by K. Eason
Then Grytt thrust her face into the feed, head tilted to give primacy to her brown, human eye. “Rory,” she announced, sounding satisfied and mildly aggrieved. “There you are.”
As if I am only late to an appointment, thought Rory. Rupert pursed his lips and slanted a look at Grytt, which she utterly ignored, being more concerned with a narrow-eyed perusal of Rory’s face.
Rory recalled with belated regret that she had blood smeared from nose to chin. “I’m fine. A small matter of arithmancy.”
Rupert’s pursed lips drew even tighter. Had the alwar told him what sort of arithmancy the Protectorate could perform? If not, perhaps Jaed had. If Jaed had survived. Rory only knew that Vagabond had arrived, which guaranteed only Zhang’s survival—
“My crew,” she said. “They’re well?”
Rupert and Grytt exchanged a glance, and after a heartbeat’s hesitation, and to Rory’s surprise, Grytt answered. “All three of them, yes. They’re
not entirely
fine.”
Rory’s hardsuit, its HUD banished along with her visor, tried to signal her with flickering amber on the helmet’s rim: something amiss with her physiology, likely a heartbeat gone ragged and panicked again, to which the hardsuit should be well accustomed by now. If (when) she survived, she would recalibrate the damned thing to register only breaches and perforations as serious, and leave basic human stress as a baseline reading. She wished for a chair, so that she could sit back down and signal that she was calm, collected, and prepared to negotiate.
Instead she planted her hands on the holo-projector’s console and trusted the hardsuit to keep her knees from collapse. “Acting-Captain Zaraer has asked me to assure you that I’m well, Vizier. He hopes we can come to an agreement, now, on how to proceed.”
The formality of her tone was not lost on Messer Rupert. His lips flattened back into their proper line. His gaze sharpened. “Is Acting-Captain Zaraer present?”
“He is, though he is busy with the ship’s operations.” And I think very unwilling to speak to a human again. “Sub-Commander Koto-rek, however, is here as the Protectorate’s representative.” Rory shifted sidelong, hoping Rupert (and particularly Grytt) would catch a look at the bridge as well as the individuals mentioned.
Koto-rek moved swiftly into that gap at Rory’s side. Zaraer drifted that direction too, though he remained out of the holo-projector’s range. That was probably fortunate. When the projector adjusted, attempting to get both faces, it banished Rory to the very bottom, with Koto-rek at the top, and a decent swath of visible bridge in the gap between their faces. Zaraer, being even taller, would have disappeared at the chin.
Look, Rory wished Messer Rupert, though she was not sure what he would see on a vakar’s visage, if he would understand how to read the facial pigments, or if he would see only a collection of alien features.
Messer Rupert did look: a flicker of eyes that gave nothing away. His features were diplomatically blank. Grytt scowled, but Grytt was always scowling.
Rupert inclined his head to Koto-rek. Then, with brittle calm, he told Koto-rek that there was a Confederation vessel inbound, and that it appeared the Tadeshi were withdrawing their boarding parties, and that it was the consensus on Favored Daughter that the dreadnought meant to destroy Sissten before engaging Never Take Our Freedom.
“Apologies,” he added, “if my explanation is redundant. We are unsure how well your instruments are functioning at this time.”
“Meaning,” Rory murmured, trusting to Koto-rek’s ears (wherever they were on her skull), “they want to know how much help you can give in defending this ship.”
“Meaning your ship’s drifting.” Grytt’s ears, or at least one of them, was especially sensitive. She leaned forward and spoke directly to Koto-rek with her usual disregard of protocol. “At least a couple people are speculating over here that the dreadnought’s recalling troops because your ship’s going critical.”
Koto-rek twitched as Grytt spoke. Then she steeled herself, a visible stiffening, and after a few flare-and-flattenings, answered, “This ship is not going to explode. Our drift is a result of an emergency shutdown, initiated when the Tadeshi attempted to tamper with the engine core. We have regained control of the engines and restored limited power. We choose to drift to maintain the illusion of incapacitation.”
“Right. And weapons? Defenses?” Grytt’s mecha eye gleamed. “Your ship appears badly damaged from our vantage, Sub-Commander, particularly on the central decks.”
“The Tadeshi targeted non-vital systems.”
“That is unlike the Tadeshi,” said Messer Rupert, professionally blank. Rory wished he were holding a Kreshti fern. She wished she could see Koto-rek’s very loud and informative facial pigments. She wished she could hex across holo-projections and see Messer Rupert’s aura.
And then, because wishing was useless, and because Rory had learned more from Messer Rupert’s tutelage than arithmancy, Rory said, “The Sub-Commander believes that the Tadeshi were seeking some sort of—contraband on board Sissten, and that is the reason for their deviation from standard practices. They intended to board all along.”
Koto-rek folded her hand over Rory’s shoulder, a visible gesture in the projection, and one which earned Grytt’s sudden, pointed stillness.
Rory licked lips which were both nervously dry and unpleasantly smeared with old blood. “Specifically, she believes they were looking for a weapon, commissioned by the royalists from Protectorate clients unauthorized to make such agreements.”
Rupert hesitated, and Rory supposed, from Grytt’s deepening scowl, that there were questions flying about on the alwar bridge. Rupert cleared his throat. “For use against the Protectorate in particular?”
“For use against all Tadeshi enemies.”
Rupert understood: the tightness at the corner of eyes and lips, the glitter deep in his dark eyes. “And is the Protectorate in possession of this weapon?”
Rory matched his expression. “No. They are not. It was believed destroyed after an earlier Protectorate attack on a Tadeshi military ship masquerading as a delivery vessel, the G. Stein. Or at least—the Protectorate forces were unable to locate it there.”
Rupert nodded. “That confirms what the pilot of Vagabond reported, as well. The weapon on G. Stein was destroyed.”
And oh, that was truth, of the sort that would fool a hex. Zhang had not been on G. Stein. Had Rupert said the crew that would have included Jaed and Thorsdottir, who of course knew Rose hadn’t died entirely on G. Stein during their noble suicide, which meant that Rupert knew that, too. And that he’d probably seen Rose’s technical specifications. He might have already examined the clipping of Rose themself.
But had he promised Rose to the alwar? Rory ground her teeth together. Messer Rupert wouldn’t be that foolish. Not even for her sake would he do that—except he might, to get her back, or if there was no further danger from Rose, or for a greater purpose to which she was not privy. What she could observe was the alwar vessel, taken with its tenju companion, was only two-thirds the mass of the Tadeshi dreadnought. What purpose would they have to attack a dreadnought for the sake of Sissten, itself an enemy ship?
Rory quite forgot, in that moment, that negotiations might occur in good faith, without coercion or threats of violence; that people might work together for common good and common goals, despite differences of culture or even physiology. Fortunately, at that instant, her gaze fell up on Grytt, standing beside Rupert. Grytt did not look especially coerced. She looked a little bit bored, as she always did when people were talking instead of doing things that needed doing.
Messer Rupert cleared his throat again, with a glance flicked sidelong. “The Tadeshi appear less than convinced you don’t have this weapon, Sub-Commander. They are readying their vessel to fire on yours. Presumably they mean to destroy the vessel.”
“We are aware.
Our systems have some functionality. We might be able to avoid incoming fire, at least temporarily. But if we do, we will be unable to return fire, or to power the necessary defensive hexes.”
Zaraer spat something unintelligible, furious. Koto-rek, to Rory’s surprise, said nothing, even when Zaraer repeated with both greater volume and fury. It was only at his third and loudest reprise that she answered, in cool shards of what Rory guessed must be reason, because Zaraer sealed mouth and jaw-plates and nostrils so tightly she wondered if he might not pass out.
Rupert, in the manner of all good diplomats, pretended not to notice outrage not directed at himself. He turned and, with a faint, apologetic smile, muted the output from his end, and engaged in an exchange with someone out of the projector’s scope. Grytt’s attention cut that same direction, and her mouth tightened into an expression Rory recognized as satisfaction, and everyone else on the Sissten’s auxiliary bridge might mistake for intestinal distress.
Rupert nodded, and shifted sidelong. Adept Uo-Zanys Kesk (with whom the reader is familiar, so we will spare redundant description) moved into the space he vacated. Her gaze flicked over Rory quickly, then settled on Koto-rek and sharpened. “Sub-Commander.”
Rory wondered if that tone and expression indicated the same thing with alwar—remarkable how similar they were to humanity, in feature and surface physiology—as they would with, say, Messer Rupert.
“Ssss. Adept.”
So hostile was Koto-rek’s tone that Rory was startled, and actually glanced up and back at the vakar. There had been no introductions. Did they know each other from prior contact, or was this a mutual species dislike? An adept was not a military rank. Perhaps Koto-rek’s hostility was concerned with whatever this person was an adept of.
Rory, on a hunch, dipped her gaze into the aether. Equations swirled around Koto-rek in a glittering cloud of spiky defense, which told Rory that yes, adept involved arithmancy and also, Koto-rek was concerned about arithmancy through a transmission.
Rory resolved to learn how that was theoretically possible, and to acquire the skills herself as soon as was practical. If this resolution seems overly optimistic, given her current situation, we must recall Rory was, by nature, not given to despair or defeat.
“We are prepared—” the adept began.
“Is the Empire formally allied with the Confederation?”
I thought that did not matter, Rory wailed within the confines of her skull.
“—to render aid.” The adept’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what the state of Imperial political alliances matters to you, Sub-Commander.”
Rory waited for the fairy gift to confirm one way or the other, and was disappointed. Messer Rupert must be negotiating an alliance, and Rory harbored the queasy suspicion she knew what he might be offering as incentive.
Koto-rek appeared to understand the former, as well. Air whistled through the gaps in her jaw-plates. “The princess is very valuable, then.”
“She is,” said Messer Rupert, and Rory’s heart clenched. There was no untruth there, but it was personal. Purely, solely personal.
Rory leaned forward, conscious of Koto-rek’s tightening grasp on her suit, as if the vakar feared she would leap through the comm unit and escape.
“Of greater immediate concern than my value,” Rory said crisply, “is the withdrawal of Tadeshi troops from this ship. I suggest that the Tadeshi may not wish to engage three hostile vessels simultaneously. If you could send your own boarding ships, perhaps—transmit your intentions to the dreadnought, tell them you are rendering humanitar—ah, compassionate aid to Sissten, perhaps they will refrain from firing, seeing such an alliance.”
The adept and Rupert looked at each other.
“If you will loan us a vessel, adept,” said Rupert, “let me propose a joint venture, with some of our personnel accompanying yours to the Protectorate ship.”
Grytt, too, was looking off-screen. “And some of the Battlechief’s personnel, too,” she said, which Rory did not understand, but which elicited from Koto-rek another quiet hiss.
“Acceptable,”
filthy tenju
said Koto-rek.
The negotiations proceeded in like manner for some time, Koto-rek (with occasional unspeaking, hard-stares consultations with Zaraer) speaking directly with Grytt and the adept. Rupert and Rory held themselves quiet and on the perimeter and conducted their own nonverbal communications, which, on Rory’s part, involved much holding still to better permit Rupert to look her over, while trying to project reassurance and confidence. She suspected, from the barely veiled dismay on his face, that she was failing.
Or perhaps he was dismayed that negotiations had moved out of his hands and into Grytt’s; perhaps he had expected Rory to better steer her end. Perhaps he just wished she’d stayed on Lanscot and not attempted to remake herself from princess to privateer. He most definitely knew something she didn’t about Rose, alwar, vakari, and the current state of multiverse politics.
What Rory knew, that Rupert didn’t, was that Zaraer was extremely unhappy with Koto-rek’s ongoing negotiations, and his heretofore undifferentiated complexion had acquired a range of crimsons that promised the sub-commander a dressing down later, if not a court-martial.
Unless we save the ship and get Rose back. Then she’ll be a hero. There might be that worry, too, in Zaraer’s range of scarlets. The Empire and the Protectorate were, if not formal enemies, at least cordially hostile. Perhaps there were taboos about armed foreign troops on Protectorate decks. Perhaps Koto-rek was committing treason by inviting the alwar on board.
Rory recalled Koto-rek’s hesitation in the morgue and her mention of a doctrine which had demanded a death penalty on intruders. She had thought then that Koto-rek had spared her because there had been no intent, on her part, to violate the taboos, and indeed that was what Koto-rek had implied. But now, seeing this bridge, and the ships on the holo-screen, seeing Acting-Captain Zaraer’s ire, Rory thought otherwise. Koto-rek had spared her because practicalities of this situation overrode doctrinal concerns. The sub-commander was a pragmatist, not a dogmatist.
That had to mean something. That there was room for reason, even between cordial enemies. The Tadeshi were the agreed-upon problem: if they acquired a terrible weapon, disaster for all. So if she could just get them to work together, the Protectorate and the Empire and the Confederation and whatever the tenju collective political entity was, perhaps they could still work this out so that everyone went home happy.
Or, because Rory was not entirely a romantic idealist—at least go home alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“What do you think you are doing?” Grytt asked, in tones of great patience and great exasperation.
Rupert, who had been expecting Grytt’s arrival from the moment she realized what he intended (which was the moment he had excused himself from the bridge and returned to their quarters), did not pause in his task. Hardsuits were complicated matters that required his full attention. He concentrated more intensely than was strictly necessary on the seals of his left glove. It was fortunate that the alwar kept various sizes of hardsuits to accommodate the species who might be on board. Sensible safety measures. Human ships would have to start doing that as well. Or perhaps they already did. He could ask Samur, if and when they spoke again, if Consortium and Merchants League ships carried alwar and tenju sizes.
When he was satisfied with the left glove, and only then, he said, “I am coming with you to retrieve Rory.”
Grytt did not sigh. Sighing, for Grytt, would imply surrender. Instead every syllable came out like diamond. “No, you are not.”
“You can hardly forbid me.” It was a childish retort, and he regretted it at once.
“I was going to attempt an appeal to your better sense, but I see that would be a waste.”
Rupert began to draw on the right glove, but slow
ly. “Well, then what shall I do? Wait here?”
“Yes.”
“Grytt! You saw them. These, these vakari, hovering over her with their, their—” Rupert stopped himself, appalled.
“Go on. You were going to say . . . their weird facial features, maybe? Those creepy eyes that just don’t look human?”
Denial welled up hot in his throat, both reflex and dishonest. He swallowed the dishonesty back down before he could utter it. Very bitter. He stopped drawing on the glove and turned to face her.
“She looked—Grytt, you saw how she looked. We don’t know what they’ve done to her.”
“No, we don’t.” Grytt peeled herself off the bulkhead and crossed to him. She took Rupert’s right hand, tugged the glove off, and dropped it to the deck.
“She’s afraid!”
Grytt took his left-hand glove and, with considerable more deftness than he had, undid the seals, pulled it off, and sent it to join its partner. “Of course she is. She’s not an idiot.”
“And I am?”
“You’re worried. And so am I, before you start fussing at me. But.” Grytt put her hands on his shoulders with a weight and force that made his hardsuit creak and his bones with them. “But, Rupert: we have an agreement with the Protectorate.”
“Which Adept Kesk suggests will last exactly as long as they find convenient.”
Grytt rolled her human eye. “They’ll find it convenient as long as that dreadnought is out there. We’ve been over this. For the love of small fish, you were in the room when we worked this out. You said you thought this plan and all the reasons behind it were sound. You gave us your official viziery blessing.”
“That was when I thought I would be going along.”
“You never thought that. Not really. You know better. This isn’t your kind of battle.”
Rupert found himself short of breath. He tried to breathe deeply and slowly and ended up coughing instead. It was a dry sound, thin, squeezed out by lungs more accustomed to a damp planet’s atmosphere than rarified voidship aether. An old man’s cough.
