“You speak of nothing but war,” says the representative from Geyahu. “Yet we have seen little evidence of it.”
“That’s because you stay on world,” I mutter.
“Do you not think there’s a reason for that?” Tarn thunders. “I’ve been trying to avoid a panic, which would lead to a recession. But by all means, sir, let me show you the reality. The whole Conglomerate shall see it now, for this conflict has become inevitable.”
At some unseen cue, a three-dimensional representation of a planet springs to life behind Chancellor Tarn. I don’t recognize it off the top of my head. It’s not a particularly lovely world, all dun and green, but his expression holds immense gravity.
“This is the Inabeni colony. Lost. No survivors.” He doesn’t need to elaborate. The subsequent images do it for him. “It is occupied territory now.”
A low moan fills the senate chambers. Even if they’re politicians, they can still be shocked by such carnage. To some degree, I’m inured to it by virtue of having waded through the bodies in person, but by the fourth still frame, I have to turn my face away.
“Occupied?” A man asks. “What do you mean?”
“It means you should remove it from all trade ships and cargo manifests, unless you care to do business with the Morgut.”
Doubtless my mother is working out a way to do precisely that. Shame coils through me, fierce and sharp. Not only is she heartless; she’s a traitor as well.
“They have a foothold in this galaxy, then, if they’ve taken Inabeni.” The squat, dark representative from Tarnus bears no resemblance to Dina, but then, why would she? Dina is a remnant of the royal family, who fell twenty turns ago. This representative will be furious when she learns about the recruitment of the old guard.
Tarn nods. “I am afraid so.”
The room falls into such an uproar that it takes a good five minutes to restore order. The Chancellor manages it by pitching his voice above the furor of conflicting ideas. “Ladies and gentlemen, steel yourselves. There is more.” Another planet follows. “Outpost 9. Lost. No survivors.” More horrific images appear, but they’re not still or quiet. They carry the screams of the dying into the room with us, courtesy of a security droid.
This is what Evelyn Dasad faced, alone on a dead ship. This is what she survived. No wonder Doc admires her, beyond their working partnership. She is a woman of fierce intelligence and indomitable spirit.
“Gerilo colony. Lost. No survivors. Ibova colony. Lost. No survivors.”
By the time he finishes, I am numb with grief. Even with my position in the Armada, I hadn’t known our losses were so severe. It makes our small victories seem futile. Seeing my mood in my face, March sets his hand gently on my shoulder. I try to take heart from it, but there’s worse to come.
Our news.
“What do they want?” a female representative demands. By her tone, she hovers on the verge of tears.
In the center of the chamber, Tarn stands commanding and tall—a fit chief to steer us through the wreckage. “Our resources, our lives, our worlds. Nothing less.”
“What can we do?” It is the man from Geyahu, humbled by what he’s seen.
“Fight. We can dance along the fringes of it no longer. We must commit all our resources now, before it’s too late.” Swiftly, Tarn outlines the preparations he’s made, and promises of aid received. “But all hope is not lost.”
Near enough, I think.
But Tarn is a skilled showman. First he showed them those images to establish the worst, and now he will offer them an alternative. He knows how to motivate a room.
He continues. “We’ve received reliable intelligence of where the Morgut intend to attack. I will not reveal that information here, but we’ll use it to plan our defense.”
“How did you come by this information? Can we be sure it’s not a trap?”
That must be March’s cue because he steps past and strides into the senate chamber. He cuts an imposing figure in his uniform, hair cut severely, and the marks of battle on his face. March stands for a moment at attention, waiting for Tarn to acknowledge him. Did he use his gift to know he was needed before any summons? There’s no question that this way is more effective. Tarn yields the floor with a graceful gesture.
“We pulled the data from a damaged Morgut vessel after we had defeated its crew,” he says. “I don’t see how it could be a trap. They had little reason to believe the message in its archives would ever be seen by human eyes.”
And no reason to think we’d understand, even if we did see it. The collection of odd technology rattling around inside has turned me into something other than human. If it becomes general knowledge, people will see me differently. I can already see distance in some of the crew.
“Thank you, Commander March.”
Nobody in the assembly seems inclined to argue, so March returns to the viewing room. I smile at him, but it’s distracted at best. I want to know what they decide.
“How many do we face?”
To his credit, Tarn doesn’t hesitate or flinch. “Three thousand Morgut ships.”
“It is impossible,” someone cries out.
“I could say we have faced worse odds, but I would be lying. Even during the Axis Wars, our outlook was not so grim. At least we had a standing armada back in those days.”
“Farwan has destroyed us,” the representative from Geyahu says bitterly.
Tarn shakes his head, grave and tired. “We let them.”
It’s true. After the Axis Wars, the Conglomerate was so broken that it had all but ceased to function. Humanity wanted another authority—an impartial one that would absolve us of bad decisions, like the one that led to the deployment of Karl Fitzwilliam to Rodeisia, despite the fact that he had little aptitude and less training. Because he was married to the right woman, he went.
And the whole galaxy paid.
Then Farwan stepped in. Trust us, they said to the Conglomerate. We’ll help you rebuild. We’ll negotiate treaties. Don’t worry about a thing. And we didn’t, not for hundreds of turns.
Small wonder we’re no good at it now.
“They will hide like insects, then pick up the pieces after the Morgut have all but annihilated us, just as they did during the Axis Wars. We will die for nothing.”
“You would prefer to surrender and still be slaughtered?” Tarn gazes around the assembly, waiting for dissent.
No one speaks.
A short man with a balding pate and a round build gets slowly to his feet. “I own a controlling interest in a manufacturing concern on Arkady. We will convert immediately to the production of warships.”
“I have a legion.” By the cut of his hair and the purple garments, this can be none other than the current emperor of Nicu Tertius. “They are brave men, but they’ve never fought off world. But if I order it, they will serve.”
The Ithtorian representative stands. Through Vel, he says, “I can see that the Morgut are more dangerous than we wished to imagine. If they are allowed to devour humanity, they will turn their eyes on greater enemies.” The room rumbles a bit at hearing Ithtorians called “greater,” but nobody protests. “We will commit our resources to updating our fleet and becoming a force to be reckoned with. We name Velith Il-Nok the general of our forces. He will lead our ships when we go to war.”
It is the only decision that makes sense, whether they respect him or not. No one else has been off world in two hundred turns. His knowledge makes him the natural choice, whatever their personal feelings.
As we watch, the rest of the Armada takes shape. They will buoy up our numbers. They’ll need training in our methods, but from so few ships, we leap to the promise of hundreds, possibly thousands.
I just don’t know whether the help will come in time.
CHAPTER 48
After the summit, I find Vel alone.
“You did it,” I say softly. “General.”
He turns from the window in his quarters. His carapace is still bare; he will not wear their stripes now, even if he leads them in war. I think that nak*dness comes of pride—I don’t think he would accept their honors. The light catches his faceted eyes, gilding the darkness. He is inexpressibly dear to me. I hold out my hands, and he takes them.
“It is not a title to which I aspired. It carries too much death.”
“I know. Regardless, I’m proud of you. How was it, working with the famous Miriam Jocasta’s daughter?”
“Catrin is a calm pool,” he tells me. “She is . . . restful.”
I manage a smile. “That’s probably nice, after being stuck with me.”
“Not better. Just different.”
I miss you. It’s all I can do not to speak the words aloud because clearly we’re going separate ways. From here his work lies on Ithiss-Tor, then he’ll have his own ship, his own crew. Like Constance, he can best serve away from me. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Are you all right?” I ask, a pale facsimile of what I’d rather say.
“I am lonely.”
His fearless honesty humbles me, and I fight the rising tears. “Me, too. Oh, Vel. This is so fragging hard without you.”
One step each, and the space between us vanishes. He releases my left hand, then, with odd reverence, touches his claw to the tattoo on my throat. I hold still, unsure what he intends.
“I have not cared so much since I left Adele.”
She was my mentor, and she was kind to me during the weeks on Gehenna in which I tried to make my own way. A memory comes to me: Vel wore Doc’s skin, and when we said farewell to her, Adele answered, I’ll be seeing you again, I think. At the time, I guessed she meant the words for me, but he just admitted caring for her. She must be the human lover he mentioned on Ithiss-Tor. If so, then she was talking to him. And that implies she recognized him, even in a stranger’s skin. What a deep bond; I’m not sure I’d sense the heart of him if he came to me in disguise. I like to think I would.
“She was special to you?”
“Yes,” he answers. “But I would wear your colors, if you asked.”
“I don’t know what that means.” I remember the merchants talking about such pattern exchanges, enough for me to know it’s significant.
“If we both survive,” he says softly in Ithtorian, “we will speak of this again.”
He winds his arms around me, more adept at comfort than I could’ve ever imagined. No longer awkward, no longer uncertain. He knows what I need, sometimes better than I do. The wire twined about my heart tightens to painful resonance. For an endless, wonderful moment, he tilts his head against mine. I remember he once said to me: White wave will never forsake brown bird. No one has ever made me feel as safe. Not even March.
For the first time—and perhaps the last—I lift a hand to his face. The chitin is cool and smooth, ridged where it joins the mandible. I don’t know how much he can feel it, or if he takes solace in the contact. For me, it’s an embrace within the embrace, another connection to ward impending loss. As if in answer to my unspoken question, he turns his head, leaning infinitesimally into my touch. Yes, the gesture says. I can feel this. It matters.