by David Drake
As if it would matter, the ghosts said. The Gerin left on the planet would call them traitors, and kill them.
The same way the League would call the D’Tarth traitors—and kill them—no matter who brought them this news. Mac himself couldn’t pull it off—
With an effort, he put the ghosts aside.
“Let me think of what to do,” he said. “But your secret is safe with me.”
Irrhun touched her paws to her forehead in the great thanks, which he had never seen a D’Tarth use on a human before. He didn’t know what to do in return but hug her.
Then, “I have to get back to my ship,” he said.
“They’ll be wondering what happened to me.”
“Peace,” she wished him, and would have seen him out the way he had come: but he shook her off, and went alone.
* * *
It seemed a long flight back to the spaceport, and he wasted no time getting into the ship and getting her out into orbit. Victoria and the others wondered a little at his manner, but said nothing, being used to his occasional black mood.
He sat in the command chair for a long while, looking out the port. Finally, Victoria said to him, “Shall we break orbit?”
“Not just yet,” he said. “One last thing to take care of. A discretionary punitive.”
The crew looked at one another, and shrugged. It was within a mission commander’s discretion, on a mission of this sort, to make an “example” of some feature of a planet, if he felt it needed a weapons demonstration. He gave Asbury the coordinates. “Pulse lasers,” he said. “About a bevawatt’s output should do it.”
“Aye, aye,” Asbury said, and executed the command. “That should do it,” LeI said. “Take us out.”
They broke orbit. LeI stayed where he was for a long time, listening to the engines, listening to the quiet conversation of his crew at work, hearing none of them. He heard only ghosts: one more in particular.
It had to be done, he thought desperately. Better me who loved her, than someone else. And it would have been someone else, sooner or later. No way to stop it. Let the war be over, over at last. They’re better dead.
But that ghost would not answer him. The only one that would . . .
. . . felt like a baby’s fist.
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