“That will be all. Safe travels to you, Mayor. And farewell, Ochrim. Rest assured that I will rebuild the Baxa System in a way that does justice to our father’s legacy.”
“Goodbye, Teth,” Ochrim said, and the transmission ended.
The deathly silence stretched on inside Teth’s bridge, as it would for days, if he allowed it to. No one spoke, here—to him or to each other—without his prompting. Nothing happened on the Apex without his express approval. The remaining Ixa were as close to extensions of his own body as he could make them, just as they’d been his father’s appendages right before his death.
Teth’s tongue flicked out, tasting the sweat and fear that always lingered on his bridge. An enhanced olfactory sense was only one of the enhancements with which the Progenitors had bestowed him, but it did make dominance a much more enjoyable experience.
“Coms auxiliary,” Teth said.
“Yes, Command Leader!” the auxiliary said, as though he’d been waiting with the words on his tongue, as he no doubt had.
“Play Kreigan’s Fifth.”
“Yes, Command Leader.”
Within seconds—admirable haste, for such an unusual request—the beautiful, discordant chords clashed together, like ships firing on each other from across a battlespace, punctuated by percussion as sharp as gunfire.
“Command Leader,” the Coms auxiliary said, his voice much softer as he interrupted Teth’s enjoyment of the music.
“Yes?”
“Another transmission request has come in from the Vesta.”
“Accept it, and put it on the main screen.” Teth felt comfortable letting his bridge crew in on any and all intel, since they knew that if they shared it with anyone, he would soon learn of it and kill them. Besides, he’d been expecting this transmission.
It was Mayor Chancey, again, and by now, he’d returned to his office in Cybele.
“Was that to your satisfaction?” Chancey asked.
“Other than the fact it was far too easy, yes, I suppose it was. I do find it somewhat depressing that the human who killed my father reacted to our maneuvers in such a predictable fashion. That rankles a little, I’ll admit.”
“If it’s any consolation, he faces a future of irrelevance and disgrace. Depending on how far the IU wants to carry the fiction that he’s unstable, he may end up in an institution.”
“Well, you already know how much respect I’ve come to gain for the IU. That’s why I intend to take such good care of their ships.”
“I know you will. So long for now, Teth.”
“So long, Mayor. And thank you for your work.”
“Don’t mention it. In fact—thank you, Teth. I mean that.”
“I’m honored,” Teth said, motioning for his Coms auxiliary to cut the transmission.
Chapter 42
Brittle Silence
Captain Arbuck of the Thero drummed his fingers on the armrest as he watched the Vesta dwindle to a speck of light on visual sensors. Then, a flash told him she’d made the jump to warp, and her long journey had officially begun.
Arbuck already felt restless. The idea of sitting around the Concord System with a bunch of Ixa didn’t do much for his already frayed nerves. He was a bit of an anomaly among military ship captains, in that he had absolutely no desire to go to war, and had always hoped to serve out his career without ever seeing combat.
Of course, that was the whole idea of an armistice, and maybe it would hold. Given the Ixa’s track record, he had his doubts about that, but anything was possible, he supposed.
He just wished he could know the outcome now, one way or the other. He’d always hated waiting, and waiting under these particular circumstances promised to be a special kind of hell, if the first few moments were any indication.
Teth hadn’t offered the crews of the Vesta’s battle group ships accommodations, and none had been requested during the negotiations. As standard procedure, each warship was provisioned to go six months without needing to resupply from either their capital starship or a planetary colony.
As for the abundance of downtime they now all faced…Arbuck wasn’t used to that, but he was looking forward to it, in a way. He had a backlog of apps and virtual “experiences” he’d been meaning to check out with his Oculenses, and he certainly wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to do so. In fact, unbeknownst to the rest of the CIC crew, he’d already started watching a vid using the main display, with the sound coming through his embedded ear piece…
“Sir, I’m getting multiple contacts emerging from the asteroid field,” the sensor operator said, and Arbuck jerked upright in the command seat, clearing his throat.
“Hmm? Sorry, could you repeat that, Chief?” He’d heard what she’d said perfectly well, but he wanted to buy some time for his brain to process it.
“Eleven Gok ships just emerged from hiding places behind asteroids.” The chief fell silent for a moment as she scrutinized the main display, then said, “Eight more contacts just appeared. All Gok.”
“Acknowledged, Chief,” Arbuck said, ashamed at the tremor that had crept into his voice. “Coms, send Command Leader Teth a transmission request.”
“Transmitting the request now, sir.”
A brittle silence descended as they waited for the request to be accepted. After several minutes—much longer than it should have taken for the signal to be received and answered—the Coms officer said, “No response, sir.” That much was obvious, but the young officer was clearly as anxious about the new arrivals as his captain.
Arbuck took his Coms officer’s redundant statement as a signal that he needed to do something, and he wholeheartedly agreed. But what? He cleared his throat again. “All right. Coms, contact the other battle group ships with a recommendation that all four IGF ships should begin making their way toward the warp departure point, while standing by to accelerate to warp velocity. I’m not saying we’re actually going to depart the system, but this behavior is highly unusual, and I’d like to take every—”
“The Gok ships have just launched guided missiles targeting all four of our ships, sir!” his sensor operator yelled.
“Calm down,” Arbuck admonished, though he could hear the panic in his own voice. “How many missiles?”
“According to the computer’s count…two hundred and nineteen.”
When Arbuck glanced toward his sensor operator, he saw that the color had drained from her face. Judging from the way he was feeling, he had likely paled as well.
“F-full reverse thrust, helm, and Tactical, ready point defense—”
But his tactical officer’s arms had fallen to her sides, and she was slowly shaking her head.
“They’re already here, sir.”
Arbuck had enough time to realize that he’d left his vid playing on the main display before the bulkhead that held the display caved in, admitting flame and sound to engulf him.
Chapter 43
Evil
Husher took Bancroft’s recommendation that he return to his quarters, but only long enough to put on one of his two plainclothes outfits and stuff the other into a small duffel bag. Grabbing some toiletries, he stuffed those in as well, and then he left, marching through the Vesta’s corridors and ignoring the baffled looks from his former subordinates.
His prayer was that no one in Cybele would recognize him, considering he was never without his captain’s uniform. When he opened the hatch into the false desert, he found that so far, at least, his prayers were being answered. There were no protesters sitting in the sand, waiting to harangue him for his oppressive ways.
Now that he’d escaped from the crew section, he realized he had no plan. Escaping had been the plan, the only plan, and now that he’d done it, he had no clue what to do next. So he spent ten minutes walking to the farthest corner of the compartment that contained Cybele and he dropped to the sand, his back landing with a thud against the bulkhead. To his eyes, he appeared to be leaning against thin air, since the simulated snowcapped mountai
ns were still far in the distance, inaccessible. And to anyone who spotted him out here, because of the distance-warping effect at play in this desert of illusion, he would appear as a speck in the middle of a sandy expanse.
What would follow, he didn’t know. He also didn’t know how to react to his situation. He’d fled the Vesta’s crew section because he thought there was a decent chance Bancroft would try to have him committed to a locked section of the sick bay. But was there any hope of escaping the Vesta herself? And where would he escape to? He’d have to make his attempt in a populated star system for it to have any meaning, unless he merely wanted to kill himself, and somehow he still didn’t have that in him, despite his present state of dejection.
Would finding Sera be a worthy goal? Could she ever bring herself to forgive him for what his role in the Gok Wars had brought? Seventeen years had passed without her forgiveness, but what if he went to her? What if he begged?
For the second time this month, he lowered his face into his hands. It occurred to him that now would be a good time to weep, but he didn’t have that in him, either. Too many years of exerting an iron self-control, he supposed—of doing exactly what he thought he needed to in order to ready the galaxy for the coming onslaught.
The end will come soon enough. That knowledge could be freeing, if he wanted it to be. Stripped of command, stripped of responsibility…he could actually live, for however long he’d have before the galaxy burned down around him. When was the last time he’d truly lived?
He found himself on his feet and trudging across the sand dunes, up one slope and down the next, one foot in front of the other. The lack of demonstrators to harass him persisted, even as he entered the city. Who knew what they might be glued to at home, staring into space as their Oculenses treated them to fabricated sights.
He soon found himself outside Ochrim’s door, and he rang the bell. Moments later, the front door slid aside to reveal the Ixan.
“Captain,” he said.
“Not anymore. Not of the Vesta, anyway.”
“I know. It’s on the narrownet.”
“Figures.”
“What can I help you with?” the alien asked, his expression as neutral as ever.
“Feel like harboring a strong candidate for commitment to a mental facility?”
Ochrim raised three clawed fingers to his chin, as though considering Husher’s request. “Given your new status, you no longer have power over me. You can’t pressure me to share the results of my research with you. In fact, you can’t require me to do anything at all.”
“Is that a no, then?”
“It’s an accurate characterization of the market value of my yes.” The Ixan stepped aside, and Husher hesitated for only a moment before crossing the threshold and making his way to the living room, where he deposited himself into Ochrim’s favorite chair. “Do you have any beer?”
That elicited a rare chuckle from Ochrim, and Husher heard the fridge open, followed by the clink of two bottles being taken out.
The first swallow was the best thing Husher had ever tasted. “I think things are looking up,” he said. “How’s the multiverse doing?”
“Didn’t I just remark—”
“You said I can’t require you to share your research. But I can still ask.”
Ochrim settled onto the couch across the room, peering at Husher with his lamp-like eyes. He’d yet to sip from his beer. “I’ve made progress,” he said at last. “Even so, I have to question whether it’s worthwhile to discuss my discoveries any further, or whether I should continue pursuing my research at all. As we both know, scientific research and I have a fraught past, and it’s tempting to join you in your current position—that is, relinquishing control of the future, whether voluntarily or not.”
Husher grasped his beer bottle with both hands and sat forward in the armchair, staring at the threadbare rug Ochrim kept around for some reason. The residence could be set to whatever temperature the alien preferred, at minimal cost, and the rug certainly wasn’t serving any aesthetic purpose.
Husher sat in that position for some time, not speaking. His mind flitted from thought to thought, seemingly at random. It wasn’t until he raised his head and met Ochrim’s eyes that he realized he’d been piecing some things together.
“Did you know I lost my daughter?”
After a pause, Ochrim inclined his head. “I had heard. I’m sorry.”
“Sure.” Husher cleared his throat. “Did you know I’m being treated for PTSD from the night I lost her?”
“I did not. Were you…?”
“There? Yeah. My cab was pulling up to the curb as the house was getting bombed.”
Ochrim had nothing to say to that.
“I’m not bringing this up to shock you. But I…I think I just realized something. Losing my daughter made me even more determined to make sure the galaxy’s ready for the coming war, because I had almost nothing left, after it happened. Sera divorced me, and all I had was the mission I’d assigned myself with shortly after Keyes died.”
“And so, you think we—”
“I’m not finished. Losing Iris made me more determined to make sure we’re ready, but it made me more anxious, too. More afraid, of losing the little I had left. It made me want to protect everything, absolutely everything, from anything that could possibly hurt it. My ship, my crew, the civilians living on my ship, the galaxy…everything.”
“Do you believe that’s what brought you to this point?”
Husher nodded, though he hadn’t realized that until Ochrim had just said it. “I do. I tried to hold on to everything, and I ended up with nothing.”
“The Fins made a study of PTSD.”
Husher raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yes. Like so many things, PTSD is something that’s common to every sapient species we’ve encountered. It’s probably common among nonsapient species, too. In fact, my bet would be that every species experiences some form of it. Now, why do you suppose that is?”
Slowly, Husher shook his head, though an inexplicable knot of excitement had made its home in his stomach as he listened to the Ixan.
“I’ll tell you what the Fins concluded. They came to believe that PTSD is an ongoing mechanism—a subroutine, if you will—evolved to alert an organism that it has experienced a threat it can’t properly account for. That raises stress levels, because the subroutine is sounding the alarm that the threatening event that caused the initial trauma could easily happen again, and if it does, the organism has no plan for contending with it. You’ve experienced those elevated stress levels, obviously.”
Husher nodded, rapt, and Ochrim continued: “The way to deal with those perpetually elevated stress levels—the way to alleviate the PTSD, even to cure it—is to provide the subroutine with a proper account of the threatening event, and to provision it with a plan for dealing with a similar situation, should it occur in the future. You were the victim of a terrorist attack, and the question you’re likely asking yourself now is, how can you come up with a rational account for another intelligent being murdering your three-year-old daughter. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Well, here it is: evil exists in this world. Maybe you knew that already, maybe you truly accepted it, or maybe you subscribe to the more modern notion that there’s no such thing as evil. That everyone is basically good. Well, that’s nonsense, as your traumatic experience demonstrates. The beings who killed your daughter committed an evil act, because they are, in fact, evil. But even supposing you’ve accepted the existence of evil in the universe, that isn’t enough. Because in order to provide a true accounting of what happened to you, Husher, you also need to recognize that every living being is capable of the level of evil that was required to murder your daughter. In fact, they’re capable of even more evil than that. Much, much more. And that includes you. You, too, are capable of that much evil.”
Slowly, Husher shook his head, but still said nothing. His breathing came slow and stea
dy, though the air rushed through his nostrils, and his chest heaved and fell.
“I heard your conversation with my brother, when he suggested that you’re both alike. The thing is, he’s right. You are both killers, you are both motivated in part by vengeance, and you have both taken it upon yourselves to decide when a being should live and when they should die. If you want to arrive at a proper account of your daughter’s death, if you want to overcome your PTSD, you have to realize that Teth was right. You are just like him. Recognizing that would make you more effective, because it would allow you to strip away your naivety, and it would let you act with the knowledge of just how horrible you’re capable of being. Then, and only then, would you be capable of making a truly moral choice: to act rightly, with full awareness of just how possible it is for you to do otherwise.”
Ochrim chucked softly. “The peculiar thing about your situation is that in a sense, Teth represents exactly the situation your PTSD has been trying to warn you about, again and again, for seventeen years. Someone has come once more to take from you what you hold most dear. The question is whether you’re able to figure yourself out in time to stop him, or indeed whether it might be far too late for you to do so.”
Trembling with emotion for the first time that Husher could remember in…well, ever, he rose to his feet.
“I think you just made a pretty good case for why we should try to do something about this mess.”
Ochrim rose, too. “Then we will try.”
Chapter 44
Innumerable
“How was speaking with your brother?” Husher asked as Ochrim knelt to lever up the removable floor tile and open the hidden panel into his lab.
The Ixan paused, crouching on the floor and peering up at Husher thoughtfully. “It wasn’t an experience I would have predicted having.” Flipping up the tile, he activated the moving panel. “Teth brought you up quite a lot. He kept trying to use you to pressure the diplomats into giving him what he wanted.”
Capital Starship (Ixan Legacy Book 1) Page 18
