by M. D. Hall
‘What has changed,’ answered Vaaris, ‘is that we have no other choice.’
Zenthar sat back in his chair, his face resolute. He would not be swayed, and his fellow colonials looked equally firm in their resolve, impasse.
Garnoth smiled as he rose to his feet. ‘Members of the Council, if I may be permitted to speak?’ There was a general murmur of consent, no doubt born of desperation. ‘I believe there is a solution to our difficulty,’ if anyone noticed his inclusive phrasing, they said nothing. ‘The problem seems to hinge on viable alternatives to a successful outcome against the Balg,’ he paused. ‘I have found a substantial source of suitable targets,’ he did not have to wait for a response. Almost at once, there was a universal, exclamatory outburst.
Every person in that room knew that the only realistic solution had been proposed by Vaaris, there was no substantial source. Several delegates were openly questioning what Garnoth was up to. Vaaris stood up, drawing all eyes to him. Eventually, the tumult subsided. ‘Like you, I'm taken aback by Garnoth's statement, but we must hear him out.’
There were more murmurings, but less than before, and they were eventually replaced by absolute silence within the chamber. Throughout this time, Garnoth had remained standing, but waited until the other was reseated, before continuing. ‘I am grateful to you, Vaaris. What you are all about to hear will surprise many, and I only ask that you let me complete what I have to say. Then, of course, the decision is yours,’ he regarded the continuing silence as acquiescence. ‘We are all aware of the Accords, and their negative impact upon our destiny. What you do not know is that the Agency, long before the war with the Balg, set about finding a way around these restrictions,’ he looked at the row of expectant faces, before adding: ‘We have succeeded!’
He stopped speaking, allowing what had been said, to sink in. The silence remained, but not for long, before the murmuring began again, swiftly rising to a torrent of noise. Myriad questions flooded his way, none of which could be heard over the cacophony. Garnoth had his own agenda, which did not include answering questions. His audience would be told sufficient to whet their appetite, and no more.
At long last he spoke again, this time calling up a holosphere showing all the possible target planets within a reasonable distance. Hundreds were identified, but only a handful highlighted in green. ‘I have taken the liberty of selecting those which could, usefully, be the subject of in-depth study over the next fifteen years. If we were to divide the resources, currently deployed against the Balg, between pursuing the areas Vaaris mentioned, and looking closer at the target worlds I have highlighted, I believe our problems would be over.’
Vaaris had found an ally in Garnoth, something that did not sit well; he was uncomfortable not knowing the spymaster’s agenda. If the proposal was sound, he would have to admit a long-term solution had been found. What troubled him most, was that all this had been arranged without anyone on the Council knowing. He looked at Garnoth, and wondered whether the other Agency heads even knew of the plan, most likely not. He had long suspected there was an inner power within the Agency, and this latest announcement was all the confirmation he needed.
The diminutive spymaster was the only one of the three Agency heads present throughout the next three days. The others came and went, with the promptness demanded by their calling. They were creatures of the shadows, uncomfortable in the glare of daylight, where their actions might be scrutinised. If they were surprised when the plan was mentioned, they hid it well.
Garnoth, on the other hand, was a different proposition and revelled in being seen. Of course, most people never knew to whom they were speaking, as he insisted upon having his Avatar with him, wherever he went. Even his outward appearance was a statement; he wished to be considered apart from his contemporaries. He was certainly regarded as odd, and theories abounded as to why he always chose to appear with his Avatar. The most pre-eminent being: it was the ultimate in personal protection, as an assassin would have difficulty knowing which of them to target, while any close up attack would be thwarted by a machine imbued with deadly speed and strength. The less popular theory held that he confided in his mirror image, having long conversations with it, far into the night.
On the final day, in order that the Council could debate their unique situation, Garnoth was asked to leave the chamber. Notwithstanding Zenthar’s views on Gallsor, most knew the war could never be won. Two areas of concern were raised, each predicated on one unassailable fact: the Balg military machine was vastly superior to that of the Te, whose navy amounted to nothing more than an irritant. Firstly, why did the Balg not use that superiority to destroy them? It made no sense, and the Council’s inability to understand, caused them to be fearful of an unknown agenda. Secondly, if they continued to sting this placid enemy, the eventual reaction might be one they would regret.
Both concerns suggested withdrawal to be the better option, but such a move was unprecedented, the consequences unknown. The general populace, ignorant of the larger picture, would be afraid the enemy would redouble its efforts to destroy them.
The Council agreed to secretly order a cessation of hostilities for six months, all the while preserving alert status. This placated Zenthar and his supporters, for the present. Only when the Council were completely satisfied the Balg no longer posed a threat, would they make an official announcement. Following the Te’an victory at Gallsor - the true outcome of the engagement would be rewritten - the enemy chose to destroy their world, rather than face humiliation. The Agency would see to it that no one would enquire into the validity of the announcement. All their wars of conquest were dependent on the false premise: they were never aggressors, but always victorious. The proposed outcome would fit nicely within the myth, and only the senior military, the Council, and those in the shadows would know the truth.
All that remained, was how to deal with Jaron. Under normal circumstances, he would face a court martial for failing to destroy the two enemy ships at his mercy, but his actions in returning to the field, and enabling the escape of their other ships could not be ignored. In addition, a court martial would draw public attention to the whole incident, and truth would out. It would be better to keep the matter quiet, while still painting the entire incident as a glorious victory.
Vaaris addressed the Council. ‘I don’t think any one would begrudge Commander Jaron the order of Nova?’
There was universal agreement. The people needed heroes and, by any standard, he had proven himself worthy of the epithet. It would be only the second award in living memory; chances of proving worthiness were few and far between, especially when wars were only waged against weaker foes, or more powerful races, befriended before being completely blindsided.
It was also agreed that the identity of the officers concerned would be withheld. There would be no media coverage, and after the initial announcements, the matter would be allowed to slide into folklore where it would remain, forever, as a testament to the indomitable spirit of the Te'an people. No one was naïve enough to believe the names would not percolate through the Navy, but this was acceptable. A society unto themselves, no word would leak from the military, to the civilian populace.
Garnoth was recalled.
In the three days since Garnoth’s explosive announcement, Vaaris had become spokesman for the Council, a position he would come to enjoy. He addressed Garnoth and told him of their decision, the spymaster feigning humility and bowing. Vaaris made a decision on the spot that sealed his own position. ‘You will report directly to myself and Zenthar.’ The colonial member almost choked, almost. He rose and bowed his head to his benefactor.
Even Garnoth had not foreseen this turn of events, but no matter, he would take appropriate precautions.
The Assembly was formally closed, and all departed for their various places of abode.
As Vaaris went to collect his sons, who had travelled with him on each of the last three days, he mulled over the previous few hours, concluding that his sph
ere of influence needed to be extended. The twins ran over to him, eager to pick up any interesting bits of information they could share with their friends. Nirjan and Beron would eventually enter the Academy, and then move on to the Navy, but Vaaris had made up his mind. They would both join the Agency, where at least one of them would be his eyes and ears within Garnoth's labyrinthine empire.
Ω
The ceremony to honour Jaron was a lavish affair, which was hardly surprising, considering it was the first award in two hundred and seventy years. The previous recipient had died sixty years earlier, at the respectable age of three hundred and twelve. Lavish it might have been, but it was also much delayed, more than a year after the event it celebrated.
Relieved, he would not be called upon to make a speech, Jaron was less fortunate at the private party that followed, when Denaa ambushed him in front of a small crowd of close friends and family. Deciding the best way out was to deflect attention towards his friends, he beckoned to Denaa, who needed no prompting to stand with the hero of the hour, and Bakir who, much to everyone’s surprise, walked out of the room.
A few moments later, Bakir’s wife Cyrar picked up her sleeping baby, while motioning for her two teenage sons to remain close, as she led the small, silent entourage from the hall.
After the party, when the two remaining friends were sure they were alone, Jaron spoke. ‘What was all that about? Did the two of you argue?’
Denaa looked genuinely surprised. ‘I thought it was you who upset him.’
Jaron shook his head. ‘I haven't spoken to him for weeks. He seemed a bit quiet, but nothing to suggest this was on the cards. How are things between him and Cyrar, after…you know? Has she said anything?’
‘As though she’d tell me! I think it’s something to do with Gallsor, but I'm damned if I know what it is.’
‘You don’t think it’s the medal?’ asked Jaron.
‘Bakir, jealous of a medal?’ replied Denaa. ‘We both know he’s not like that. Now anger, that’s something else. Maybe, he thinks you should have backed him, over Cyrar.’
They agreed it was better that Denaa spoke to Bakir.
Three days later, when he called at the coastal villa of Bakir and Cyrar, he was refused entry.
Six years ago
Ω
It was as a young cadet that Tala first met the man who would become her mentor, during one of his rare visits to the Academy. Back then, he struck her as a quaint and charming character, something of an anachronism. Now that she knew him better than anyone else alive, she would add to that guileless description: the cleverest, and deadliest man she had ever known. Garnoth was the most powerful of the three Agency heads, each of whom were given the historical and meaningless title, Second Tier Delegate to the Supreme Council.
There had never been any doubt in her mind, from the moment she was introduced to the Agency, that she wanted to be part of it. Her father, a retired admiral, expected her to enter the Navy after graduating, but he hid his disappointment well. The mistrust between the Navy, representing the overt military, and its shadowy cousin was palpable and had existed for millennia. The feeling was not mitigated by the Agency choosing, with few exceptions, only the brightest and finest academy graduates. Despite its best endeavours, the Navy soon learned there was no resisting the pull of its more glamorous counterpart. Hungry for the failure that would crush its confidence - Agency success meant less reliance on the Navy’s own expertise - it was resigned to one incontrovertible fact, there had been no failures!
Tala had been invited to Garnoth’s office - a description that hardly did it justice, occupying an entire floor of Agency headquarters - without being given any reason for the summons.
While always enjoying the support of her mentor, his reputation for ruthlessness was well deserved. She was aware, anecdotally, of a number of instances where those who had crossed him during his long career, had simply disappeared with no explanation being sought, or given. She personally knew of one incident, when a subordinate disappointing Garnoth, over a minor clerical issue, found himself ensconced in the offices of waste reclamation, no doubt a worthy calling, but not one he would have imagined for himself, when graduating from the Academy with high honours.
To say Garnoth was unusual would be an understatement, even the route he took to the pinnacle of power was unorthodox. In the ordinary course of events it was customary, following a successful field operation, for the agent involved to either: retire to a comfortable living, only to be called upon in dire need - no one was aware of a single incidence of recall, as there was never a shortage of willing and able operatives; or become part of the administration, the only path to promotion.
After successfully completing his first mission, the young Garnoth refused to move on. Perhaps he was just lucky there were a number of ongoing operations, taking longer than anticipated and requiring additional resources. One, in particular, involved intelligence gathering on the planet Lotarl IV, where all was not going well. Rumours circulated through the Agency that the inhabitants held the secret of transferring consciousness itself, into a machine, and then on to a cloned body. It was decided that Garnoth would be well employed assisting the prime agent. What most of his superiors did not know, was that he blackmailed one of the Agency heads in order to secure the reassignment. The result did not live up to expectations, the technology was non-existent. The failure rebounded on the prime agent, but Garnoth managed to avoid any adverse attention.
The Agency head suffered an untimely, yet seemingly natural, death twelve years after the Lotarl debacle. A fate shared three years on by the unfortunate prime agent. Nothing now existed to link Garnoth to the happenings on Lotarl IV.
It was testament to Tala's ingenuity that she alone, other than Garnoth, was aware of the true facts. She was cognisant of the danger posed by such knowledge, and used that realisation to remind herself, on occasions like this, to tread warily around her mentor, ensuring there was never a data trail to her door.
History had been rewritten to reflect Garnoth salvaging something from Lotarl IV; it was apparently richer in exotic elements than first thought. The manufactured version soon became common knowledge within the Agency, creating a singular precedent that enabled him, but only him, to continue in the field for as long as he wanted. Tala’s covert enquiries revealed he had used the time to build a network within the Agency which, by the time he was ready to step into the post of Agency head, gave him unequalled influence and power. She thought it ironic that the position became vacant upon the sudden death of his blackmail victim. As for the death of the prime agent, she could uncover no link, but knowing Garnoth, there would be one hidden somewhere deep.
When Garnoth communicated his desire for a meeting, no date or time was set. He knew where people were at any time of the day, just as he would have known of the celebration Tala had taken months to plan, not least arranging transport for her brothers and sister from three different colonies, to surprise their mother on her seventieth Birthday. Garnoth also knew that, when the call came, Tala would leave the party immediately, with no one questioning her departure.
During the journey to Garnoth’s lair, she racked her brain for the reason behind the summons, and came up short. Being convinced she had done nothing to displease him, did not help; his thought processes were so unlike anyone else in the Agency, it was both naïve and dangerous to assume anything about his actions. This left her instincts, which suggested he wanted to divulge something to her benefit, but again she was unable to fathom what that might be. It was just as likely to be a test of how she would respond to the disruption of her mother’s important day. Mercifully, the shortness of her journey curtailed further ruminations.
The spymaster’s floor was not unusual in having its own flyer bay, but was singular in only permitting invited traffic to dock. As Tala approached the door, accessing his office cum apartment, it slid open and standing in the opening was Garnoth, or was it his Avatar? It was impossible to physically t
ell them apart, and so clues had to be sought in behaviour. He looked to be a man in his sixties, but was nearer to one hundred and eighty. All Te’ans had, many generations earlier, been genetically altered to enjoy a lengthy lifespan, usually around two hundred and seventy years. They still aged, but never looked more than a third of their true age, until they reached one hundred and twenty, when visual signs of ageing halted. For reasons no one knew, or dared to ask, Garnoth had interrupted the genetic coding. His appearance was that of a kindly uncle, a smile never far from his lips, but this facade belied his true character, which remained tantalisingly out of reach. The only hint to what lay within came from grey, flint hard eyes which never softened.
He inclined his head slightly, and smiled. ‘Welcome, my dear, you are looking as radiantly lovely as ever.’ She took his proffered hand, which was warm to the touch. After a moment, they broke contact and she was led to the inner sanctum.
It never ceased to amaze Tala how he managed to secure such accommodation. Heads of the Agency traditionally occupied simple, austere offices with a small adjoining apartment, as the job often entailed working through the night. Social life was anathema to them. The other two heads were, like Garnoth, men of immense wealth and power, yet they chose to hide their uncounted riches from prying eyes. Garnoth, apparently saw no problem in displaying his affluence to those who were either fortunate, or unfortunate to find themselves within his domain. In any event, he functioned better when in comfort, surrounded by luxury, eschewing what he considered artifice in his contemporaries.
