Conventions of War

by Walter Jon Williams

  Julien turned his pointed face to the fire. He raised his cup of punch to his lips, then lowered it. “I like being in the army,” he said. “It’s going to be hard going back to the old life after this.”

  “You don’t have to go back to the old life,” Sula said. “That’s what the amnesties are about.”

  “I don’t have that option.” He gave her a look. “Pop’s taking the amnesty route, but he wants me to step into his place.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “if that’s not what you want.”

  Julien shrugged. “It’s not a bad life,” he said. “I’ll have money and any other damn thing that takes my fancy, and this time I’ll be boss.”

  Patel watched the two of them with soft dark eyes. “The thing is, princess,” he said, “we all got used to being loved.”

  Sula smiled. “That was the best part, wasn’t it?”

  Being loved. Finding the words “Long live the White Ghost!” sprayed on some apartment wall, seeing people stepping off trams reading copies of Resistance, watching the look on the faces of others when she appeared in public, walking through the Textile Market in her uniform or delivering stolen food to the Old Third. Being folded in Casimir’s arms, his musky scent filling her senses. She had been at the center of something magnificent, and knew that she would never matter that much again.

  She turned to Patel. “And you?”

  His lips quirked in something like a smile. “Oh, I’m going back to the old life. How else can I afford my vices?”

  She raised her teacup. “To new adventures,” she said.

  The others raised their glasses and drank. Julien looked gloomily into the fire.

  “It won’t be as much fun without Casimir,” he said.

  Sula followed Julien’s gaze into the flames as regret wafted through her heart.

  “That’s true,” she said.

  He was Martinez, but somehow not Martinez—he had the lantern jaw and the heavy brows, but there was something different in the set of his face, and his hair was black and straight instead of brown and wavy. He and Sula stood in the front room of Sula’s old apartment, the one behind the old Shelley Palace.

  The not-quite-Martinez wore the silver-braided captain’s uniform, and he held out a Guraware vase filled with gladioli. “You gave this to my father for his wedding,” he said. “I thought I would give it to you for yours.”

  Sula stared in shocked silence as she realized that this wasn’t Martinez, but his son by Terza Chen.

  “It only makes sense that our clans be united,” said the future Lord Chen. “If you’ve solved that little problem, that is.”

  Sula managed to speak. “What problem?” she asked.

  The young man gave her a pitying look. “That was Gredel’s voice,” he said. “You’re slipping.”

  Sula adopted her High City voice. “What problem?” she demanded.

  “We only need to take a drop of blood. It’s for the gene bank.”

  Chen put down the vase and reached out to take Sula’s hands. She stared at her own hands in horror, at the blood that poured from little lakes of red in her palms. The scent of blood flowed over her like a wave. Chen looked down at the blood pooling on the floor and spattering on his polished shoes, and a look of compassion crossed his features.

  “That won’t do,” he said. He released her hands. “There won’t be any wedding until we deal with this situation.”

  He stepped to the ugly Sevigny sofa and picked up a pillow. Little gold tassels dangled from each corner. He approached her, the pillow held firmly in the large, familiar hands.

  “It’s the only way, I’m afraid,” he said, in Terza’s soft tones, and pressed the pillow over her face.

  She fought, of course, but he was far too strong.

  Sula woke with a scream bottled in her lungs and her mouth as dry as stone. She leaped out of bed, her hands lashing out blindly at any attacker. She tried to call for lights but failed to get the words past her withered tongue. Eventually she fell against the wall, groped her way to a touch pad, and hammered it with a fist till lights blazed on.

  The large, silent bedroom in the Commandery glittered in the light, all mirrors, gilt, and polished white marble. No intruders menaced her. No Chens lurked behind the curtains. Her broad bed lay with its viridian spread tangled. One of her pillows had been flung partway across the room by Chen, or Martinez, or possibly someone else.

  The door burst open and Spence rushed in, her straw-colored hair wild, her nightdress rucked up above her sturdy hips. She wore white underpants, had a wild look in her eye, and carried a pistol ready in her hand.

  “My lady?” she said.

  Sula tried to speak, failed, made a gesture of conciliation. Spence hesitantly lowered the pistol. Sula turned to where a beaker of water waited, poured, and rinsed out her sandpaper mouth.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Bad dream.”

  A look of compassion crossed Spence’s face. “I get them too,” she said. She looked at the pistol in her hand. “I wonder how smart it is to keep firearms within arm’s reach. I’m always afraid I’m going to ventilate the ceiling.”

  Sula looked back at her bed, at the sidearm she’d placed carefully by the comm unit.

  “I forgot I had a gun,” she said.

  Spence put her gun on one of the gilt and marble tables and twisted the hem of her nightdress to let it fall to her knees. She stepped close and put a warm hand on Sula’s shoulder. “Are you all right now? Would you like me to get you something?”

  “I’m fine now,” Sula said. “Thanks.” Her heart was still crashing in her chest.

  “Would you like me to sit up with you for a bit?”

  Sula wanted to laugh. She put an arm around Spence and hugged her close. Spence’s hair smelled of tobacco, with just the faintest whiff of gun oil.

  “Thank you,” Sula said, “but I’m fine.”

  Spence took her pistol and left. Sula put her glass of water on the bedside table and straightened the covers. She got into the bed and told the room to dim the lights, leaving just enough illumination to be certain no nightmares lurked in the corners.

  She lay back on her pillow and wondered what sort of nightmares made Spence keep a pistol within arm’s reach.

  She was glad she had someone on her staff who made human warmth her specialty.

  Tork took three days to answer Sula’s suggestion concerning a posting. Perhaps he’d spent the intervening time in conference with the Fleet Control Board and Lord Eldey, or had taken that long to work himself into the right state.

  As with all good news from Tork, Sula’s appointment came through a staff officer. After Lord Eldey took his post as governor, the order stated, Captain Sula was to proceed to take command of the frigate Confidence, where she would replace Lieutenant Captain Ohta, who had no doubt to his own vast surprise been appointed military aide to the new governor.

  Sula took a long moment to savor her triumph, then began preparing her departure.

  She still had prodigious stores of cocoa, tobacco, and coffee stored in crates labeled “Used Machine Parts, for Recycling.” She saved a few boxes as gifts, kept some for her own use, then sold the rest in a brief auction staged between local wholesalers. Sergius Bakshi bought all the cocoa, and paid generously. Perhaps he was getting into legitimate food distribution. Perhaps he thought of it as a way of bribing her.

  One of her gifts was a truck to One-Step, which she filled with commodities. With luck, he’d never have to do his business on the street again.

  Even though she’d spent money to fund her army, the profit on the commodities still came to over six hundred percent. War was definitely good for her pocketbook.

  She asked Macnamara and Spence if they wanted to remain with her as her personal staff or accept assignment elsewhere.

  “Staying with me means a demotion,” she said. “You’ve gotten used to running parts of an army and serving on staff; but if you stay with me, you’ll be rated as captain’s ser
vants.” She shrugged. “Of course, you’ll have money either way,” she added.

  Macnamara stood straight and tall in his uniform, the light that came in the curved window of Sula’s office turning his curly hair into a halo.

  “Naturally I’ll come with you, my lady,” he said.

  “Nothing for me here,” Spence said. There was a mild smile on her face that made it difficult to remember that she was the woman who had blown up the Great Destiny Hotel.

  Warmth kindled in Sula’s heart. She wanted to embrace them but, unfortunately, this was not an option for Lady Sula and her servants. Not in her office anyway.

  She promoted each to Petty Officer First Class and gave each five thousand zeniths as their share of Sula’s liquidated business.

  Spence’s mouth dropped open. “That’s…rather a lot,” she said.

  “No false modesty,” Sula said. “No pretending that you don’t deserve it.”

  Spence closed her mouth. “No, my lady,” she said.

  Sula grinned. “No reason,” she said, “the cliquemen should be the only ones to turn a profit from this.” She looked at them. “Now go hire me a cook,” she said. “I gather that I’m going to need one.”

  Lord Eldey’s shuttle landed at the Wi-hun airfield on a day of brilliant sun, flashes of gold running along the polished surface of the vehicle as it extended its great wings and sighed to a landing on the long runway. Its chemical rockets hissed as it turned and moved past the row of shuttles that had brought the Naxid administration and their support elements to Zanshaa. These were configured for Naxids and were now mere souvenirs of war until someone got around to refitting them.

  The rockets flared, then died. A massed Daimong chorus sang the “Glorious Arrival” song from An-tar’s Antimony Sky as the main door cycled open. A grand reviewing stage, draped with bunting in red and gold, moved toward the shuttle under its own power and jockeyed up to the door. Sula stood on the stage, the silver braid glittering on her dress uniform. Spence and Macnamara stood with her.

  Wearing the dark red tunic of the lords convocate, Eldey stepped out in the shuttlecraft and gazed at his domain with his huge night-adapted eyes. The recent snow had melted, except for patches of white in the darkest shadows, but the country all round the airfield was brown and dead, especially where the Naxids had torn away groves of trees to clear fields of fire for their defensive installations. The air smelled of decaying, moist vegetation and spent rocket fuel.

  Sula braced. “Welcome to Zanshaa, Lord Governor.”

  “Thank you, Lady Sula. It’s good to see a—a real world again.” He inhaled deliberately, and apparently he didn’t mind the smell of rocket fuel because his nose fluttered with pleasure. He turned to her. “Please stand at ease, and allow me to introduce you to my staff?”

  Introductions were made. Sula presented Spence and Macnamara to the lord governor, who surprised them by shaking their hands.

  “Shall we continue then?” Eldey asked. “I’m no longer young, and I believe a rather long day is planned.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Sula said.

  Everyone faced the front of the stage. Sula gave an order on her sleeve comm.

  What followed was the first, last, and only grand review of Sula’s army.

  The action groups came marching along the landing strip in ranks under their commanders, bearing banners that identified them by the names they had proudly chosen for themselves: the Bogo Boys, the Defenders of the Praxis, the Tornados, the Academy of Design’s Lord Commander Eshruq Wing, with a particularly effective banner, the Savage Seventeen, Lord Pahn-ko’s Avengers…

  Sidney and Fer Tuga, the Axtattle sniper, walked in each other’s company, rifles on their shoulders. The old Daimong still limped from his wound.

  They wore no uniform, but some wore Fleet or police body armor, and they all wore red and gold armbands. They all shared a common esprit, hats and caps cocked at jaunty angles, weapons carried proudly. They loped along to a Cree band, feet tramping the pavement in unison. Even Lord Tork would have had to admit that the army had learned to march very well indeed.

  After the review, the army wheeled around and came back to the stage, standing motionless in ranks before the new governor. Lord Eldey, Sula, and their parties left the stage and walked onto the runway. Sula activated the list on her sleeve display and called out over the motionless heads.

  “Fer Tuga!”

  The sniper limped forward, and Lord Eldey presented him with the Medal of Valor, First Class. The Daimong braced, then retreated into the throng as Sula called for Sidney, who received the same decoration.

  Julien and Patel wore glittering outfits that must have been designed by Chesko, and that set off their medals spectacularly. Sagas, Sergius Bakshi, and Tan-dau, dressed more conservatively, received their decorations in polite silence.

  Most of the awards went for bravery—being a member of the secret army, particularly on the day of the High City battle, seemed to call for sheer courage more than anything else. Of the twelve truck drivers she’d sent charging the emplaced Naxid positions on the High City, eight had actually survived, though half the survivors had been wounded. One was still in the hospital and would receive her medal later. The other seven received their decorations from the hands of the new lord governor.

  The award ceremony went on throughout the long afternoon. A cold wind ruffled Lord Eldey’s fur. His staff began to fidget as they passed the decorations forward from the boxes Sula had placed on the back of the stage. The shadows of the fighters grew long as they stood on the pavement. Then lights flooded the area with a soft glow that illuminated the platform for the fighters and the cameras.

  Sula now wondered how many medals had been awarded so far in this war, and if those to the secret army might in fact exceed those awarded in all other battles so far. The vast majority of decorations would have gone to Fleet officers, after all, and the number of Fleet officers who had actually participated in battle were few, and most of those hadn’t survived.

  Spence and Macnamara were each awarded the Medal of Valor and the Medal of Merit, both First Class. Flushed with pleasure, they followed Eldey and Sula back onto the reviewing platform, where Sula read aloud the list of those who would be decorated posthumously.

  The list ended with PJ Ngeni. She let a silence fall after the name, and for a moment the image of PJ rose before her eyes, the balding head, the pleased smile, the fashionable clothes and the amiably vacant expression…

  Eldey’s words returned her to the present. “And now, Lady Sula,” he said, “I have the honor to present you with the following decorations.”

  Sula stood in surprise as she received a Nebula Medal to match that won at Magaria, this time with Diamonds and Lightning Bolts, as well as a Medal of Valor, Grand Commander. Then Lord Eldey turned to the army, waved an arm, and said, “Three cheers for the White Ghost!”

  The first cheer struck Sula almost with the force of a blow. The other two seemed to draw the air from her lungs. They left her stunned and breathless on the platform, staring in a helpless trance at the sea of shouting faces, at the forest of weapons brandished overhead by shouting, triumphant warriors.

  “I believe Lady Sula would like to say a few words,” Eldey said, and shuffled to the rear of the platform, leaving her alone with her army.

  She had prepared a farewell address, but the cheers had blown the words clean out of her head. She took a step forward, then another. Thousands of eyes followed her. She gazed out at the ranks of the soldiers she had made and thought, I am mad to give this away.

  She had spent all her adult life hiding—hiding her true name, her true person behind the caustic personality and immaculate uniforms of Lady Sula. But hiding from the Naxids, strangely, had freed her from all that—all that she was, all that she had been, Gredel as well as Sula, had been unleashed in the service of gathering her army and fighting the enemy. The army was an extension of her, of her mind and nerve and sinew, and to abandon it now seemed as
wrong as cutting off her arm.

  The fighters were still looking at her, and the words still failed to come. Sula remembered that she’d written notes for her speech and loaded them on her sleeve display, and she glanced down at her sleeve and manipulated the sleeve buttons with half-paralyzed fingers until the words flashed before her eyes.

  “Friends,” she began, and the army exploded in cheers again. Her mind spun like a pinwheel in the whirlwind of love and adoration.

  “Friends,” she began again, when control had been regained both of the army and her voice. “Together we have lived a great adventure. With no resources but our own determination and intelligence we have built this army, we have engaged the enemy, and we have brought that enemy down in humiliation and total defeat.”

  Another great cry went up. It was growing dark, and she had a hard time seeing the individual fighters against the dazzle of the spotlights, perceiving only the vague great mass that was her army, the organism that she had called into existence as an instrument of her will.

  “None of you were required to take up arms,” she said, “but you were unable to tolerate the Naxid regime, with its murders and hostage-taking and theft, and you—each of you, on your own—made up your minds to strike a blow against these crimes.”

  Cheers began again, but Sula shouted over them. “You chose your own destiny! You destroyed an illegitimate regime, and you did it all on your own! By your own choice, you made the High City yours! By your own choice, you sent the Naxid fleet fleeing from the system!”

  Sula felt a wild vertigo as the cheers seemed to send her spinning like a snowflake into the sky. The dark mass of bodies and heads and weapons in front of her surged like a storm-slashed sea. The cries didn’t cease until she gestured madly for order.

  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for letting me lead you,” she said. “I will never forget you, or forget this moment.”

  She took a long breath, and spoke the words she had been dreading.