CHAPTER SIX
The room was silent except for the faint hum of the lights. Then, Kiiraathra pushed back from the table. Narrok’s tendrils flinched once. But it was Ankaht who had the courage to ask, “Is that wise, Admiral?”
Yoshikuni’s look was as direct and piercing as a rapier thrust. “Councilor Ankaht, since you’re not here in a military capacity, I can’t give you a demerit for asking that question. I’d like to, though. As much for its lack of insight as for your temerity. But instead, allow me to answer your question with one of my own. Who is the ranking PSU officer in this fleet? And who is senior among its commodores—both in calendar years of service and combat experience in two wars?”
The more relaxed voice that emerged from Narrok’s vocoder resonated with his suddenly less rigid posture: understanding had supplanted his initial surprise at Wethermere’s removal from his post. “Commodore Wethermere is the senior PSU officer with our fleet. By a considerable margin.”
“Exactly,” Yoshikuni snapped, eyes still on Ankaht. “In short, I am not relieving Commodore Wethermere of his current command because of insufficiencies in his performance, but because this is an extremely dangerous mission and he is not expendable.”
Ossian rose slowly. “Admiral, with all due respect—”
“Commodore, let me save you the trouble of pointing out that we have another rear admiral with the fleet. Because that point is moot. In the first place, Admiral Voukaris is another Rim Republic officer, so he cannot take your place as a senior representative for the PSU. And as far as he might be considered a replacement for any of the other admirals in their current roles, well—there is the matter of his combat record.”
“What is wrong with his combat record?” Ankaht asked.
“The fact that he doesn’t have one,” Yoshikuni replied sharply. “He was the only other flag officer I could lay my hands on when we left Bellerophon. And his role there—chief administrator and inspector for all our groundside and orbital installations—marks him for what he is: a supremely capable bureaucrat. He has been an outstanding logistics organizer for us, has excelled at frontier provisioning—but he’s not a combat officer.”
Ankaht’s tentacles lay flat and motionless upon the table before her. “But let us return to the logic you have applied to Commodore Wethermere’s status. Applied to yourself, it means you shouldn’t be leading the advance element in the attack, Admiral Yoshikuni. No matter your credentials. You, too, are not expendable.”
Her retort—“Not true,”—was punctuated by a finger that she jabbed at Narrok and Kiiraathra’ostakjo in sequence. “These two admirals both rank Voukaris.”
Kiiraathra stiffened slightly. “Admiral Yoshikuni, my given military rank is Least Fang. That makes my rank equivalent to a human rear admiral. I am the same rank as Voukaris.”
“Maybe in the eyes of the Khanate, but not me—and not the PSU either. I wasn’t in this campaign for twenty-four hours before Commodore Wethermere provided the rationale and de facto authorization for brevetting you up one rank. So whatever we call you, you are above Voukaris on the fleet’s table of organization. Besides, both you and Admiral Narrok have exceptional skill as combat commanders and excellent organizational and strategic qualification. Under either one of you, the Relief Fleet would remain in excellent—er, hands,” she finished with an abashed glance at Narrok’s arm-ending tendril clusters.
“True,” he replied, “but as an Arduan, I am neither a member of the PSU or the Rim Federation, yet. Which touches on another aspect of your indispensability, Admiral. Eighty percent of our fleet swears allegiance to your government. They should be led by their own commander. At all times.”
Yoshikuni’s expression was as dogged as a determined street-brawler. “As you say, Arduans are not full members of the Rim Republic—yet. But you Arduans are provisional members, and you’ve been out here, willing to fight and die alongside us. Under these circumstances, that’s good enough for me.”
Ankaht had leaned backward in her seat; an Arduan posture that signified well-controlled surprise. “That may be good enough for you, Admiral, but will it be good enough for the thousands of human personnel who were locked in a life-and-death struggle with those same Arduans just under seven years ago?”
“It will have to be. And before you go pointing out that Commodore Wethermere can be risked on the line because Admiral Kiiraathra’ostakjo is also a PSU officer, you might want to ask the Least Fang why he hasn’t raised that objection himself.” Yoshikuni looked down the table at the Orion. The others followed her gaze. Wethermere simply looked away; he knew what was coming.
The Orion inclined his head slowly, unwillingly. “Admiral Yoshikuni is, unfortunately, quite correct. According to the founding documents of the modern Khanate, a flag officer may not also hold a political position of any kind, even if it is solely titular. The internecine wars of our first starfaring centuries were often caused—and extended—because single individuals occupied both such positions of power. This led to recurrent warlordism, as always occurs when military and political dominance are combined in the same individual. It becomes impossible to check their actions, to hold them responsible to any authority other than their own agendas or . . . caprice. As was too often the case in the early history of my people. So, for me to be able to fulfill a political role, I would have to immediately resign my commission and my duties with this fleet.”
“Which we cannot afford, either in terms of Relief Fleet’s command structure or morale,” Yoshikuni added. “Conversely, as I understand the PSU articles of incorporation and the military protocols that have been established over the years, this topic has not been specifically addressed in its naval regulations. That is probably because the democracies that left their legacy in the form of Earth’s current government did not have to deal with the Orion tendency to consolidate power in a minimal number of persons and institutions. Instead, human government is characterized by the separation of powers and checks and balances. So political figures holding a military rank did not materially threaten civic stability.”
She stood. “So Commodore Wethermere is indeed the senior PSU representative in this fleet. That makes him indispensable, if our actions are to have the de facto approval of a representative of that polity, into whose space we have now entered. Accordingly, this matter is closed. You are dismissed.”
Mretlak almost stumbled into Captain William Chong as they met at the secure ingress to the Confidential Technical Intelligence Cluster, the human exiting, the Arduan entering. Mretlak started, more surprised than the human. Growing up among other selnarmic beings, it was rare that one ever was physically surprised by the presence of another. Like dim beacons, their telempathic links were not completely blocked by walls or other sightline obstructions, and so, the subconscious of the Arduan was not so perpetually alert for unanticipated stimuli as was the human.
“Leaving for the day, Captain?” Mretlak inquired.
Chong hefted a box in his arms meaningfully. “Leaving for good, I guess. Lentsul arrived just a minute before you. Told me the time had come to clear out.”
Mretlak’s smaller tendrils drooped momentarily; other Arduans would have perceived in that gesture what humans perceive in an exasperated sigh. “I apologize for Lentsul, Captain. He means well, but he is not well attuned to the emotions of others. Even among his often less personable caste—the Ixturshaz—he is notably, well, abrupt, on occasion.”
Chong’s lips quirked in what Mretlak had come to interpret as a wry smile. “He is abrupt on every occasion, it seems to me. But I don’t take it personally. And the two of you don’t need me much any more: the project has moved into pure selnarmic manipulation now. Way above my head—even if I was a sensitive, like Jennifer Pietchkov.”
Mretlak attempted a human bow, reflected that he probably appeared to spasming in reaction to a cramp. “I am sure we shall have continued want of your input, Captain. You have been an excellent colleague in our endeavors.”
“The feeling is mutual, Senior Group Leader. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Mretlak stepped aside; the human nodded his thanks, made for the first corner in the corridor, was gone.
Lentsul’s selnarm reached out from beyond the door into the research labs. “The human’s departure stirs currents of regret in you, Senior Group Leader. Why?”
Mretlak made his way into the secure area, stopping to satisfy the various biometric and genetic security monitors and checks. “He was a hard worker, insightful, attentive to detail, and not a bigot. Why would I not regret having such a colleague as a daily fixture in our laboratory?”
Lentsul sent (puzzlement). “Because he is a human. Because however well-intentioned he may be, he will never understand us. And because we constantly had to slow our communications down to the pace enabled by the cumbersome, limited vocalizations that his species mislabels ‘speech.’”
Mretlak was tempted to renew their old debate: that sometimes, the speed or utility of communications was not as important as the fellow feeling it might nourish, and with it, a chance for genuine and lasting amity and peace. But Lentsul, although never mounting definitive counterarguments, likewise never felt that Mretlak’s were decisive. Lentsul simply accepted—where perhaps he might not need to—that Arduans and humans were fated to coexist but without any genuine understanding or mutuality of opinion or experience.
But Mretlak was too tired, and too worried, to once again contend with the inflexible Ixturshaz. “So we have come to the final phase of Project Turncoat?”
Lentsul’s three eyes widened in response. “Yes. And the Kaituni technology we seized today and several weeks ago is accelerating the research wonderfully. If only we could get our tendrils on several of their intact automated fighters.”
Mretlak sent (agreement), reflected that it would be quite difficult to get their hands on an intact Kaituni robot wingman (as Chong, a former fighter pilot, had dubbed them). Two of them were always paired with a selnarmically-controlled remote-operated, or “ROV,” fighter, and the humans had nicknamed these small three craft formations “triads” “We will not secure an automated fighter in time, now,” he asserted.
“No, we will not,” Lentsul agreed. “As Yoshikuni made clear, it will not occur until the salvage operations after a major engagement. Which is ill-timed: it would be better to conduct a detailed analysis of the robot-fighter’s control systems beforehand.”
“It would, Lentsul, but we are not expected to deliver Project Turncoat until after this coming battle. The admiral understands that we cannot reveal its existence to anyone until we are ready to field test it. And we cannot do that without more data, more intact examples of the Kaituni command and control elements.”
“Which seem crude, in many ways,” Lentsul sent with a wave of (disappointment, disapproval). “For instance, their equipment relies far less on selnarmic relays than ours do. One would have thought that, being thirteen Dispersates after us, their systems and technology would have been more elegant, more advanced.”
Mretlak sent (partial accord). “Yes, but from what we have now seen of their histories, Ardu became desperately inhospitable in the last centuries, and so, regressed. In almost all ways.”
Lentsul’s tentacles stopped their tentative probing into the guts of a Kaituni remote probe. “Why so? Pre-supernova flares?”
“That, too, but mostly because those who followed us had no choice but to strip the world of all its useful resources without spending the time or energy to control the effects of that process. They knew that they were living in a biosphere that would soon be vaporized; there was no logic and no benefit to preserving what was left of it.” Mretlak peered over Lentsul’s shoulder; the Kaituni device was, indeed, more primitive than those of earlier Dispersates. “And just as their environment became more harsh, so did they. There is evidence that this Dispersate and the one before it had largely turned away from selnarm and narmata before they left Ardu.”
“It was no longer utile to them?”
Mretlak sent (uncertainty, resignation). “Perhaps. But more so because it was deemed a distraction. As time grew shorter, and our people grew more desperate, they became narrower in their interests, in their actions, in their concerns. Seeing past lives through shaxzhutok was no longer a source of wisdom, but disappointment: they were bitter to be alive in such dire, joyless times. Their inner worlds were stunted and they grew accustomed to a kind of psychological isolation and alienation that is all too akin to what the humans experience in their normative existence.”
“How terrible. And terrifying,” Lentsul affirmed. “It is perhaps a mercy, then, that we shall relieve our brothers and sisters from their torment when we meet them in battle.”
Mretlak physically winced. “Even though we shall meet their souls again in a subsequent life,” he commented, “I cannot bring myself to be so blithe at the thought of discarnating so many millions of our kin.”
Lentsul sent (surprise, objection). “No, Senior Group Leader. I speak of relieving them from the torment of their autocratic Destoshaz-as-sulhaji leaders and ethos. I suspect that the systems we are working on here in this lab will be so effective against their ships that it will paralyze them, prompt the Destoshaz to realize that they have no choices other than surrender or suicide. And since suicide will not change anything, surrender is the only logical option.”
Reasoned like a true Ixturshaz, reflected Mretlak. If only the world was driven by the rational inevitabilities that his caste likes to imagine. Unfortunately, there were other powerful, irrational variables in social equations. Illogic, passion, reflex: these, too, were behaviors that shaped history, often to grim ends. But as usual, Mretlak did not bother to add that depressing, leavening perspective to Lentsul’s monochromatic worldview. “I will need some privacy, at this juncture. I must install a backdoor subroutine before you and the technicians begin to finalize the programming for the Turncoat system.”
Lentsul looked up in the midst of a befthel: a simultaneous blink of all three eyes that signaled great surprise among Arduans. “A backdoor? What is that?”
“It is a common provision among human software systems. It is a subroutine whereby a knowledgeable user can alter or wholly disable the program that has been built around it. Or into which it has been built. Consequently, this will allow any knowledgeable user to deactivate Turncoat.”
“Why would you weaken a system by incorporating a means whereby it may be illicitly terminated?”
Mretlak paused, closed his selnarm slowly so that Lentsul would not notice, would not detect the many misgivings that stirred beneath the answer. “It is essential if we are to ensure that Turncoat cannot be . . . misused.”
“Misused by whom?”
Mretlak wondered at himself; he had not adequately prepared for this moment. He had known that he could not keep the backdoor into Turncoat a complete secret. He had to share it with Lentsul, who was, in the course of overseeing the final software design for Turncoat, sure to detect signs of it, anyhow. Nevertheless, Mretlak had not reconciled himself to sharing so crucial a secret with a confidante who lacked nuance as profoundly as Lentsul. But the moment of disclosure was upon him, and Mretlak could not turn back now. “Well, one possibility is that the humans might misuse it.”
Lentsul’s reaction was surprisingly swift and unremarkable. He sent a brief wave of (accord) which overlaid his response of, “Prudent. A coup among the humans, or the other zheteksh races, could result in their using it unnecessarily.”
Now it was Mretlak’s turn to be perplexed. “How would they use it unnecessarily?”
Lentsul’s response was (surprise) that his superior did not innately understand his assertions a priori. It was a trait which had no doubt endeared Lentsul to many of his prior commanders. “As I pointed out earlier, if Turncoat allows us to paralyze as many Kaituni units as we suspect, there is no reason to destroy so many of our kin. But the humans might doubt the genuineness—or continuation—of our cooperation, particularly if we were to learn that they secretly plan to use Turncoat as a means whereby they can turn a mostly bloodless victory into an opportunity for genocide against our kin.”
Mretlak emitted an involuntary pulse of (horror, surprise, outrage). “If Turncoat did enable such a one-sided victory, we would not permit them to conduct such a slaughter.”
“With respect, Senior Group Leader, there are those among the humans and Orions who would be certain to ensure that we Arduans were the first to be slaughtered. Many do not trust us. Many still hate us.”
Mretlak nodded, although he differed with Lentsul over the magnitude of the hatred and danger he perceived among the humans. “These, too, are circumstances for which we should be prepared. Happily, the backdoor subroutine gives us a way of disabling the program before it can be used to such evil ends.” And so will protect us all from other dangers which you are both too myopic and too idealistic to perceive, good Lentsul.
***
Jennifer Pietchkov entered the stateroom she shared with Alessandro Magee and did not stop to talk or even glance around. She strode toward him where he stood next to their outsized bunk and did not stop until she rammed into him, chest to chest, her arms snapping around his broad back. “Tank, this is killing me.”
She felt her otherwise unflappable Marine major husband stiffen in immediate fear. “What? What’s killing you, Jen?”
“The not knowing. The waiting. The nightmares about me returning alone to Zander to tell him that his Dad—dad is dead. Or the nightmare where everyone else is coming home to parades and medals—but Zander’s still standing there, waiting for his parents. And they never get off the ship. And he just stands there, waiting, until—”
Tank hugged her so close that it was almost painful, but that was good: it pulled her out of the dream-memories, back into the moment. “That’s not going to happen,” he said.
She reared back, looked him in the eyes, looked for any doubt, saw none—which alarmed her more than if she had. She held him at arm’s length. “Alessandro Magee, you are not indestructible. You do not have some halo of endless good luck hanging over your head. You do things like—today—long enough, often enough, and your number will come up.”
He put his hands over hers, where she held him by the shoulders. “Jen, we didn’t ask for this war. But it’s here. And I have to see it through. That’s what this uniform, what this insignia of rank, mean. I don’t get to stop just because I’ve done it enough to tempt fate—whatever that means.”
“No, but you don’t have to be in the lead, all the time.”
“And I’m not. There’s Harry Li, and a bunch of the new officers we’re bringing in to the Bloodhound SpecRec group—”
“All of whom you rotate out of the field command slot when you know the mission is going to be hot.”
“They have to live long enough to know how to lead well, without losing their heads—figuratively or literally.”
“That’s bullshit, Tank. You were a newbie, once, too. And you managed to survive this long without such careful mentoring. No: you just can’t bring yourself to make them take the same risks that you do. Harry says—”
Tank’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? And just what does Harry Lighthorse Li have to say on this particular topic?”
Shit. Well, no going back now—“He says he wishes you’d let him lead more often. That you’re too busy taking care of your men, that you don’t properly take care of yourself.” Seeing the frown building on Tank’s face, she played her trump card. “And he says that you need to remember that you’re a father now, but that you’ve given above and beyond the call for so long that you don’t know how to step back. That by risking yourself again and again to keep your men out of danger, you risk forcing your son to grow up with a blank space where his father should be.”
Tank’s frown broke, and his strong, rough-hewn features seem to fold in upon themselves, painfully constricted as if he was suffering a heart attack.
Jennifer grabbed him in a hug again. “Tank, Tank: look at me. I’m sorry. But it has to be said. Because it has to change. It has to. Zander needs you; I need you. The time has come for you to teach your men by letting them lead, letting them shoulder the burdens you’ve carried for so long.”
’Sandro’s immense torso expanded and contracted through a long, deep sigh. “Jen, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t make any promises. I’m not calling all the shots. Just like today: I got my marching orders directly from Captain Knight and Commodore Wethermere. They had to be sure there were no screwups, that we succeeded in taking that Kaituni ship, no matter what—”
“No matter what,” Jen repeated darkly, running her hands down Tank’s chest before stepping away. “That’s pretty much the defining phrase in all this, isn’t it?”
“You know it is,” he answered miserably. “You’ve known that from our first date. I’m a soldier. When we weren’t at war, I could choose to resign or not when my tour was up. Now, being so far from home and with all enlistments extended until the resolution of the crisis, my choice is to serve or desert in wartime. And you know what that means.”
Jen nodded, felt safer on the other side of the compartment while loathing the distance she had had to put between them so that she could think, so that she could be an advocate for herself and their son and their family. Balanced on the razor’s edge of life during wartime, all she wanted to do was be as close to him as possible, as long as possible. But if, instead, she kept reminding him, kept pushing for him to relent just a little, then maybe he wouldn’t go on some missions. And one of those missions he missed might be the one that would have otherwise had his number on it, that could mean—
She felt his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Jen. I don’t want to—”
She turned and held him so close that he couldn’t finish his sentence.
Which was fine, because she didn’t want him to speak.
Neither of them did for several hours.
Ankaht was waiting for Ossian as he emerged from the conference room in which he had briefed Rudi Modelo-Vo on the disposition and standard operating procedures of the Special Recon Detachment. Had Ankaht been pressed to define the human’s expression, she suspected the word “glum” would have been appropriate. “It has been a difficult day, Ossian?” she asked.
“I’d say that’s a fair assessment,” he answered in a voice that was more clipped and precise than usual.
They walked together in silence for the better part of a minute, but it was a comfortable silence. Unlike many humans, Wethermere was truly capable of being companionable without speaking; he radiated fellow-feeling the way few of his species did. It was almost as if he sensed a narmata among his own kind, even though they were blind and deaf to its existence. She wondered what turns their relationship might have taken had he been a sensitive like Jennifer, or more interesting still, an Arduan himself—
She recoiled from the thought. However admirable some humans might be, they were nonetheless zheteksh: creatures that lived and then died, once and finally. They did not reincarnate, they had no telempathic bonds between them, and they had no race memories. Although in the case of Wethermere, she was tempted to wonder: the admiral who had been his mentor, Erica Krishmahnta, had reportedly called him “Old Soul” on several occasions. Given the significance of that label in the late admiral’s Neo-Hindu faith, Ankaht wondered if, just maybe—
But no: whatever more sublime mysteries might lie beneath their alien consciousness, humans were still ineluctably the products of their short, finite, and ultimately brutal lives. Their entire existence was suffused with a sense of breathless urgency, racing against the clock of their own mortality, engendering all the acts of desperation that one might reasonably, if tragically, expect from such creatures. With no hope of better things in a later life, they were profoundly and ruthlessly self-seeking: they lied, murdered, cheated, and stole with alarming frequency and from the most selfish of motives. Although, Ankaht wondered, would we Arduans be any different if we had but one journey through the halls of existence? If compelled to walk in their shoes, would we not find many, if not all, of their motivations and foibles becoming our own?
But whatever the answer to that question, and whatever the relative moral merits of their respective species might be, it was folly to even attempt to imagine how relations with a human might be different if that other person was not, in fact, human. The particulars of a species left its imprint so deeply and pervasively upon each of its members that it was a pointless speculation to wonder how they might be different. Because if Ossian had been born an Arduan, he would not be Ossian. He would be something else. And so, ironically, I might not feel this strange kinship with him, because there would be no joy in bridging the speciate gulfs between us. For those gulfs would not exist and neither would our joint triumph in bridging them.
Perhaps that extraordinary bridge of amity and trust between the two of them was what Miharu Yoshikuni sensed, without fully realizing that she did. That could certainly explain why the admiral’s relationship with Ankaht had subtly but steadily eroded in direct proportion to her growing intimacy with Ossian. Yoshikuni’s was not a sexual or romantic jealousy—the mere thought of what that implied brought Ankaht to the verge of nausea—but an envy of her interpersonal intimacy with Wethermere. Which was possibly fueled by the fear—or worse, the knowledge—that Yoshikuni knew that she would never allow herself to share such easy and profound closeness with him. And perhaps Ossian sensed that, as well.
So: best tread carefully when inquiring after the events of this day. “You did not seem to expect being removed as the commander of the recon detachment.”
He looked sideways at her with a rueful smile. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
The understatement was not meant as an ironic insult—not quite; Ankaht decided to ignore the slight barb buried in it. “My perspicacity is unrivalled.” He smiled more fully at her willingness to play along in the same vein. “But did she give no intimation of this impending change as you and the admirals developed your basic concept of operations?”
“None. Although now I understand why she left some features of the plan vague.” He shrugged. “I presumed that she saw no reason to fill in the details until we knew exactly where and when we were going to have to carry out this maneuver: the specifics of the scenario would logically determine the specific tactics we’d employ. But now I suspect she was ruminating on taking this step from the very start.” He shook his head. “I just don’t know why she put off telling me. I mean, I take her point about my being the PSU representative, even though I don’t agree that it is a sufficient basis for her to relieve me of it. What I don’t see is why she didn’t make her concern clear from the start, so we could plan appropriately, maybe get Modelo-Vo up to speed when the time came for him to take over. Or better yet, get someone else to sit in that chair. Like Knight, for instance: he’s the officer for that job.”
“I conjecture that Admiral Yoshikuni did not mention it earlier because she had not made up her mind about what she was willing to do. So she put it off.”
Wethermere smiled again. “You mean, because she was worried that I’d pester her endlessly about changing her mind?”
“That, yes. But also because I think she needed to be certain of why she was taking the step of removing you from command.”
Wethermere slowed, turned to stare at her. “What do you mean, ‘why?’ She told us why.”
Ankaht slowed to match his pace but did not match his stare. “All beings, particularly those without selnarm, often have many reasons for their actions—more reasons than they are willing to share openly.”
“Are you suggesting that she was influenced by—‘personal’ considerations?”
“Ossian, she may be the Iron Admiral, but she is still a feeling being. I would be startled if her emotions were not conflicted in this matter. Given her dedication to duty, my suspicion is that she wanted to be sure that she was transferring you out of the recon detachment for the correct reason—the fact that you represent the PSU in this fleet—rather than out of personal attachment and fear for your well-being.”
Wethermere raised an eyebrow. “Trust me; Miharu Yoshikuni would never allow her personal feelings to influence a command decision.”
“I didn’t say she would. But I do not share you apparent surety that she would never find it difficult to summon the resolve to do so.”
Wethermere stopped at a T intersection. Ankaht did also, studying his face. Wethermere rarely looked perplexed, but he did now, glancing first at the left hand turn and then at the right.
“What confuses you?” Ankaht asked him.
“Not sure which way I should go.” Turning to see her unblinking stare, and shifting his two eyes in a fruitless and somewhat spasmodic attempt to engage all three of hers, he explained, “Usually I go left. That leads to dinner with Miharu in flag country.” He glanced to the right. “But tonight, I’m wondering if I should just make myself scarce. Get back to Woolly Impostor, prepare the crew for the change in management. And give Miharu space. It might be pretty awkward having me around right now, and she’s got to keep her focus on mission planning.”
“Of which you are customarily a part.”
“Yes, well—but I haven’t received any message to stay on board for a tactical review after finishing with Modelo-Vo.”
“Yes. Perhaps she is putting off further planning until tomorrow. It is rather late, after all.”
“It is,” Wethermere agreed, still looking down the right hand branch of the T intersection.
After several moments of silence, Ankaht asked him. “What do you want to do?”
“Me?” he asked, as if that consideration was so novel as to be surprising. “I’d go spend time with her. I think—I think this is hard on her. But Miharu doesn’t seek others when the going gets hard; she gets inside her shell and seals it up. Doesn’t open it until she’s sorted everything out.”
Ankaht curled one tentacle in slow understanding. “Yes, that is consistent with what I have seen of her. But it may be different now. Different with you, at least. Particularly here on the eve of battle and great uncertainty.”
“Maybe, but there’s no way to know that.”
“You are correct. And there is no way to learn without asking her directly how you might help her most, right now. She might ask you to take your leave. She might ask you to remain with her. But if you do not ask her the question, you will never know how she would have answered.”
Wethermere stared at Ankaht as if he was just seeing her for the first time. Then a slow smile spread across his face and he nodded faintly. “Good night, Ankaht. And thank you.”
“You are welcome,” she said to his back as he turned to the left with a purposeful gait.