Chapter 6
the order's initial teacher was commander owen garrett, who claimed to receive his talent from some unknown source. it is true that it was awakened in that manner: but it was always there, just as it is always there in most humans . . .
his vision, if it can be called that, was far too superficial. his power was derived from anger and hatred: anger at the powers that gave him his ability, anger at the vuhl enemy, anger even at the zor high nest that sought to use him for its own purposes. his anger made his focus narrow. it limited him. it made him blind to the unlimited possibilities beyond the gate.
—Antonio St. Giles, Master of the Inner Gate,
Opening the Gate,
Green Book Edition, 2405
April 2422
Pearl Harbor, Imperial Oahu, Sol System
In the brilliant sunlight that dappled the harborside, Dieter Xavier Willem, Solar Emperor, greeted each of the guests who had chosen to attend his soiree. Not that any of them, once invited, would stay away: A few hours rubbing elbows with their fellow elite on the lanai of a marble-fronted beach house at Pearl Harbor was infinitely preferable to watching war news on the 3-V alone in Kauai—the closest many of them often ever came to the center of power.
So there they stood in twos and threes, sipping mai tais or g'rey'l and fresh-squeezed orange juice, as Emperor Dieter and his beautiful empress Katja, or Prince Cleon, or the princesses Samantha or Joanna moved among them, offering a greeting here—touching a hand there— never more than a few meters from the functionaries in gray uniforms: the Guardians.
Most regular attendees to the Imperial presence had accustomed themselves to the additional presence of the Guardians wherever the emperor went—but it was difficult to ignore them entirely. Unlike the Household Guard, the only ones permitted to bear arms in the Imperial vicinity, or the servants who moved about refilling glasses and offering delicate canapés, the Guardians were hard to completely block out: they were constantly on the alert, moving silently through the crowd, staying close to the members of the Imperial family. They were never part of any conversation but always listening, constantly observing, and never out of sight. They were a largely anonymous group, as if they were invisible inside their gray suits, the single earring consisting of four hands clasping each other by the wrist their only adornment.
Of all the Guardians—and no one was sure how many there were—there was only one who anyone who watched 3-V would recognize: Antonio St. Giles, the commander. For almost twenty years he'd been there in the background, doing whatever the Guardians did.
"Protecting the emperor": that was the standard answer. No one in the civilian world was quite sure how they did their jobs—but every holo of Emperor Dieter showed a Guardian (very often St. Giles himself) standing beside him.
Ubiquitous. Silent.
Creepy.
But, with an enemy capable of changing shape, entirely necessary.
After a round of greetings, the emperor returned from the sunlight to the shade of the overhang. He took up a delicate Corcyran goblet—the best crystal that world had had to offer before it was eradicated by the vuhls in the first year of the war. St. Giles was a meter away, hands clasped behind his back, leaning slightly forward on his toes.
A passing waiter poured liquid into the emperor's glass, under St. Giles' gaze. The servant didn't appear interested in giving any emotional ground to the commander, but still finished his job as quickly as possible and glided away. The emperor took a long drink.
"Ahh. Damn, Tonio, this is boring."
"Yes, sire," St. Giles answered. He tried not to let his face show how bored he was.
"Look at those poor bastards," he continued, gesturing with his glass. "Half of them are refugees, spending what little they have left to keep themselves going in style. No worlds to go back to—no fortunes, no estates."
"They hope we'll win the war, sire," St. Giles said, looking away from the emperor for a moment to concentrate on a party of five that had just been announced.
"Just what I said."
The emperor drank off the rest of his goblet and set it down on a tray where it rocked back and forth for a few seconds before another servant caught the priceless thing and whisked it away to wherever such objects go when emperors are done with them. "Poor bastards. They still have hope."
"Hope is a powerful motivator, Your Highness. I daresay it's one of your most important occupations—to inspire the people and give them hope."
"You wouldn't be trying to tell me how to do my job, now, would you?"
"I wouldn't think of it, sire."
"Just as well. Inspiring the masses is a thankless task, I assure you. For half a credit I'd . . . Well, everyone must do what he must," the emperor continued absently. "Where the hell's my drink?"
A servant carried a tray into view. As it passed he picked up a glass from it with the skill and poise of a trained courtier. He downed half of it at a run. St. Giles didn't make any comment in reply.
After a moment the emperor continued, "At least I have you at hand, Tonio. Otherwise I'd have to worry about more than just their angst." He smiled at his own humor as he sipped his drink.
"As Your Highness pleases."
"Well, I'd best get back to it," the emperor added, and walked back into the crowd. St. Giles watched the faces of the guests move from languid to animated as he approached.
He wasn't like this thirty years ago, St. Giles thought to himself. A quarter-century of war will wear anyone down.
St. Giles' attention was distracted by the arrival of another Guardian coming up the steps at the harborside; the other caught his eye and approached, weaving through the clusters of nobles who parted to let him pass. St. Giles stepped away from the table to stand near a marble statue.
The other Guardian came alongside St. Giles and extended a hand. Normally members of the order didn't exchange salutes, much less handshakes, but the younger man extended his middle and index fingers to tap once and then twice in the center of St. Giles' hand. With the second tap he extended a tiny comm capsule. The commander betrayed no emotion, slipping the capsule into a pocket as he affected to wipe his palm on his jacket. It was all done with a single smooth motion.
"Just back from Australia?" he asked, responding to the hand signal.
"Yes sir, and I got a good look at the yaminon. Beautiful creatures."
"I'm sure," St. Giles said. If you like wombats, he thought, but it was the correct password for the day. "Was there anything else?"
"No sir."
St. Giles dismissed him with a wave and walked back toward the emperor.
"What was that about?" the emperor asked, turning away from a diplomatic attaché and two courtiers. "Nothing critical, I hope?" he added, with an air of not really caring.
"No, sire. Some details for me to attend to."
"Guardian mysteries." Emperor Dieter smiled. "As if there are any."
St. Giles smiled as well but thought to himself, If you only knew.
Oberon System
At Oberon System, Jackie was back to being a celebrity; there was no need to travel incognito any further.
Oberon was the closest Imperial port to Crozier System, and was a logical first stop on her trip home. She wasn't going to get any closer to Ch'en'ya—or the top of the pyramid: "the Prophet," the one Owen had spoken of. She'd found out where Ch'en'ya had intended to go, and Owen Garrett wasn't about to let her follow—even for the sake of old friendship.
As if that would even matter to him anymore, she thought.
She arrived insystem aboard the merchanter Birgitte Louise, a short-hauler with a sutler's contract with the Imperial Navy, providing specialty goods to the ships in forward deployment; it was only allowed to dock near the jump point. However, her credentials got her priority on a shuttle headed for the big naval base.
Owen had provided her with a message comp for the High Lord and the Solar Emperor. It wouldn't be welcome news: a group of mad interlopers—civilians, mostly—were screwing with the war effort against a frightening enemy. What was more, her former ward had delivered the entire keystone campaign battle-plan to this group of lunatics. It was hard to even imagine what Admiral Anderson's reaction would be.
As it happened, she learned about it sooner than she would have thought.
Oberon Starbase was a huge, dispersed structure thirty kilometers long with facilities for docking dozens of ships of all sorts. As her shuttle approached, she saw a fleet carrier anchored at an end berth; the shuttle pilot's board ID'd it as Tristan da Cunha, one of the Navy's four seventh-generation carriers, the top of the line. The board also showed a small red flag next to the transponder code, meaning that the fleet's Admiral of the Red was aboard: the third-ranking officer in the Navy, behind Admiral of the Blue Erich Anderson and the First Lord himself.
Jackie took no more than five steps down the ramp before meeting up with a dress-uniformed, white-gloved lieutenant from Tristan. He offered her a smart salute and said, "Lieutenant David Chang. Admiral's compliments, ma'am. If you would follow me."
Jackie made to sling her kit over her shoulder, but Lieutenant Chang wouldn't hear of it. He commandeered a passing rating to carry it, and the three of them formed a little procession, moving along the dock at flank speed toward Tristan da Cunha's berth.
Access to a fleet carrier berthed at a station is different than a simple airlock gangway for a starship. Carriers are huge spidery vessels with arms projecting out from a central core, and extensive sensor equipment strung between them; the gangplank from a base to a carrier extends outward for hundreds of meters to a lift shaft anchored somewhere forward of Main Engineering.
For fleet carriers bearing the flag of the Admiral of the Red, the gangplank had an automated walkway like the ones found in commercial spaceports; the three of them stepped onto the silvery semifluid tread of the walkway and were whisked along at thirty klicks, slowing gradually to a halt in front of the lift entrance. At this point Chang dismissed the rating without a word, shrugged the kit onto his own shoulder, and gestured to the lift.
"How'd you know to meet me?" Jackie asked, already knowing the answer.
"Admiral's orders, ma'am, from the time you were ID'd coming in from the jump point. The XO was prepared to meet you with nineteen sideboys at dockside, but the admiral countermanded it."
"I suspect I know why," Jackie said, smiling.
"I'm sure you do, ma'am," Chang answered, trying to conceal a smile of his own.
The lift dropped them directly to a broad concourse. From where she stood, Jackie could see that it traversed the long axis of the carrier and was wide enough to hold a parade. The carriers of a generation ago could practically fit inside the space. It was mostly full of crew and officers lined up at attention, with the Rear Admiral of the Red out in front, beaming a smile of her own as bagpipe music struck up behind.
When the ceremonial tune—"The Brave Six," the anthem of her homeworld of Dieron—faded off, Jackie stepped forward and offered Admiral Barbara MacEwan a salute. "Permission to come aboard, Admiral."
"Good to see you," Barbara said. "Welcome aboard." They grasped each other's forearms, zor-fashion.
"This is quite a tub."
"'Tub'?" Barbara smiled. "Well, we're still breaking her in." She led Jackie along the saluting front row for an inspection; Jackie could see the ranks of sailors trying to combine standing at attention hoping to get a look at the famous Gyaryu'har of the High Nest.
"What brings you to Oberon System? . . . If it's any of my business, of course," Barbara added.
"I'm just stopping over on the way home. I didn't know you were here—but since you are, we should talk."
"Delighted," Barbara answered, then stopped and turned to the assembly. "All right," she said loudly. "Show's over. Dismissed." The crowd dispersed on the double, traveling singly and in groups in all directions. Barbara led Jackie back to the lift, with four officers in tow including Lieutenant Chang.
"Tristan's brain trust," she said to Jackie, pointing to each of the others. "Commander Arturo Schelling, my XO. Senior Wing Commander Ron Marroux. David Chang you've met—one of the best young engineers in the fleet. And Dr. Henry Santos, my Chief Surgeon."
"Glad to meet you all," Jackie said, as the lift began to descend."'Brain trust'? You mean Barbara lets you get a word in edgewise?"
"She buys the drinks," Schelling said, and they all laughed. "Wouldn't want to be anywhere else."
"I guess being an admiral has its advantages," Jackie said to Barbara. "This is quite a ship—she's almost as big as a hive-ship from the look of her."
"She's wider than the small ones we fought at the beginning of the war, and she's longer fore-and-aft than those guys, too. But the new ones, especially the ones we've seen in the last few years— Well, we're still out-massed, like it or not. They're throwing more and bigger things at us all the time." The lift stopped its descent and began to move forward. "So—to what do we owe this honor, se Gyaryu'har?"
"She finally learned to pronounce it," Jackie said, and the officers laughed. Ten years ago she would've erupted at them for their insolence, she thought to herself. Barbara's temper was legendary in the fleet, but these days it was more a matter of legend than fact—she mostly saved her anger for the enemy. She commanded tremendous loyalty from her subordinates—Jackie could see that, right in front of her.
The lift slowed to a halt and the group disembarked across from a doorway, which slid aside as Barbara approached. A yeoman was waiting just inside a spacious commander's wardroom; the table was set with linen and china bearing the MacEwan crest.
Barbara took her place at the head, with Jackie on her right; the others stood near other chairs down the table. The yeoman poured brown liquid into a small glass next to each setting. The officers came to attention, then reached as one for the glasses and raised them.
"To the Solar Emperor, long may he reign, and to the High Lord of the High Nest, may the Golden Light of esLi shine upon her wings.
"To the memory of the brave and courageous departed," Barbara MacEwan continued. "May their sacrifice never be in vain.
"To the Service," she concluded, raising the glass to her lips. Each of the others did the same, as did Jackie, and all drank. An exquisite single malt coursed down Jackie's throat.
The glasses were placed on the table in unison.
"Be seated," Barbara said, and the group took their places. The steward moved from seat to seat, pouring wine into the crystal glasses. "Glad you could be with us," she added, to Jackie. "We heard you were coming and threw something together."
"Glad to be here. 'Threw something together'? With the best china and crystal?" Jackie smiled. "I think I'm underdressed. You set a wonderful table."
"Part of the job description. Even in wartime." Barbara picked up her wineglass and turned it appreciatively; it caught the light and made a pattern on the tablecloth. "This is Corcyran. It came from my great-grandfather's house, and it's irreplaceable—it isn't made anymore, since the enemy vaporized everything on the surface of the planet." She set the glass down. "Of course you know the story, don't you? An enterprising individual can set down on the surface of Corcyra Four and get rich picking through the debris, gathering up crystal goblets and pitchers. If the radiation doesn't kill him first."
"'Net legend," Schelling said. "Even if you could get to the planet, there's nothing worth saving."
"Everybody wants to believe something," Henry Santos commented. He took a sip from his wineglass. "Fighting for the glory of the Service means fighting for the right to have Corcyran crystal on your table. It's like the story that the most famous glassblower on the planet got away, and is working secretly for the emperor . . . What's gone is gone, but people will believe what they want."
"Is that a bad thing?" Jackie asked. "The Solar Emperor himself does his best to inspire people to believe in the Empire; life goes on, even in wartime."
"No, it's not that bad a thing," Santos answered. "But sooner or later you have to come to terms with the fact that what's gone is truly gone. Planets—people. We've fought this war for a generation, and may be fighting it a generation from now. There are things and people that we'll never get back."
"You're Ray Santos' son, aren't you?"
"Yes ma'am," Dr. Santos said, raising the glass slightly in a salute. "My dad thought the world of you, ma'am."
"He was a fine officer and a good man. I . . . was sad to hear of his death."
Ray Santos, once Barbara's exec, had been killed at Second Josephson. Jackie could see Ray's face in the young doctor; she hadn't thought about Ray in years, but Barbara was clearly reminded of him daily.
"Tell me," Jackie said, again addressing Henry Santos. "You're a trained professional, but hardly an impartial observer." Jackie paused as the steward set a soup bowl in front of her. "Do you bear a grudge against the vuhls? Because of your father?"
"That's hardly a fair question," Santos said.
"No, it's a very fair question. Let me apologize for asking it, but I want to know. Do you have a grudge against our enemy, a personal score?"
Santos took up his soupspoon and ladled a little bit of the broth out, then let it trail back into the bowl. "And if I did?" he answered, looking down.
"We all have personal scores," Barbara said. The other officers were quiet, watching intently. "I lost a third of my crew at First Josephson with Duc d'Enghien. My chief engineer aboard Mauritius was blown into space along with most of his people at Menkalinan.
"Every time a fighter pilot is killed I feel it. After thirty years' service, almost all in wartime, I'm surrounded by ghosts.
"You must be the same—in fact, you must have grudges of your own. What are you suggesting, Jackie?"
"Nothing seditious," Jackie responded. "Recent experience suggests there's a possibility that personal grudges may influence professional judgment. While I was in Crozier System, I met an old friend of ours—Owen Garrett."
"Garrett's alive?" Barbara nearly dropped her spoon, but instead placed it carefully beside her bowl. "I thought he was killed years ago."
"So did everyone else, myself included. No, he's alive and involved in something very disturbing. He believes that we've been dragging our feet in this war."
"Like hell!"
"I don't agree with him, Barbara. This war has been a terrible experience, and uncounted numbers of brave people have fought and died in it." Jackie lifted her glass slightly to Henry Santos, who nodded. "But if you were told that there was a solution to the war, a chance to settle all grudges once and for all . . . ?"
"Like hell," Barbara repeated, more quietly this time. "No such animal. Even with Guardians and Sensitives aboard every ship in the fleet, we've never been able to completely even the odds against the vuhls. There's no magic formula, no secret pattern. I wish there were—I'm sick of the whole thing."
"Well, Owen claims there's another way, and that his organization is ready to take charge of it."
"As if we didn't have enough meddling."
"What do you mean?"
"A few days ago Erich Anderson had a hell of a shock. He jumped in on a target and found that it had already been taken—or, rather, taken out."
"Who took it out?"
"Didn't identify themselves, except by some sort of symbol. A star with—"
"—with clouds around it," Jackie interrupted. "That's them. That's Owen's organization: 'Blazing Star.' How did Admiral Anderson find out who did it?"
"A comm-squirt. Emperor Ian sent a probe to investigate a station hulk and was targeted with a message, addressed to Erich personally. It told him that they'd already been there, and expected to be one jump ahead of Anderson's fleet all the way to the prime target."
"keystone," Ron Marroux said. It was his first comment during the entire meeting.
"The . . . Talon of esLi believes that keystone is the vuhl homeworld," Jackie said.
"It's not," Barbara answered. "It can't be. Makes no sense—not just from the tactical perspective, but also according to the survey data. Two blue stars, nothing like a habitable world. Of course, survey data can be altered— it's happened before . . ." Barbara let an eyebrow go up; neither had ever forgotten Cicero. "But I don't see the point here. I don't give a damn what the legends might suggest—begging your pardon, se Gyaryu'har."
Jackie nodded.
"Still," Barbara continued, "recent events have stepped up the pace for us to get there and find out what the hell it is. I'm ordered to deploy Tristan along with my battle group, to support Erich Anderson—the Admiralty thinks it's that important."
"I'd like to see that message-squirt."
"After lunch, then." Barbara waved toward the steward to take away her soup. "I think you'll find that we have more than just nice place-settings."
"I never doubted it."
Colonel Marcia Tsang strolled into the crowded bar on Oberon's outer rim, a third of its circumference from Tristan's berth, and stopped in her tracks.
"Garrett," she said. Normally nothing fazed her; a few dozen years in His Majesty's Service had insulated her against most shocks and surprises. This was something different.
She walked slowly toward the series of small tables along the rear wall. Behind them was a steadily changing tapestry of rainbow colors, some sort of abstract art of the sort she generally hated. Next to each table was a pair of tall stools; Owen Garrett perched at the nearest one, with his chin resting on one fist. His mouth crooked upward in a half-smile, as if it were his regular seat.
"Thought you were dead," she said, when she came up to stand next to him.
"Tsang-Robertson, now, isn't it?" Owen Garrett said, beckoning to a stool. "Been a long time."
"Since Cicero." Tsang pulled herself into a seat. "Long time," she agreed. "You know, the jarheads don't like civilians hanging around our joints," she added, gesturing toward the rest of the bar. "And it's just Tsang again, thanks."
"No one seems to be objecting." It was true. The normally assertive Marines in the bar were keeping their distance.
"You're buying."
Owen nodded and waved at a disk set into the table. A server 'bot floated toward them.
"Didn't work out with Allan Robertson, I guess."
"You sure know how to start a conversation."
They gave their orders to the 'bot, which briefly scanned Owen's comp.
"Allan and I were together six years, which isn't bad for two soldiers between hitches. Look, he's a flyboy, I'm Marine. No hard feelings—he went his way, back to Tristan; I went mine, back to Stark."
Their drinks arrived. Marcia raised her glass. "To the emperor."
"The emperor," Owen agreed, and they drank. "Full colonel now, I see."
"I didn't realize you were keeping such close tabs on my career. Look, what's this about? I came in here for a drink and now I'm face-to-face with a ghost"
"No ghost, Tsang. And no accident. I heard that Admiral Stark was insystem, so I picked the most likely place to find you. Looks like I guessed right."
"Find me?"
"That's what I said." He took a sip of his drink then stopped and scowled at some particularly ordered pattern of colors on the wall display. After a moment it swirled into some other pattern and he looked away.
"You want something."
"Very direct. You always were. I like that."
"But you're not being direct. Look, Garrett, I like a free drink as well as the next soldier, but we were never mates even at Cicero. What do you want?"
"Let me tell you, Tsang. I've been renewing lots of old acquaintances in the last few months. People I knew a long time ago—people who knew me a long time ago."
"At Cicero?"
"Yes. And elsewhere."
He fixed her suddenly with a gaze that was far different from the one he'd had on his face moments ago. It was serious and intense, and there was something else—something to disturb even a Marine.
"Tell me, Colonel. What do you think of the conduct of the war so far?" Owen asked.
"I'm not sure what you mean." She took a long sip of her drink.
"Do you like how things are going?"
"What the hell kind of question is that? No, of course not. It's taken too long, and too many good people have died."
"And . . . why do you suppose that is?"
Marcia Tsang had been a soldier long enough to know when to keep her mouth shut. "I don't make policy, Garrett. I carry it out." She looked away, mastering her emotions. "I hope you didn't come back from the dead just to ask me that question, because the answer is really none of my business."
"I think you're wrong. I think it's the business of every soldier, every sailor, every pilot, every engineer. And every civilian, too, for that matter. You, me, everyone."
"You sound like you've already got your own answer. Okay, Garrett, you're buying the drinks: You tell me why we haven't won the war"
"That's easy. We're holding back, Tsang. We're waiting for 'the right moment,' when we can win the decisive battle and make the bugs give up. We're waiting for Admiral Anderson to administer the coup de grâce. Meanwhile, we hold back here and plod there, and never put a hundred percent into defeating them." He paused, waiting for her to challenge him.
She didn't oblige him.
"Tell me that I'm wrong," he said after a moment, a hint of anger in his voice.
"You know I don't need to. But you also know I'm not planning to criticize my admiral or the Imperial Government. I like my job, and I wouldn't like making big rocks into smaller ones for the rest of my life."
"Fair enough. But let me tell you something, Colonel Tsang. There's a change coming. And when it comes, there'll be a real opportunity for soldiers like you—who have seen the face of the enemy close-up—to make a real difference in this war."
As he said, " . . . seen the face of the enemy . . ." Marcia Tsang had a moment's flashback to the bridge of the starship Singapore, open to hard vacuum, floating in space at Cicero System. She'd been there, a young Marine lieutenant, when the war first overtook the Solar Empire.
"You can either be a part of it," Owen said after a moment, "or you can just stand by and watch it happen."
"And what do you want from me?" she asked quietly.
"Nothing." The colored lights seemed to align themselves again. Owen frowned, as if it were a personal affront. "For now."
"And later?"
"We'll see about 'later.' Just remember what I said, Colonel."