss against his arm, and the cravings began to subside. “But you should still eat.”

  With the food, Oviin fed him thoughts, threaded through their fingers, amid the flatbread and meat and strangely-colored vegetables. /I have received word back from the Emperor. Second’s departure does not give them enough opportunity… the forces arrayed against them are still too strong, with the Worldlord’s fleet arriving./

  /So if the Worldlord’s fleet was to leave?/

  /Or if some other number could be convinced to go,/ Oviin said. /But I don’t know how it could be done. This war… these males have been hungering for this war for years./

  Between the injection and the meal, Jahir began to feel less unsteady. /We will have to pray for an opportunity. Here… the map today. And this, also—/ What little he had gleaned from listening to the Usurper’s work, he shared, along with his conversation the previous night. /He is not concerned about the casualties of the war we face./

  /No./ Oviin’s eyes were wide. /But he means to kill the rest of us with our lords if the aliens do not kill enough of them? Living Air!/

  /He is…/ Jahir trailed off, looking for a word.

  /He is a Chatcaavan male, in the end,/ Oviin interrupted, putting the tray away. /The message also included a personal note from someone calling you ‘cousin’./

  Jahir swallowed. /And it said?/

  /’How do we know what we deserve?’/

  Jahir laughed under his breath. Trust Lisinthir to begin a philosophical discussion across parsecs. Except he would not needlessly endanger the innocents passing these messages by making them too long, so… Lisinthir needed this information, from the man he’d called the closest thing he had to a confessor. Jahir said, /Tell him…/ And paused to collect his thoughts, since it behooved him not to impose his ramblings on Oviin’s eidetic memory. /Tell him that it is not for us to know if we are deserving, only to act in a way that befits someone who would be./

  /As someone Fitting,/ Oviin murmured.

  /Yes./

  Oviin inclined his head. “Your bath is ready, Ambassador.”

  The Usurper ignored him the following day and entertained no other guests. Jahir watched the fleet movements and listened to the Chatcaavan’s surface thoughts as he read more mail and made more decisions—all very logical, those decisions, as if the Usurper was sorting the scattered puzzle of the Empire into edge pieces and color groups, the better to fit them into place as efficiently as possible. He did not gag Jahir, and Jahir was too grateful for the reprieve to use his freedom. As it was, eating took care so as not to aggravate the tender spots on his tongue and the insides of his cheeks.

  As he waited through the interminable day, he turned Lisinthir’s question in his mind. It was related to his own about right action and his own role here. Maybe a galactic crisis could not help but inspire such existential questions: when the cost of inaction—or wrong action—was so high, how could one not wonder how to choose the right course?

  The answer he’d sent his cousin still felt correct. But the question remained: how did one know how to be deserving?

  With every breath in me, I will serve life, the catechism whispered.

  First, do no harm, his vow added.

  And yet, a healer destroyed disease. And if salvation transformed a soul, then it necessarily ended the life of the person who had been evil. Didn’t it?

  Oviin was waiting when the guards brought him, standing with every evidence of patient serenity… but his aura was a blaze of pale fire and sparks of curiosity and joy. The moment they were alone, the Chatcaavan clasped his arms and said, /Ambassador! Can you hear me?/

  /Yes… what has happened?/

  /I have received a new message, Ambassador. From the Queen! She is alive!/

  /What??/

  /From a completely different communication channel,/ Oviin said. /I do not recognize how it arrived./ He set out the tray and frowned at Jahir. “You are chewing very slowly. Are you ill?”

  “No,” Jahir said. “My mouth is sore, that is all.”

  The Chatcaavan scowled, wings shifting on his back. “Perhaps the Surgeon can recommend a salve. This one will speak to him.” Privately, he continued, /So much new information, Ambassador! The Queen has made contact with the Twelveworld Lord’s pirates and discovered they are lying to him! They have a much larger force than they are using to aid us, a very large force. And they are contemplating whether to use it against us, or against your Alliance! They also say I am to tell you that your cousin is among them, and attempting to work toward your aims. And she says that you’re to tell your cousin, your other cousin, that she has his partner in her keeping, that they are all working together and hope to arrive at some useful action soon. But that any information we might relay to them would be useful. Also that we are to tell your friends in the Alliance all this because they cannot reach the Alliance from where they are./

  Jahir set what he was eating down and pressed his palms flat to the ground, bending. He felt Oviin’s hand skate over his shoulder, pause there.

  /Ambassador!/

  “No,” Jahir whispered. “No, Oviin-alet, it’s all right.” And then his chest hitched and he found himself crying, for hope in darkest places. Vasiht’h was alive. Sediryl lived. Lisinthir’s beloved was with him. And they had a view now into a piece of the war they hadn’t yet. Wiping his face he composed himself. /You said ‘a very large force,’ alet. Did they say how large?/

  /They have sent exact numbers,/ Oviin said, pressing another piece of meat on him. /The total pirate force is nearly three hundred ships strong, and many of them are large warships they have stolen from the Alliance./

  /Three hundred!/

  Oviin offered him a bowl of water. /Yes. It is not a large enough fleet to take on the Chatcaavan navy, but it is more than large enough for the sort of raiding pirates must do. Your allies claim that this pirate wants to establish her own nation./

  /So there is no chance that if my cousin convinced the pirates to attack Apex-East, they would accomplish anything./

  /No,/ Oviin said. /At least, I do not believe so. But it is a significant raiding force. Your allies report the pirates are lying to the Twelveworld Lord about their strength… that is wise of them, for I doubt the Twelveworld Lord would permit a pirate force to gr
ow so large. It might threaten the worlds on our border./

  Jahir’s breath caught.

  /Ambassador?/ Oviin touched him again. /You worry this one with your sudden fits. Is this inspiration or pain?/

  “Strange,” he said softly. “How the pieces fit together, when they fit.” He took the water from Oviin and drank, ignoring the ache of his abused mouth to savor the cold as it flowed down his throat. It made him aware of the inside of his body, of the beating of his strained heart, of the sudden stillness of this moment. Cloistered in the abandoned harem of a Chatcaavan despot, in a tower too high for clouds, on an alien world too far from home and everything he loved and wanted so badly to protect…

  He had pledged himself to this war, and begged Lisinthir—forced him—to prepare him for it, and here he was, just in time to play his part.

  /Ambassador? Ambassador!/

  /Oviin-alet./ Jahir set the bowl down and exhaled through his rising tension. /Second has removed the eastern naval fleet from Apex-East. The Twelveworld Lord has reinforced it, which prevents our allies from attacking it./

  /Correct…?/

  /But the Twelveworld Lord has made a deal with pirates, that they should come in on his side in this war, and they have been lying to him. They have, in fact, a force that could take his worlds from him if they attacked them./

  /Yes…./ Oviin’s sending had the texture of a hiss.

  /So if the pirates attack his world, he would be forced to defend them. Wouldn’t he? And if he did not know the precise strength of that attacking force, he might be convinced to bring the entirety of his offering to put paid to it./

  Oviin’s eyes had grown very wide.

  /Am I wrong?/ Jahir asked, quiet.

  “No,” Oviin said aloud. He nodded toward the bath and shepherded Jahir into it. Dipping a towel into the waters, he began to scrub Jahir’s back. /But why would the pirates attack him?/

  /The pirates have no reason to, unless my cousin can convince them there’s advantage in it for them. And… I have every confidence in her, if only I tell her what we need./