by Dani Kollin
Trang slid his arm across the table’s metal surface, resting his elbow comfortably on the edge. “Then why fight at all if you don’t want victory?”
“Why fight, indeed? As you well know, the definition of victory is elusive. When we both started out, victory for me was stealing ships from you or sending your feckless admirals home with their tails between their legs. But then you came along, and the stakes suddenly got higher and have continued to do so at an alarming rate. So the answer to your question is, yes, I do want victory—just not the ‘me waving my flag over tens of billions of corpses’ kind of victory. I want the victory of knowing that my child will grow up free of incorporation, left alone to choose her own path in life rather than be voted on by a board of directors.”
Trang remained silent but listened intently, nodding his head all the while.
“The President has shown us the way,” continued J.D. “We need to make it work. I now know I’m willing. But the real question is, are you?”
“It’s not up to me, Admiral. We have to involve my President.”
“You and I both know that Sambianco will only destroy whatever chance at peace we have. He still wants to plant the flag I’m willing to give up. I’ll plant it if I have to, but I’ve been brutally honest with you, Sa— Admiral.”
Trang looked up momentarily at J.D.’s slip, then laughed warmly. “Hell, Janet, since we’ve only been trying to kill each other for six years, it’s also only appropriate we call each other by our first names.”
“Fair enough, Sam.”
“You were saying?”
“I assume you’ve read the reports.”
Trang shifted uncomfortably. “He’s my President. I will not ignore him. Whatever he’s done or not done, he’s the one I swore to serve. I have to include him in this or it will not work.”
“He’s not worthy of your loyalty, Sam.”
“Who said anything about loyalty, Janet?”
Presidential retreat
Lake Geneva
Hektor Sambianco was in his study when he received the report from the grand admiral. It had been confirmed by Tricia and sent to the rest of the Cabinet. The world would know about it soon enough. But as he sat in his well-cushioned reading chair, he was astounded by the depth of the stupidity and treachery being displayed by the man he’d only recently determined he could let live. So much for that, he thought.
The grand admiral’s brief was nothing more than a demand that the government of the UHF agree to an armistice. How could Trang not see what the ultimate outcome of this would be? Even if, by some miracle, the Outer Alliance kept its word and actually left the solar system—and Hektor simply did not believe that—it would mean that a significant portion of humanity would be beyond the control of incorporation forever. They would be free to do Damsah knew what, Damsah knew where. It was enough to make a grown man howl. What was the purpose of all this disruption and waste if not to ensure that every human was under corporate control and properly exploited? With a sigh, Hektor tossed the report into the fire.
* * *
“Presumably you’ve all read the report.”
“The man should be executed,” said Tricia.
Franklin shook his head. “He is a traitor.”
“A fool to trust the Alliance,” agreed Luciana.
Hektor sat back in his chair impassively. “And that’s why we’re going to kill him.”
Tricia flung some folders over to Hektor’s end of the desk. Hektor peered inside. “Now that I’m in contact with my operatives on the Liddel, he can be assassinated within the hour, sir.”
Irma shook her head. “That’s insane.”
“Irma is absolutely correct,” said Hektor, cutting off an impending diatribe from Tricia. “If he were to be killed by our operatives or even suffer an accident right now, how do you think Zenobia Jackson will react?”
“We kill her too,” said Tricia.
“Then who fights the Alliance?” asked Irma contemptuously. “You can’t kill everybody.”
Tricia smiled acidly to her antagonist. “Not for lack of trying.”
“Again, Irma is right,” said Hektor. “We need Jackson, and if Trang dies, she is very likely to take our fleet and blast the crap out of us. This will have to be more subtle and directed. I’m going to publicly agree to Trang’s report and to meet with him immediately. If possible, we’ll have J. D. Black and Sandra O’Toole at the summit. It would be better if they show up, but not needed. When Trang shows up at the summit, we kill him but make it look like the Alliance did it. We can even blame it on avatars or an Alliance operative. So many choices, so little time. We still have those three spies. We’ll psyche-audit one to confess to the plot, and the bodies of the other two be found nearby with enough evidence to mount a convincing story—which is where you’ll come in, Irma.”
“It won’t hold. It’s too flimsy. Any real investigation will prove the Alliance had nothing to with it.”
“Who cares?” said Tricia, looking toward Hektor. “By the time anyone figures that out, the Battle of Earth will have taken place and we’ll be well on our way to exterminating the Outer Alliance once and for all.”
“No,” Irma said, staring intently at everyone in the room. “No, Hektor, that’s enough. It won’t work. Every time we try something like this, it doesn’t work. Trang is offering us a way to get real peace. Peace within the solar system. If the Alliance is crazy enough to leave, then I say let them go.”
“You do realize,” said Franklin, eyeing Irma warily, “that is treason.”
“That’s reason!” Irma shouted back. “If you do this, J. D. Black will destroy Zenobia and then destroy us.” Irma opened her hands, pleading. “We’re talking about billions more lives—and for what?”
“Humanity must stay united, Irma. You know that,” said Hektor, hoping to reason with his Minister of Information but knowing it was actually hopeless.
“No, no, it mustn’t,” countered Irma. “Not at that price. Let them go, Hektor. For Damsah’s sake, let them go.”
Hektor sighed and nodded toward Tricia. Two guards suddenly appeared from a side door and grabbed Irma firmly by the arms. “You have to let them go!” she was repeatedly heard to yell as they dragged her down the hall and finally out of earshot.
When the door closed, Hektor turned to Tricia. “You’ll take Irma’s job for the time being.”
“That will simplify things, Mr. President,” purred Tricia.
“We need a press release detailing what a wonderful idea Trang has and how I can’t wait to meet him.”
ARMISTICE!
A temporary armistice has been agreed to by the forces of the Outer Alliance and the UHF for the purposes of allowing the civilian leaders of both sides to discuss a peaceful solution to the seven years of conflict and death. Admiral Trang is meeting the President at the President’s residence on Lake Geneva. Afterwards, they will travel to a secret location on Luna, where they will meet the rebel leaders, J. D. Black and Sandra O’Toole. Can this really mean peace?
—NNN
Special print edition
(Neuro site still under repair)
Grand Admiral Trang walked from his shuttle greeted by the sound of thunderous applause. A crowd in the tens of thousands had surrounded the Presidential retreat in Lake Geneva, where Trang would soon be meeting the President in order to hammer out the details of the armistice.
But Trang could pay little heed to the hopeful, worshipful mob, as his most difficult task lay ahead. Trang was in his dress uniform with his polished pulse pistol and his ceremonial sword. His sash was blinding in the bright sunshine, and for the first time in his long military career, he wore all the ribbons and medals he was entitled to, and they covered his broad chest like a multifaceted river of hues. He stopped briefly to wave, and the crowd roared its approval. Part of him was surprised to see no mediabots. Instead, there were media people holding their bots in special-made cradles. He assumed correctly that it was one more
jury-rigged solution forced on humanity by the Avatar Plague. Determined to say a few words of encouragement, Trang stepped up to the installed podium.
“The President,” he began, “recognizes that we have a chance to end this war and, in doing so, unite the solar system. It will take courage and imagination. But the President has guided us this far against enemies seen and enemies unseen, any one of which should have destroyed us all but for his inspired and essential leadership. For the difficult days ahead, we will all need imagination and courage. For as terrible as the war is, for some, peace is yet more terrifying. In war, you do not need to trust. You only need to win or die. The President recognizes that too many have died, and now we must achieve our dream of a united solar system by other means. With negotiation instead of victory, with hope instead of fear, with renewed life instead of ongoing death, we will have peace.”
Grand Admiral Trang entered the main building to applause and shouts so deafening, his ears actually rang.
* * *
Hektor Sambianco watched Samuel Trang’s impromptu—if it was impromptu—speech with great satisfaction. When he framed the Alliance for Trang’s assassination, getting the war started again would be no problem. But now he’d have to perform the greatest acting job of his career. He’d have to pretend to like and respect a man he now had only contempt for.
So he stood up and straightened his suit, then walked over to the full-length mirror to check his entire persona. He looked grave and glad, suitable to match Trang’s new world-view and presumably vaunted self-image. The fire in the hearth crackled as shadows flickered across the room’s old stones. Appropriately somber, thought Hektor, who took a deep breath as the door to his private study opened. Trang came in escorted only by Tricia Pakagopolis, who also looked happy to see the grand admiral. She stayed at the door as Trang and Hektor approached each other and both gave the appropriate formal bow. Hektor barely had time to register the fact that as Trang rose from his bow, all two feet of his ceremonial sword came out of his sheath, rotated on its hilt, and in a blindingly swift upward motion, entered Hektor’s lower jaw and penetrated his brain from below, the point punching through the top of the skull.
How, what—? were the only thoughts Hektor’s damaged brain could drudge up as Tricia began to scream for help and run toward Trang. With speed equal to its entering, the sword was removed, leaving a now shocked and damaged Hektor standing exactly where he’d been, while the sword of Samuel Trang swung round again, slicing through the President’s head from ear to ear, ending all his thoughts forever. Trang then pivoted and took Tricia Pakagopolis’s skull just above the ear with a powerful stroke that came from the shoulders and the hips. She first fell to her knees and then toppled over next to Hektor. Fitting, thought Trang as he used the corner of Hektor’s jacket to wipe what little blood there was off his sword. He then stood back up, returning the weapon to its sheath.
Trang was pleased. The sword had been a best-case scenario, but he’d assumed the chances of getting close enough to use it without a phalanx of Gretchen Arbieter’s trigger-happy goons would be effectively zero. Still, he’d dutifully replaced his useless ceremonial blade with one that was the near pinnacle of the swordsmith’s art and then practiced two moves over and over again while going over contingency plans for when Zenobia would have to take over. Worst-case scenario would have had Zenobia bombarding the Presidential retreat from the frigate in orbit. Zenobia had not liked the “worst case” plan and agreed to it only as a last resort. Fortunately, it hadn’t come down to that.
Trang viewed the two bodies. The incredible arrogance of the man, he thought. To be allowed entry into the President’s office, armed and alone, without so much as a bodyguard? For some reason, an image of Sergeant Holke sprang to mind, and the thought that had Holke been Sambianco’s bodyguard, Trang wouldn’t have gotten within a city block of the guy.
Right on time, by Trang’s clock at least, Gretchen Arbieter stormed into the room, gun drawn, eyes blazing at the two bodies lying next to each other on the hardwood floor. One look at what was left of their scalps told her that both deaths were permanent.
“Your grandson’s alive,” Trang said calmly.
“Wh-what?” said Gretchen, shocked into inaction on the verge of shooting Trang where he stood.
“Your grandson is Zachary Augustus Arbieter, yes?”
Gretchen eyed the admiral with deep suspicion. “He lived on the Moon with my son after the divorce,” she said abstractedly. “But he died with everyone else.”
“Not quite. We conducted a joint rescue operation with the Alliance. Some of the Alliance Lunar operatives found a hole and dived in till the worst was over. They took twenty-five UHF citizens with them. They didn’t have to—in fact, it was a stupid thing to do from a spy’s point of view. But they did it; we found them, and your grandson was one of the twenty-five.”
“Sigmund?” she said hopefully, asking after her son.
Trang gave the briefest negative shake of his head.
“How do I know you’re not lying to save your treacherous life?”
“Maybe I am,” admitted Trang. “Maybe I know that your grandson’s favorite ice cream is vanilla steak by other means. Maybe I know you used to sing to him old Beatles songs in German so he wouldn’t forget how to speak it. It worked, by the way. Maybe I learned his pet name for you is Gretgret by some other nefarious means. Or maybe … just maybe, I’m telling the truth.”
“You could have figured that out some other way. There must have been records.”
“Agent Arbieter, all of those records were made inaccessible by the avatars weeks before I decided to kill the President.”
“And you think saving my grandson excuses your assassination?”
“Your grandson is not yet saved.” He saw her brows knit together in anger. “I will not harm him in any way, and neither will anyone who serves under me, even if you blow my head off right now, Agent Arbieter.”
“You’re giving me permission to shoot you?”
“No, I’m giving you something that has for far too long been robbed from the citizens of the UHF. I am giving you the freedom to choose. If the war resumes, the chances of your grandson surviving—or anyone surviving, for that matter—are near zero. We must change or we, and by that I mean the whole damned race, might never recover.” Trang pointed his sword sheath tip at the bloody remains of Hektor Sambianco. “You worked for him. What do you think would’ve happened to your grandson if he’d lived?”
With glacial slowness, Gretchen Arbieter lowered her gun. “What do you need me to do?”
UHFS Gremlin
High orbit of Earth
Zenobia Jackson had to restrain herself from running up to the shuttle and hugging her superior officer. She’d been almost certain she would never, ever see him again.
“I should’ve known you’d pull it off, sir,” she said with a crisp salute.
“I got lucky,” he answered, returning the salute and descending the rampart. “Let’s go to a secure room.” A few minutes later, they were in the frigate’s intelligence assessment unit, now used for storage, since the advanced data systems that made them function were no longer allowed in UHF ships.
“What happened, sir?”
“Hektor’s dead.”
Zenobia let out a whoop.
“Great speech, by the way. Went over quite well.”
“Well, I suppose if the admiral thing doesn’t work out, I could always be your speechwriter.”
“And you were right about the sword.”
Zenobia’s eyes went to the blade in question.
“I can’t believe he let me get that close.”
“I can, sir. He never really respected the military. We were just tools to him. He was so busy planning how he was going to kill you, it never really occurred to him that you could do the same.”
“Well, luck favored us more than we deserve, Zenobia. I was able to kill Tricia at the same time.”
Zenobia whist
led. “That must have made things easier.”
“Almost didn’t,” laughed Trang. “Gretchen Arbieter came about a picosecond away from blowing my head off.”
“Did you do it?” she asked quietly.
“Tell the lie the avatars gave us?” Trang said with equal gravity. “Yes.”
“I never would’ve thought that among those avatars we let go, one of them was her grandchild’s.”
“And I never would’ve thought to use that information,” added Trang. “The one they call Allison came up with the plan.”
Zenobia’s face grew dark. “Still don’t trust ’em, sir. I’m not surprised that an avatar’s good at lying.”
“She’s not the one who told that lie to a grandmother and had to watch hope reignite in the woman’s eyes.”
“Sir, I’m sorry. That must have been near impossible.”
Trang removed the medals breastplate from his jacket and dumped it onto the console. “Admiral Jackson, I’m responsible for the deaths of countless humans and just assassinated my own President by my own hand. I think a little lying for the cause can be justified.” Then Trang sighed. “But you’re right, it wasn’t easy. After that, it was cleaning up. I had Gretchen bring the rest of the Cabinet to the study. It appears that Irma Sobbelgé had been arrested for protesting my planned assassination and was under an emergency death sentence. The only reason they hadn’t killed her was they were waiting for the right time. To exploit her death at the hands of an Alliance assassin or some such drivel meant to instigate.”
Zenobia’s lips pursed outward as she nodded slowly. “The Mistress of Lies had a conscience?” Zenobia said, only half joking. “After everything that’s happened, that might be the hardest to believe. How’d the rest of the Cabinet take it?”
