Chapter 5
ga E layun. trans: "engaged contest." a contention between two or more otran or groups of otran regarding a matter in dispute. according to what is understood of otran culture, a "ga e la yun" occurs when the opposing parties cannot agree on an interpretation of the matter according to the forty-eight recognized aspects of the unseen ([link entry]). the contest continues until all but one side concedes the matter and adopts the same view.
—Imperial Encyclopedia,
2405 Edition
never argue with an otran.
—author unknown
April 2422
In jump aboard Rxe E Mhnesr
The trip to Crozier was largely uneventful. The crew and officers of Rxe E Mhnesr seemed mostly related to each other—one big, happy family carrying on trade in a universe composed of aliens that they didn't—or chose not to—understand. Kot E Showan ran his ship with exactly the tone and style Jackie would have expected from a clever and wealthy uncle with a huge number of nephews and nieces, sons, and cousins. Captain Showan had a temper and no inhibitions to using it: When he had a full head of steam and his fingers were unlaced, most everyone stayed out of the way. Only Nel, the ship's purser and the captain's cousin, seemed willing to stand up to him and modify his tendency to bully the younger crew.
Jackie found the fare at Kot E Showan's table interesting. Some of it was clearly inedible by humans, even though it smelled (and probably would have tasted) wonderful. Captain Showan had managed to put in additional stores of food specifically for human consumption—probably at the last minute and probably at additional expense, after he had welcomed her aboard. He'd likely assumed that, whether she was traveling incognito or not, it wouldn't do to offend the High Nest.
The family relationships on Rxe E Mhnesr were a web of siblings and near-cousins. Nel was the captain's nearest relative: In addition to his duties on the cargo deck, he apparently ruled the kitchen, providing a greater variety of dishes than aboard an Imperial starship.
Two days out of Kensington and two from dock at Crozier, Jackie was sitting at the captain's table and decided to broach a weighty subject.
"Tell me," she said, as the remains of dinner were pushed away, "what do you make of the war?"
"Profitable," Kot E Showan answered. "Dangerous, but profitable."
"Have you had any brushes with the enemy?"
"With the vuhls? Not directly." She could hear a few quiet Hrrs from down the table, where a few juniors remained at the end of the meal. Kot E Showan leaned back, touching his fingertips to each other. "They don't trade much."
There was laughter among the otran, and Jackie couldn't help but smile as well. "I meant in a combat situation."
"This is not a combat vessel, se Gyaryu'har," the captain answered. "You asked if we contacted the vuhls . . . As I say, they do not trade with us."
"They'd more likely want to destroy or Dominate you."
"Then it is just as well."
"Forgive me, Captain, but you don't seem to view them in a particularly adversarial light."
"I do not view them in any light at all, madam. They are not Rxe E Mhnesr's concern, and therefore none of mine."
"The Solar Empire is at war."
"Hrr." Kot E Showan extended his hands on the table. "The war affects the way in which we do business, certainly, but it does not change our basic motivations. We trade; we travel. Our race has not been called upon to provide ships or troops. We do not interfere with the conduct of the war, but neither do we participate in it. Besides, a onetime adversary may be a future friend."
The others at the table murmured agreement.
"I doubt that will happen in this case."
"Do you. Why? Your race, and the race you serve"—he gestured toward the gyaryu and inclined his head—"were they not at war a hundred Standard years ago?"
"The situation is somewhat different."
"The situation is exactly, precisely, the same!" He slapped his hands on the table, causing the rest of the otran to fall silent. Captain Showan looked from one face to another, resting his glance at last on Jackie.
"Forgiveness," he said in a milder tone. "But governments in human space revel in rewriting the present and rewriting the past to accommodate the present. You do this constantly—finding ways to differ where you once agreed, and drawing parallels where none existed before. By The Unseen, please settle on your story and stick to it."
The other otran nodded and lightly slapped their hands on the table, indicating assent. It seemed that Captain Showan had been over this ground before and had just repeated something fundamental and profound.
"Again, forgiveness," he repeated at last. "First, for subjecting a guest to ga E layun; second, for associating you with the sometimes duplicitous human government. Though we do not see the lay of the mountains as the zor People do, we can at least understand them better."
Jackie reached out mentally to the gyaryu: What the hell is ga E layun? she asked.
That's their term for an argument, Sergei answered. Of course, it's more complicated than that.
"No offense is taken," she said aloud. "But I would like to understand ga E layun."
"Hrr," Captain Showan said. "Would you indeed."
She looked at the other otran, who looked very slightly amused, but who said nothing.
"Some of my na'otran—even my near-kin here on Rxe E Mhnesr"—he glared up and down the table again— "would argue that I no longer understand ga E layun. Still, I will try to clarify.
"On matters of importance, we believe that there should be accord. It only leads to unhappiness, to dissent; ultimately one opinion should prevail, when two or more disagree, there is ga E layun; in the end, one point of view is agreed upon by all."
"Someone wins the argument."
"Essentially, yes. One succeeds in the ga E layun."
"What if the disagreement is fundamental?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, se Gyaryu'har."
"What if there is no basis for agreement? What if the differences between the parties are simply too great to overcome?"
"Hrr. Then ga E layun continues."
"Until someone gives up."
Captain Showan nodded. "Just so."
"When ga E layun is over . . . don't the losers sometimes carry a grudge?"
"What do you mean?" he answered. "A 'grudge'—you mean, continuing resentment?" He shrugged. "No. Certainly not. Why should they? ga E layun is done. Why should the point be argued again?"
"But—"
From within the gyaryu she heard Sergei's voice: Let it go, se Jackie.
She looked away from Kot E Showan, to the other otran at the table, who all seemed to understand the point quite well. Telling herself that she'd look into it on her own, she nodded.
"Thank you, Captain."
In the end, Jackie received nothing but courtesy in exchange for her paid passage. When she reached Crozier System and parted company from Rxe E Mhnesr, she wasn't sure she'd really learned much of anything about them.
Crozier System
To her surprise, Jackie picked out Djiwara right away. He was standing near the back, watching items come up for auction; they came up on the big holo screen over the head of the auctioneer. Participants made bids with their comps—sometimes with visible gestures, sometimes not.
He saw her as she approached. She wasn't sure if he'd draw a weapon or decide to run; either might have been possible in a place like this, but neither happened. He just watched, comp in hand, his glance flicking from the auction holo to Jackie and back.
"Mr. Djiwara?" she said when she came close.
He nodded, not answering.
"I believe we should talk."
"My time is valuable," he said at last.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, I'm working, Ms. Laperriere," he said, looking directly at her with a gaze intended to scare lesser beings; she didn't think he'd expected to drive her off—this was some sort of pro forma thing, as if he was required to do it.
That he knew who she was didn't take her aback, so it didn't cause her much concern to be addressed by name. Furthermore, after years in the Navy and more years in the High Nest, it rolled off her back fairly easily.
"So am I."
"Ah, yes. The incomprehensible errands of the High Nest," he said, shrugging. "The hell with it, it's all crap anyway," he added, turning away and walking toward a side concourse.
"I understand," she said, falling in beside him, "that this is the pick of the castoffs from the Imperial Navy. 'Use once and discard.'"
"Right and wrong. Crozier System is the best place in the Empire to pick up bombs that the war leaves conveniently lying around. Bombs . . . ship fittings . . . even the occasional bit of alien tech." He looked at her owlishly, half smiling. "But this auction is all crap. The guy running it knows it, I know it, now you know it. Half the people in there, lowballing the bids, know it too."
"And the other half?"
"That's where the slimy little bastard up at the podium makes his money, Admiral."
"No one calls me that anymore."
"Too bad. I understand it's a good living these days, and a good pension—if you live long enough." He stopped and turned toward a door; they could hear soft music and loud conversation drifting into the concourse. "I believe you should buy me a drink."
A comfortable booth in a mostly dark bar seemed like an almost clichéd place to do business, but Jackie took it for the opportunity that it was.
"We have a mutual acquaintance," Jackie said. "I saw you with her at Zor'a Orbital Station."
"So?"
"So, I'd like to know where she is."
"I'm fairly sure she'd prefer you not know. Still, it's interesting to hear her talk: she sounds like a typical daughter of a typical mother."
"I'm not her mother." She's worried, too, Jackie thought to herself, remembering the dream.
"Obviously not." Djiwara took a long drink. "But her feelings for you are those of a child for a parent: admiration, anger, frustration, searching for insight, searching for respect. I know more than you might think."
"Ch'en'ya never hesitates to say what's on her mind."
"What's on her mind is . . . interesting. She believes that the war is almost over, did you know that? That victory is at hand—as soon as the Destroyer turns up."
"Whoever that is."
"I know more than you might think," Djiwara repeated. "I know that it's a bone of contention between you; but have you ever considered the possibility that she might be right?"
"What do you mean? That the war is almost over? That the Destroyer will be turning up next week to scare the vuhls away? That the way to win this war is to embrace the Strength of Madness?"
"All of the above."
As he said it, the noise in the bar seemed to hit a lull. For just a few moments there was a pause in the music, conversations failed, and the constant background noise of glasses and dishware and electronics took a rest.
When things picked up again as suddenly as they had stopped, Jackie leaned forward. "Okay, I'll bite. Tell me what you know."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Djiwara said, wrapping his hands around his drink. "You tell me you're looking for Ch'en'ya, but, regardless of whether or not you're working for the High Nest, how should I know that you're not an enemy?"
"Listen here, Djiwara." Jackie gave him back a withering glance every bit as potent as he'd used on her a few minutes earlier. "The High Nest is my employer. You know it and I know it. It has one enemy right now: in their natural form they're insects. If you were working for them I'd already know it.
"And you'd already be dead."
The merchant looked as if he had intended to reply, but the directness of her comment turned him aside.
A direct hit, she thought to herself.
"That begs the question, of course," Jackie continued after a moment: "For you to consider me a possible enemy, there needs to be something—or some group—for me to be an enemy of."
"It could be personal."
"Don't waste my time. You're not at the top of the pyramid; the boss doesn't run errands. I'm willing to believe that you're important enough to play 'driver' for Ch'en'ya—you and Captain Rodriguez, whoever he is— but I think I should be talking to someone farther up the food chain. Don't you?"
"You're no diplomat, Ms. Laperriere."
"And you're no fool, Mr. Djiwara."
Djiwara thought about this for several seconds, looking into his glass and then drinking from it.
"Aren't you a bit worried for your own safety? Flying solo into a place like Crozier System is a bit risky, don't you think? If I'm the wrong guy, or the wrong sort of guy, I could have you killed and no one would ever know what happened to you."
"You're welcome to try."
The merchant thought that over for a moment. "You're a cool customer."
"I've pierced the Icewall. If you don't know what that means, I'm sure Ch'en'ya can explain it to you."
"I know what it means." Djiwara frowned. "And you probably aren't expecting me to try and have you killed. What do you really want?"
"I want to see Ch'en'ya."
"She's gone. Outsystem. On the way to meet someone."
"Who?"
"I'm not at liberty to say, Admiral." He took a long, slow sip. "But there is someone you should meet . . . if you're willing."
"Who?"
"Someone closer to the top of the pyramid."
"And you'll introduce me."
"I believe I will. He can explain more of what we're doing. You might be surprised."
"At the what—or the who?"
Djiwara's frown collapsed into a single raised eyebrow. "Both."
Twenty-five years ago, when Jackie had accompanied hi Sa'a to Sharia'a, she had had a revelation about her role and the outcome of her quest to regain the gyaryu. She thought about it now, sitting in a passenger seat aboard the little shuttle taking her through Crozier System's inner asteroid belt. Djiwara sat opposite, head nodding forward—he looked as if he were sleeping, but Jackie wasn't fooled.
The quest had been in deadly earnest; it had cost the life of her friend and companion Ch'k'te—Ch'en'ya's father—as well as the hsi of Ch'en'ya's mother Th'an'ya. That was only the wing-talon, as the People would say. It had cost more than that, other burdens of which no one in the High Nest ever spoke.
That being said, it was also true that the quest had been a sham. The sword that she wore at her belt had been given away to the vuhls so that she could go get it. Passing the gyaryu from one bearer to another could have been more peaceful, as it had been when Admiral Marais died a century ago and Sergei—si Sergei—had received it. It had been the High Nest's decision to make the transfer process the reenactment of the legend of the great hero Qu'u.
Even that had turned out to be a cracked mirror. The vuhls had been manipulated by the true esGa'uYal, represented by Stone and the bands of colored light that he served—or commanded? Qu'u himself had reached into the foundations of zor culture millennia ago and manipulated legend to purify it of the taint of Despite.
If si Sergei had known this—if si S'reth had known this—would they have embarked on the course that led to the quest in the first place? And since si Sergei had carried the gyaryu for half his life, how could he not have known? When she had asked Qu'u about it, he answered her plainly enough; when she had looked into the darkness beyond his garden within the gyaryu, she had seen the rainbow path there.
How could he not have known? She had asked Sergei that at one point, too, years ago.
"To obtain an answer," he had said, "one has to ask the right question."
Sergei had never asked.
And when she went to Sharia'a with hi Sa'a, Jackie had had the vision of the future: Ch'en'ya side by side with the one she assumed was the Destroyer, surrounded by a mound of vuhl corpses. She knew then what she'd not known when she walked through anGa'e'ren from Center to the hi'esTle'e on Zor'a: That she was still on the Perilous Stair even then.
Even now.
"It is a shNa'es'ri, a crossroads. A step away—or a step forward. It is up to you to choose." hi Sa'a had said that to her that day, eerily echoing the Abbas-zor Jackie had seen at the center of Ur'ta leHssa. Both had quoted "The Flight Over Mountains."
hi Sa'a had also said, "You have not reached the Fortress, and pray to esLi that you never do." There was something of Jackie's current situation that reeked of Despite. She could neither foresee nor prevent danger at this point; and now Djiwara was going to introduce her to someone farther up in the organization. Was this the top of the Perilous Stair? Was she alone and undefended?
No, she thought, not the top. She rested her hand on the hilt of the gyaryu as she sat and waited. Neither alone nor undefended.
When the shuttle docked at an undistinguished piece of rock overbuilt with a rough shipyard, Jackie and Djiwara disembarked into a dimly lit companionway that looked like it was one loose joint away from decompression. It didn't look much like the Fortress of Despite, and she was fairly confident—after all these years, damn it—that if esGa'u Himself were lurking around, she'd sense it with the gyaryu.
Nobody around here like that, she thought, her gyu'u extended out as far and as deep as she could manage. But there's something.
The companionway began and ended with a hatchway. The one at the far end had already been swung open; harsh light from some interior chamber spilled out, along with a burst of chilly air.
She glanced at Djiwara as they walked down the corridor, but he didn't look back. There was a different expression on his face than any he'd shown up until now—it had almost a hint of fear, the sort that his usual bluster couldn't easily cover.
"The top dog doesn't have much taste in furnishings, does he?" she asked.
"He doesn't put much stock in furnishings," the man answered. "Of course, he's not here."
"Then what—?"
"You wanted to go up the pyramid, Admiral," Djiwara said. "The 'top dog' is busy elsewhere."
"'Busy'?"
"You'll know soon enough," Djiwara answered cryptically.
The chamber they entered was the hollowed-out center of the asteroid. It was at least thirty meters high and fifty across, with a large set of clamshell doors at the far end. It was cold: she could see puffs of breath from the people working below.
She counted at least a dozen aerospace fighters in various states of repair; men and women were hard at work patching and adjusting.
"Building a fleet?"
Djiwara didn't answer, but gestured. A man was approaching the place where they stood; he walked with authority, as if he owned the whole asteroid. Jackie hadn't known whom to expect; the image of the man she'd seen so many years ago at Sharia'a crossed her mind. She couldn't see the face because of a concealing hood on a heavy parka, but somehow she didn't think it was him.
Busy elsewhere, she thought.
There was something familiar about the figure—the walk, perhaps—she couldn't pin it down. He came across the open area, pulling his hood back as he came, and recognition came easily.
"I thought you were dead."
"There was no reason to make anyone think otherwise. No one gave a damn about Owen Garrett anyway," he said. "Just another tool."
Aboard Emperor Ian
ariel System
Emperor Ian was less than a minute from end-of-jump. Admiral Anderson was in the pilot's seat and the first team was in the chairs; telltales on the pilot's board showed the Admiral that everything that could be done before battle had been done already.
That was the skill of it, of course; the rest was luck and reflexes. Battle-plans were constantly going out the airlock when unforeseen circumstances interfered with them.
The idea, Anderson thought to himself, is to foresee more circumstances.
He expected this operation to be routine. They had identified ten enemy installations a short jump-distance from the keystone base; they all had to be neutralized before his command, and Admiral MacEwan's, took on Keystone. This one, designated ariel, was the first target; after they'd neutralized it, they'd move on to basalt, then cluster, then dagger . . . all the way to janissary, the final location before they took on the main base—and whatever was waiting there. Even if it wasn't the vuhl homeworld—and Anderson would bet a month's salary that it wouldn't be—they'd have a hell of a fight on their hands.
"Twenty seconds," the first-watch navigator said. Anderson looked around his bridge; it was a good crew and a good ship. The best.
Alan Howe, Emperor Ian's ranking Sensitive, stood near the gunnery station, thinking whatever Sensitives thought before they went into battle. Cameron Bradford stood beside him, looking at no one and everyone.
Several decks below, Jim Agropoulous' Marines were waiting for orders in case they were needed. No one was sure what they might find at ariel: a base, a squadron, a bug colony . . . More unforeseen circumstances, he thought to himself.
"Five seconds, Admiral," the navigator said without turning around. "Waiting for confirmation."
"Go."
The inky utterdark of jump gave way to silver streamers that resolved themselves into distant stars. Reflexes and ship's systems went into action as soon as Emperor Ian finished transition; defensive fields went up around the ship, gunnery and helm went online, and the pilot's board began tracking ships emerging from jump. Anderson watched as the codes for the starships Huan Che and Mortimer and the light carrier Lycias appeared on the pilot's board—the first ones to emerge from jump after his own flagship.
"All right, Alison," Anderson said to Alison Mbele, chief gunner of Emperor Ian. "Let's find some targets."
Mass-radar showed a small blue-white sun with nothing resembling an Earthlike world: six planets altogether at ariel—three hot rocks orbiting close to the primary, two gas giants, and one cold ball of ice at the edge of the system.
And no sign of activity. No ships, no energy readings.
"We know there was something here." Anderson swiveled the pilot's seat to look at Howe, who was examining the readings as Emperor Ian and its three sister-ships sped into the gravity well. Usually he left Howe alone—he most often had something else on his mind when they engaged the enemy . . . but there didn't seem to be an enemy to engage.
"Alan, do you have anything?"
The Sensitive straightened up and looked at Anderson. "No sir. There's nobody out there—" He glanced at the pilot's board as if to confirm it. "Though it looks like there's a pretty thick debris field in the fourth orbital."
"Could be a trap."
"If so, it would be the first time. They're not much given to traps, Admiral. More likely they abandoned the place."
"They're not much given to abandoning, either."
"Point taken, sir. But there's no one lining up to attack us out there"—he gestured at Ian's forward screen—"or in here." He tapped his temple.
"You're sure."
"No sir. Just fairly confident."
That was probably the best Anderson was going to get.
"All right. Comm, give me a systemwide channel. Form up plane-of-battle, configuration Gamma. Proceed into the inner system. Anderson sends."
The fourth orbital was one of the two gas giants, a huge mass with sixteen satellites of its own. Lycias deployed two fighter wings on the admiral's order. Soon telemetry and flyby readings were coming into the carrier's flight bridge and to Ian itself.
With his Marines on standby, Jim Agropoulous had joined Anderson on Ian's bridge. There was one likely target for spaceborne assault: an orbital station about fifteen hundred kilometers above the gas giant's atmosphere, clearly meant for refueling and the berthing of enemy ships. It was made of the same grayish material that made up the hulls of vuhl hive-ships; Anderson had received a full report on that from Agropoulous and Howe.
"But there's nothing to take," Agropoulous said. "Something blew a pretty big hole in the side of it."
He gestured to a spot on the side of an image hovering above the pilot's board; it had been created from several fighter flybys. The huge, irregular station looked as if it had been rammed by something the size of a starship, and readings indicated no internal atmosphere or energy expenditure. In fact, telemetry showed that its orbit was decaying gradually; the entire station would eventually drop into the gas giant's atmosphere to burn up or be torn apart by gravity.
"If they abandoned it, they could have blown it up," Anderson said.
"Why bother? Why not just push it out of orbit and let it be destroyed? Besides, Admiral, the analysis shows that this was an explosion on the outside, not the inside. "Something hit this station, and hit it hard."
"Advise me. Should we send some of your troops in there for a look around?"
"I'd launch a few probes first before we did a recon in force, sir."
"Fair enough. Alison, send an unarmed comm probe into the aperture. Let's see what we've got."
"Aye-aye," she answered. She worked at the console for several moments. "Ready to go, sir."
"Heave away."
"Launching . . . now." The pilot's board registered a new transponder code. A small meterlong probe streaked from one of Emperor Ian's torpedo tubes and moved across the distance between the starship's location and the damaged space station. Cameras and other sensoria aboard the probe registered on Ian's pilot's board.
An image of the alien station appeared, updating continuously. The huge irregular gash was dead ahead on the probe's current course.
"How long before it reaches the hole?"
"Fifteen seconds, Admiral."
"Display infrared," Anderson said. "We're not likely to get much from straight visual."
"Yes sir." Mbele adjusted controls from her console. The visual image was shunted to the side and a new holo appeared, showing the gash as an area slightly warmer than the space surrounding it: Whatever had caused the impact, the heat from the collision hadn't yet completely dissipated.
The impact hadn't been too long ago.
A lance of light suddenly erupted from the depths of the gash and struck the probe. Ian changed the probe's course, sending it veering away from the hole, but the beam tracked the movements of the probe for several seconds before ceasing as abruptly as it had started.
"What the hell—?" Agropoulous began, but Anderson waved him to silence.
"Damage report."
"We lost about twenty percent on all sensing equipment, Admiral," Mbele said. "But I don't think that was intended to destroy the probe." She turned to face him. "It was a comm-squirt, sir."
"A . . . message? From the vuhls?"
"It appears to be on a normal comm frequency. It looks as if we got it all."
"What's in it?"
"Some sort of . . . vid, Admiral." She returned her gaze to her console. "It's addressed to you, sir."
Anderson looked at Agropoulous and then back at his gunnery officer. "Send it through to my ready-room." He nodded to his Marine general. They walked across the bridge and through the hatchway into the ready-room, not sure what to expect.
"Voice-seal this room on my order," he said to the air. Ian's comp acknowledged. "All right, play the vid."
A burst of colored light appeared above his desk, resolving itself into a human figure, sitting at the conference table across the room.
"This message is for Admiral Erich Anderson of His Majesty's Fleet," the unknown person said. He was a young man, perhaps twenty-five years old, dressed in Marine battle-armor five years out-of-date—probably surplus. He was looking directly at Anderson; the man had an eerie, piercing gaze, like a Guardian's, which was a trifle unnerving.
"You will receive this communication sometime after you arrive in this system, which you have code-named ariel. I expect that its present state will come as a surprise to you. Let me clarify the situation for you in the simplest possible terms.
"My organization has taken up the task of finishing this conflict once and for all. The cautious half-measures that characterize fleet operations have proved insufficient for the task. Whether that is the fault of the leadership, or the fault of the plan they have chosen to execute, is no longer of consequence. It is time for new leadership and a new plan.
"I shall be that leader, and my plan is the one that we shall follow. What you see around you here at ariel will be the result: total destruction, as well as the extermination of the vuhl pestilence. We will not rest until every base is destroyed and every vuhl is executed.
"And very soon, Admiral Anderson, you will join us. It will be a new and final phase for this war, and it will only be achieved by embracing our own destructive urge. As a soldier, you should rejoice in the opportunity to carry out such a noble task, the greatest one ever undertaken by a warrior.
"My forces are already en route to basalt, Admiral. I expect that we will meet at janissary . . . or perhaps at keystone System, if you continue your plodding, deliberate pace. Do not come too late, or there won't be anything left for you to do."
The figure smiled, folding his hands in front of him on the table, and the image disappeared and was replaced by some sort of symbol: a star, shrouded in a swirling mist. Then it, too, faded away.
"You were more than just a tool, Owen. You were a loyal officer and an asset to the Solar Empire. The Guardians exist because of you."
"Nonsense. The talent I was able to teach a handful of Sensitives is part of Guardian training because of me . . . and only because our enemy"—he lowered his voice—"the real one: you know who I'm talking about . . . the real enemy gave me that talent. What the Guardians are now is because of Tonio St. Giles, my former second-in-command, and no other. Even before I'd given it up, he was clearly headed in another direction. His philosophy and mine diverged. So I resigned and headed for Port Saud."
"But Port Saud was vaporized—that's why everyone thought you were dead."
"So it was," Djiwara said. "Nothing there worth saving. We were twenty parsecs away when it happened."
"'We'?"
"Our organization," Owen said. He pointed to an emblem on the left breast of his coat: a star surrounded by a sort of cloudy haze; it had a 3-D effect that shimmered and glowed. "Blazing Star."
"And all of this . . ."
"The tail of the tusker. There's a whole tusker hiding out of sight, se Jackie."
"You're planning some kind of attack, I see. I hope that the High Nest isn't your enemy." She put her hand on the hilt of the gyaryu; Djiwara looked alarmed for a moment, then smiled.
"Anyone who gets in our way is our enemy," Owen Garrett answered without emotion. "The High Nest . . . the Solar Empire . . . and, of course, the bugs."
"You can't be serious. What can these crates do against a hive-ship? Leave the war to the Navy, Owen."
"To the professionals, you mean," he snapped back. "Those 'professionals' have prolonged this war for almost twenty-five years because they don't really know how to fight it. You treat the bugs as if they were a worthy opponent, rather than something to be exterminated. You of all people should understand what kind of enemy they are."
"We thought that about the zor a hundred years ago. You want to be the second Admiral Marais, do you?"
"Admiral Marais?" Owen laughed. "Why in hell would I want to emulate him? Look at what happened to him— he wanted nothing more than to defeat the ability of the zor to continue the war; xenocide was a possibility, but wasn't the only possible outcome.
"He could have exterminated an entire race. He could have killed every last one of them—but he accepted second prize. They were ready for him to do exactly that, until they came up with the half-assed sophistry that got them out of the moral bind that would have driven them to mass suicide. And, worse luck, he let them do it. He was weak.
"He could have had everything: he could have been emperor, he could have led humanity to an age where what I do—what Blazing Star does—could have been entirely unnecessary because humankind would have been prepared for a war like this when the bugs first turned up.
"But he wouldn't do it. He couldn't. And he wound up with nothing: he was exiled, reviled, and died a villain—instead of a hero. He got nothing for his troubles."
"Other than this," Jackie said, her hand on the gyaryu. She could hear murmuring from within it in her mind.
"The big prize. Glad you got pulled into it . . . by those so-honest zor, I imagine." He looked at her with a face full of anger. "They sure played straight with you."
"I think they have. And I think your view of Admiral Marais is so far off 'true' that I can barely respond."
"If Ch'en'ya were here, she'd say,'Pah.'"
"You know nothing about Marais."
"And I suppose you do."
She was ready to answer, but thought for a moment and then said nothing.
"So, what do you intend to do? What's your big plan to defeat the vuhls, then?" she asked at last.
"This war isn't about defeat: it's about extermination."
"What do you mean?"
"You have no idea what they want. They want to breed us. They've exterminated a half-dozen races on their way to finding us, and they've decided that we're too big to wipe out. When they infiltrated Cicero, back when this all started . . ."
Owen looked away as if distracted; Jackie felt continued disquiet from the gyaryu.
"When they infiltrated Cicero," he repeated, "it was a stepping-stone to taking over the entire Solar Empire. They don't want to destroy us—they want to make us into subject races. There's only one way to keep that from happening."
"And how does se Ch'en'ya fit into all of this?"
"She believes as we believe." He touched the star-symbol on his breast. "The Talon of esLi understands the need and agrees with the goal. And she's a wealth of information."
Jackie's stomach dropped. "She told you about—"
"We have the whole battle-plan, from ariel to janissary," Owen said, smiling. "Fleet deployments, schedules, everything. She brought a comp with her, so it's all in our hands."
"You have it—so that you can thwart it?"
"Certainly not! Why would we want to thwart it? We're not competing with the Imperial Navy—far from it. In fact, we hope that the Navy will follow our lead. It's what they should have been doing for the last twenty years. They always lacked the will to do what was necessary."
"This is about 'will'? You think . . . You think winning this war is a character issue?"
"Winning this war is a leadership issue," Owen answered. "For the first time we have a leader."
"The Destroyer."
"That's what the enemy calls him."
"What do you call him?"
"We call him . . . the Prophet."
As Emperor Ian moved toward the jump point Admiral Anderson remained in his ready-room, watching and rewatching the vid. After completing a survey of the rest of the system on his order—with a confirming comm-squirt to Oberon—his command was headed for gorgon, the seventh target in the battle-plan. If the interloper—whoever he was—intended to stay a jump ahead of Anderson's battle group, then the thing to do was to get a few jumps ahead of him. Whoever this arrogant son of a bitch turned out to be, he'd have his chance to explain himself from Emperor Ian's brig.
Still, Anderson couldn't help but be disturbed as he replayed the squirt that the comm probe had received.
Somehow the battle-plan had come into the man's hands. He knew that Anderson had targeted ariel; he knew the comm frequency to use, and he accurately foresaw that there would be an opportunity to leave the message.
But what did he want?
"We will not rest until every base is destroyed and every vuhl is executed . . . And very soon, Admiral Anderson, you will join us."
He wasn't sure what to make of those statements. The war seemed no closer to completion than it had been a month ago, before the attack on Tamarind . . . but things seemed to be moving out of his control and away from his understanding. He had devoted his entire career to this war, and now, here was a civilian, talking about winning it.
Maybe there would be an answer at gorgon, or at janissary, or even at keystone.
"Do not come too late," the man in the vid had said, "or there won't be anything left for you to do." A hell of a thing to say, when keystone was supposed to be the Valley of Lost Souls.