Into the Light

by David Weber

  “Slow down, Myrcal, and begin at the beginning. A rebuke for what purpose?”

  “David took the podium with one message and one message only—that the Earthians won’t make any secret deals with anyone.”

  “Yes,” Juzhyr replied, shaking ous head slowly. “But that isn’t a new message. They’ve said that all along. That was even Abu’s message to us when you approached him about one here in the gardens.”

  “But to call a special session of the Nonagon, for the sole purpose of reiterating this message, Clan Ruler? It will be obvious, even to the dim-witted Diantians, that there had to be a reason for him to do so. Obviously, something happened to make him feel he needed to address the entire Nonagon. And what will happen when the Diantians query all their diplomatic staff and find out none of them were responsible for proposing such an agreement? It will be plain that we were the ones to do so. It will be plain that we tried to make a secret deal with the Earthians, and that it was rebuffed. David’s making this proclamation in so obvious a manner is a tremendous loss of face for us.”

  Juzhyr’s nasal flaps closed tightly as ou followed Myrcal’s line of reasoning to its logical conclusion. The Qwernian Empire—and by extension, Juzhyr, ouself—had definitely lost face with David’s pronouncement. And it was neither right nor diplomatic for them to humiliate the Empire so obviously and flagrantly.

  Juzhyr found ouself wishing old Erylk was here even more strongly than usual as that thought ground through oum. Unfortunately, the chancellor’s physicians doubted ou would ever be able to take up ous duties once more. Ous absence left Myrcal as acting chancellor as well as foreign minister, and part of the clan ruler’s mind reminded oum it could be dangerous for any one minister to have too much influence. The problem was, Myrcal was obviously right, and Juzhyr tried to bite back on ous own anger.

  “Why do you suppose David felt the need to make this pronouncement?” ou asked.

  “I don’t know, Clan Ruler, but I can guess.” Myrcal ran a hand down ous crest and closed ous nasal flaps in disgust. “We’ve long wondered why no progress has been made over these long triads. What if … what if progress was being made, but it was the Diantians the Earthians were making it with? What if the Earthians decided they had more in common with the Diantians, and they’ve been making secret plans with them … and this pronouncement is nothing more than a sham to make us lose face and give them the reason they need to make their backroom dealings with the Diantians public? By humiliating us, they can say, ‘Since you broke the rules, we’ve decided to work foremost with Dianto.’”

  “Do you think this is the case?” Juzhyr asked. Ou could feel the blood pooling in ous crest and had to resist the urge to strike out at Myrcal—to strike out at anyone or anything—in ous anger.

  “Unfortunately, I do, Clan Ruler. In fact, David’s own words damn him. In his speech to the Nonagon, he said, ‘In our case, we are, frankly, more comfortable dealing with those of your nations whose governments most closely resemble our own.’ That’s a direct quote from his speech. We know for a fact that they aren’t dealing with us … so who are they dealing with? There can only be one answer—they’re secretly dealing with the Diantians!”

  “David really said that? Those words, exactly?”

  “Yes, Clan Ruler; those were his exact words. Not only that, he also said the Earthians would only give their technology to us if we all agreed—they wouldn’t give it to just some of our nations.”

  “So? What does that mean?”

  “I think it means they’re setting us up to assume a position of subservience to the Diantians. They’re trying to humble us so that when they announce the agreement with the Diantians, we have no recourse but to go along with it. If we don’t grovel at their feet, they’ll take everything away from Sarth and go back to their own home world, leaving us with nothing! They’ve put us in an untenable position, Clan Ruler! When their secret agreement comes out, we’ll either have to kowtow to it or be known as the nation who refused to be a party to the agreement and drove the Earthians—and all their incredible new knowledge—away from Sarth for all time.”

  Juzhyr shut ous nasal flaps tightly and tried to think. While there were times where a display of anger was appropriate to help motivate ous subordinates, this wasn’t one of them. What they required was a plan. They needed … they needed the Earthians to go in a new direction. But what was the best way to show the Earthians that a new direction was needed, when they’d already shown themselves to be disinterested in the Qwernian Empire’s needs and desires? When they’d thrown Myrcal’s advances back into Juzhyr’s own face? A new direction could only come from one place—the highest level of their delegation.

  “Perhaps it’s time the Earthians had a change of leadership,” Juzhyr said slowly. “They could obviously use someone a little more open to the way diplomacy is supposed to be conducted.” Ou thought for a moment, then asked, “If Secretary David were to have … an unfortunate accident, who would replace him?”

  “According to Yernaz, Councilor Arthur is their second, and she believes she has a special understanding with him.”

  “Interesting,” Juzhyr said, arching a questioning nasal flap. “How does she define this ‘special understanding’?”

  “She’s met privately with him on a number of occasions, Clan Ruler, and found him to be someone more open to our way of thinking. And someone less likely to be blindly led about by the rules-worshiping Diantians. She believes he understands how diplomacy works, and would be far more open to our advances if he were in charge.”

  “And you say he’s second to only David? If he’s so important, why does he stay at the Nonagon? If he’s truly their second, why isn’t he here, talking with us? Or even talking with the Diantians, if they’re the Earthians’ golden children?”

  “He’s undoubtedly staying in Lyzan for the same reasons David is—that’s what diplomacy requires. Just as you wouldn’t want senior members of your Ministry inadvertently committing you to a course of action, I’m sure the same is true with David. That can be the only reason he keeps Arthur close by—David doesn’t want him committing the Earthians to a plan of action that David would later have to publicly disavow. If Ambassador Abu says or does something wrong, his actions are easily dismissed as the incorrect ramblings of an underling.”

  Juzhyr shook ous head, fluttering ous nasal flaps derisively at the mention of Abu Bakr. “That makes sense,” ou said. “I wouldn’t want to be tied to the actions of someone who so obviously doesn’t understand diplomacy or negotiation, either.” All the pieces lined up in ous mind. Ou’d long wondered why it was taking so long for agreements to be signed. If there truly were this “Hegemony,” and it was as bad as the Earthians said, why would they delay as long as they had? They obviously wouldn’t delay—they would want to come to a conclusion as quickly as possible so they could move forward. An agreement with the nation that most resembled their own. David’s own words damned him. They were working with the Diantians.

  They were also obviously nearing what they thought was an agreement if they were trying to humble the Qwernian Empire. David’s speech to the Nonagon was nothing more than a transparent message to Juzhyr that ou had lost; the Earthians were moving forward with the Diantians, and they were putting oum in a position where ou was forced to accept it. They’d put Juzhyr in a position where ous back was against the sea; there was no further retreat and only one option remained.

  “It’s time, Myrcal. The Earthians have done it to themselves. Initiate Operation Thunder.”

  * * *

  “DID YOU GET the latest manifesto to the printer, Trygau?” Sokyr ChelSo nor Chelth asked as the leader of ous action teams entered his office.

  “I did, Bearer,” Trygau replied, bobbing his head deferentially.

  “Good!”

  Sokyr rose and stalked to the window, gazing out into the twilight of the late second day-half. Ous shoulders were tense, ous nasal flaps tight, and ous entire body radiated fu
ry and outrage. And, perhaps, fear. Ou could feel everything in which ou believed slipping through ous fingers. The tighter ou closed ous grasp, the more quickly it trickled away, and there was nothing ou could do about it.

  That was what truly tormented oum. It was ous duty, ous responsibility, to restore Chelth to Ous rightful place, and ou couldn’t do it. They weren’t listening. All those Sarthians out there, all those children of Chelth, simply refused to hear Ous voice in Sokyr’s words. They ignored oum. They laughed at oum, so fascinated by the wonder and the false promises of the accursed Earthians that they didn’t even care about their immortal souls.

  Ou’d done ous best. Ou had—ou truly had! Ou’d argued, ou’d excoriated, ou’d begged, and none of it had worked. Oh, ous band of Chelthist warriors, pledged to shed their own life’s blood—or anyone else’s—in Chelth’s service had grown. There were almost three sixteens of them now! But that was only a syldak’s egg to throw against the looming granite cliff of the Earthians’ hypnotizing songs, especially with First Director Qwelth and High Bearer Mykair singing in harmony! If ou thought that taking up the sword in Chelth’s name could change the blasphemous epiphany ou saw racing towards all of Sarth, ou would have done it in a kysaq.

  But it wouldn’t. All it would accomplish would be to get ous faithful followers, Chelth’s last true servants, hunted down and killed by the apostate authorities. They couldn’t stop what was coming. They could only brand themselves as murderous fanatics in the eyes of all those blind, misled, ignorant, uncaring Sarthians so eager to be seduced by the aliens from beyond the stars. And because it would do no good, there was no point in—

  Sokyr ChelSo nor Chelth’s thoughts shattered as the garrotte went around ous neck from behind. Ous hands darted up, fingers and thumbs ripping at the thin wire, twisting frantically as it sawed still tighter. Ou felt blood spilling down his throat, hot and slick as the wire sliced its way through scales and flesh. Ou gurgled, fighting desperately for air, but there was no air, and ous eyes bulged as they slowly, slowly dimmed into the final darkness.

  Trygau HyrShalTry nor Ganyth—whose real name was Gauntlet Sydar HynSyTar nar Qwelth—looked down on the corpse and prodded it with his toe. It was odd, but he’d expected to take more satisfaction out of eliminating the insufferably smug cleric. And in some ways, he had. In other ways, though, he thought he might actually miss Sokyr, although he had no intention of admitting that to his superiors.

  Always assuming he ever had the opportunity to admit anything to his superiors.

  Sydar wasn’t about to question his orders, and he’d worked for almost eleven Sarthian years to position himself to carry them out, but he had few illusions about the efficiency of the Diantian security forces. If he managed things perfectly, they’d probably spend the next several years chasing the original Trygau while he slipped away home to the Empire. Given that the suitably weighted records clerk who’d managed to lose that Trygau’s death certificate was at the bottom of a flooded granite quarry three minrans outside Myrcos, it was unlikely they’d ever find him.

  Or Sokyr, who would be joining the clerk shortly.

  . XIII .

  PUNS OUTREACH,

  SARTH ORBIT

  “Dad, are you sure this trip is necessary?” Captain Malachi Dvorak asked.

  “It may not be strictly ‘necessary,’ but I’m not going to cancel it, if that’s what you mean,” his father replied. “Is it?”

  “Well … maybe,” Malachi said.

  “Why?”

  “Because my nose itches.”

  If most people had said that, Dave Dvorak would have asked them what the hell it had to do with the subject under discussion. Malachi, however, wasn’t “most people,” and he wasn’t talking about his physical nose. He was talking about what his mother had always referred to as his “nose for trouble.” She hadn’t meant it as a compliment the first time she’d used it in response to a typical thirteen-year-old’s flippant backtalk. Nor had the typical thirteen-year-old in question enjoyed her reaction to it. But while the experience might have made him more wary, it hadn’t made him any less flippant—hard to see how it could have, given his parentage—and he’d adopted the term himself to describe something very different.

  Dvorak didn’t know how it worked, and it was far from infallible, but he had to admit Malachi had predicted trouble before it arrived with a statistics-defying accuracy ever since adolescence. Morgana had actually hauled him in to test for any evidence of extrasensory perception, although both of them had regarded it as more of a joke than anything else. Needless to say, the tests hadn’t found anything. But—

  “Do you have any idea why?” Morgana asked. She was the mission psychology team’s number two—it made the entire mission more of a Dvorak family firm than her father sometimes wished, but Marcos Ramos had insisted she was the one for the job—and now she looked at her brother intently.

  “You mean aside from the fact that the Chelthists have been preaching fire and brimstone about us demonic Earthians? Or the fact that Diantian intelligence claims that Qwernian military radio traffic is twenty percent above normal? Or the fact that we don’t really know what their military traffic’s total volume is because so much of it goes by cable? Or the fact that it’s obvious from the way Myrcal canceled his scheduled session with Uncle Abu last day-half that the Qwernians don’t appreciate the way Dad tried to save face for them? You mean aside from that?”

  Dvorak snorted, but he had to admit Malachi had a point. And he also had to admit that a good bit of it was his fault, although he still didn’t see any other way he could have responded to Myrcal’s blatant attempt to cut a secret deal. He’d had to react to that, one way or another, and he’d tried his damnedest to avoid bludgeoning the Empire over the head with it. But while the Terrans’ penetration of the inner workings of the various Sarthian nations remained far short of what it could have been if they’d only had an Internet to be hacked, it was clear that Myrcal was the most xenophobic of the foreign ministers involved by a substantial margin. With Erylk out of the picture—with an “illness” which had quite possibly been helped along by Mrycal—the foreign minister was effectively chancellor, as well. And according to Alex Jackson and Arthur McCabe’s latest analysis, ou was probably going to carry the can if the Empire’s diplomacy went completely south on it. Given all of that, it was hard not to wonder just how desperate ou might be feeling.

  On the other hand, ou was only a minister, not the clan ruler. Ous authority was limited. For that matter, if Clan Ruler Juzhyr decided Myrcal had blown it, the influence and authority ou’d managed to accrue would probably evaporate.

  Which could only add to any sense of desperation ou might be feeling, damn it.

  “Look, Malachi,” he said after a moment, “you’re right about all the crap going on down there. I’m the one who kicked the fire, though. That means I have an even greater responsibility to carry on with my normal schedule. To be as ‘business-as-usual’ as I possibly can.”

  “Excuse me, but you didn’t kick any fires,” Malachi retorted, his eyes hard. “That asshole idiot Myrcal kicked one; all you did was try to stamp out the sparks!”

  “And there wouldn’t have been a fire to kick in the first place if we hadn’t poked our nose into their planet.” Dvorak reached across to squeeze his son’s shoulder. “We knew we were going to disrupt their society the instant we approached them, Malachi. So, yeah, Myrcal’s the one who screwed up most spectacularly, but we’re the ones—and since I’m head of mission and Secretary of State, that means I’m the one—who gifted oum with the opportunity to be outstandingly stupid.”

  Malachi glared at him stubbornly, but he was no longer thirteen years old, and after a moment he nodded curtly.

  “So that means I have to do whatever I can to pour water on the coals. If Myrcal hadn’t decided to show ous ass and refused to meet with Abu or even accept the note Abu was supposed to present, I’d probably be going to Kwyzo nar Qwern in the next couple of
day-halves, too, and I’m sure you’d hate that even more. But Prime Director Qwelth did accept my self-invitation, and I can’t cancel it from my end without explaining why. And I don’t really think it would make Myrcal and Juzhyr feel any calmer if I said, ‘Sorry, I can’t come because the Qwernians are being assholes.’ I mean, I could be wrong about that, but I don’t think so.”

  “I’m sure you’re not wrong about that, Papi,” Morgana said. “On the other hand, I really wish we had a better handle on their psychology. Part of the problem is that some of them really are a lot like us, especially in Dianto. But the Qwernians have a different mindset in a lot of ways. What I’m saying is that while I’m sure explaining publicly that you really wanted to visit their capital and they refused to even listen to the invitation would be seen as a slap in the face, I’m not sure not explaining it—as diplomatically as possible—might not be even worse.”

  Her father looked at her, and she shrugged.

  “It’s obvious they’re already in ‘We are officially offended’ mode. There’s no other reason for Myrcal to refuse to sit down with Uncle Abu, especially if ou was interested in repairing the damage ou’d obviously done to the Qwernian position with us. So it’s not likely they’d be a lot more offended, and it might be a way to do an end run around Myrcal’s belligerence.”

  “I always knew you were a smart one,” Dvorak said, smiling at her across the breakfast table.

  “Hey! What about me?” Malachi demanded.

  “Do you really want to discuss your geometry grades?” Dvorak asked. Even with NET, Malachi had had a dreadful time with geometry, for some reason.

  “Not particularly,” Malachi replied. “But you’ve got to admit, she and Maighread never cared about history at all.”