Extremis (91 page)

The Baldy ship which had eventually come through from Madras was not a warship at all, but a humble pinnace, ominously silent. It had docked with a special “liaison vessel” Trevayne had prepared: an expendable craft that had carried an all-volunteer crew of cleaners and sweepers, who had in due course declared the ship and its occupants clean.

Those occupants were now on board Trevayne’s flagship and due in the triple-guarded conference room at any moment. Mags was uncharacteristically still. “It could be a good sign that one of the two envoys is human,” Trevayne observed.

“Could be,” she answered. “Or it could mean they’ve learned how to make one of us a complete puppet.”

“Mags, if you’d rather not be here for—”

“No, Ian, no. I want to see the creatures that killed my mother. I want to—”

The door chimed. “Come in,” invited Trevayne. The guards did not change posture, but their hands were tighter around the grips of their guns.

The two beings that entered together made as strange a pair as any Trevayne had ever seen: a tall, spare woman in her early thirties, and a short, dark Arduan.

Trevayne drew himself up. “Since you did not elect to transmit your names or titles, I hardly know how to politely begin.”

The human woman smiled—but it was the Baldy who spoke. “I am. Ankaht. Councilor, Eldest Sleeper. Special envoy. To humans. I am also. Your prisoner. And. If necessary. A sacrifice.”

“I beg your pardon—a
sacrifice
?”

The human hastened to explain. “Admiral, my name is Jennifer Peitchkov. I am Ankaht’s—well, her translator. Ankaht is still trying to learn our language, and she insisted on constructing her introduction without my help. What she means by ‘sacrifice’ is that, if necessary, she voluntarily submits to execution in partial recompense for the ‘regrettable deeds’ of her people.”

Trevayne glared, aghast. “Damn it, Miss Peitchkov, I know what a sacrifice is. But have you bothered to inform this Ankaht that we are not such barbarians as she obviously presumes? With an introduction such as that, I have to wonder: Why has she come here? To commit ritual suicide?”

“No, Admiral,” said the Baldy named Ankaht. “I come. To make. Peace.”

39

A Final Twist of the Thread

Twist ye, twine ye! even so
Mingle shades of joy and woe,
Hope and fear, and peace and strife,
In the thread of human life
—Scott

Heliobarbus District, Melantho, Bellerophon

Alessandro McGee stepped out of the government transport, waved it on, scanned the bayside promenade that all the locals called the DropWalk, and spied what he was looking for: a lithe woman with long, sandy-blond hair hovering close to a formidable toddler who was obviously learning the finer points of how to run.

One part of McGee urged him to race over to them, to waste not one second of this precious existence apart from them—but the other part of him won out and slowed him to a stroll. This way, he could watch them together, because sometimes the deepest cherishing of others was attained more completely through observation than interaction.

So, when he finally sauntered up to the pair two minutes later, he had watched Zander progress from assaying a few unsteady strides to a sustained, if precarious, trot. But when the little fellow looked up—all the way up—and saw that the person who had come to join them was his father, his eyes disappeared behind chubby, smiling cheeks and he ran—truly ran—forward with a gleeful “Dada!”

Zander actually completed five long strides before—a smile still on his face—he started headfirst down toward the paving stones. But two great hands intervened, caught him up, and tossed him high into the air. Zander screamed in delight, the sound of his happy abandon mixing with the cries of the Terran seagulls that had long ago been transplanted to this world.

“Like his father,” commented Jennifer, mischief in her tone.

“How so?”

“Always getting ahead of himself.” She poked McGee in his immense ribcage and held her hands out for Zander. “It’s that time.”

“Hey, I can change his diapers.”

“I know. I taught you. No, it’s the other time.”

“Oh,” said McGee. He handed Zander off to his mom, who offered him a bottle—which he refused. Jen went to a bench, settled down, and settled the toddler on her breast: probably because of all the tumult in his young life, Zander seemed in no hurry to be weaned. Jennifer stared, gray-eyed, out over the wind-sparked whitecaps rolling across Salamisene Bay. “So, is it done?”

“Done and done,” affirmed McGee. “Truce signed, relocation schedule finalized, hands and clusters shaken. The war is officially over as of”—he checked his watch—“eighty-four minutes ago.”

“And not a moment too soon.” Jennifer’s sigh was a sound of relief and mourning: too many friends had died for there to be any joy in it. “Any last-minute wrinkles?”

“Other than your absence?”

Jen cut a sideways look at him. “This was just the formal dance, Tank. I was there for all the real choreography.”

“And well done, too. Ankaht was a star.”

“She always is.”

“You like her, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. I really do. And we are all very lucky that she is who she is. Not everyone could have endured, survived, and excelled during such an insane chain of events.”

McGee nodded. “Which was, for some, the sticking point.”

“What? Ankaht?”

“No. Coming to a ‘correct version’ of the chain of events that set us on the path to one disaster after another.”

“But the Arduans agreed to take responsibility for the war and be identified as both the aggressors and the losers.”

“Yes, but that was too much for most of the
Destoshaz
radicals, and not enough for some of our new Baldicide Brotherhood, as they’re calling themselves.”

“Ugh. Those troglodytes.”

“Which ones are you referring to—ours or theirs?”

Jen smiled. “Touché. And all too true.”

“At any rate, the extremists on both sides had their respective hissy fits. Ours were louder—‘the only good Baldy is a dead Baldy’ chanters—but theirs are more…worrisome.”

“How do you mean?”

“Jen, the
Destoshaz
extemists are apparently trying to find ways to join this Arduan Admiral Amunsit and her fleet in the Zarzuela system.”

“What? They want to join the other Dispersate that landed near Orion space?”

“They consider doing so to be their true racial duty. No theatrics—just hard, cold, genocidal resolve.”

“Well, isn’t it just grand how peace is breaking out all over.”

“What’s tricky is how to handle them. Are they under our jurisdiction or the Arduan Council’s? If the
Destoshaz
radicals agitate—or attempt to sabotage the peace process—here on Bellerophon, it’s unclear who should or would stop them. Just as it’s unclear who has the final authority to declare their actions a violation of the peace treaty.”

“Well, I suspect the politicos will be wrestling over that one for a few months.”

“At least. Fortunately, all the other agreements fell into place pretty easily, thanks to all the pre-Treaty work—and linguistic choreography by you and Ankaht.”

“So the Arduan relocation to Megarea is ironed out?”

“Yup. It will be gradual, of course. They’ll stay in charge here, defenses intact, until half their noncombatants have relocated to Megarea. Then they’ll complete their departure from the Bellerophon system.”

“And the other worlds?”

McGee nodded. “They’ll be out of all our other systems within the month. Except for their reconstruction teams. The Council actually welcomed that as the primary form of war reparations. They feel it will increase interspecies contact and will help change the image of Arduans from destroyers to builders and helpers.”

“It just might,” agreed Jennifer. “But they’re going to have to settle the war brewing around the Second Dispersate in Zarzuela before the old image is put to rest.”

“Which means the diplomatic mission to the PSU is just that much more crucial.” McGee thought about saying more but decided not to.

Jen smiled. “You’re learning, Tank. Thanks for not pushing me to join the mission. Yes, I’ve had second thoughts about turning down the role of chief interpreter—but they’ll find someone else. In fact, until I said ‘no,’ neither side was committed enough to put together a search process to find others like me—humans who can make a quasi-
selnarmic
connection with the Arduans. So the way I see it, I’m doing them a favor. Besides”—and her voice got lower, and a bit grim—“I suspect Ankaht will be back here soon enough.”

“Oh? Why do you think that?”

“Because this is where the real image problems are, Tank. This war was far, far away from Old Terra and the rest of the Heart Worlds; even for the Republic, this was a foreign war. But for us Rimfolk—and strangely, for the Arduans as well—this was a fight on home soil. And besides, this is where almost all the real technical and cultural exchange is going to be for the first ten years or so. Megarea may become their new home, but it’s at the ass-end of nowhere. Conversely, Bellerophon is a new hub for several important interstellar polities, particularly with the new Borden warp point connecting the far Rim to the Republic. Hey, why the sly smile, Sandro?”

“I was just thinking of Megarea, and all the Hotspur warp points the Arduans have been given permission to explore.”

“Yes, what about them?”

“Seems Narrok has half convinced the Council that that should not be their primary route of expansion.”

“Oh no? What does he have in mind—Tangri space?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. And there’s some logic to Narrok’s perspective. He’s got a fleet full of revved-up
Destoshaz
who, if told they have to conceive of themselves as completely
defeated
, could be new recruits for the radicals. Following Narrok’s plan, he would simply tell his troops that peace has been reached with the humans because it was found that our differences were reconcilable. Consequently, the Children of Illudor can now prosecute war to its fullest extent upon the savage and irremediable Tangri overlords.”

Jen snorted out a bitter laugh. “Making peace so you can make war somewhere else. Which in turn helps to keep the peace you just made. What a brave new world we live in.”

McGee shrugged. “Yep, it’s screwed up—but Narrok is right about this: if he keeps all those fence-sitting
Destoshaz
together, under his tutelage, and fighting a truly despicable foe, he stands a better than even chance of bringing them around to more uniformly moderate political attitudes. The alternative is—”

“—is a fleet that might rebel and turn on us. No, I see the wisdom of Narrok’s plan, and I don’t blame him for promoting it, but that doesn’t change the howling irony of it all.”

“No,” agreed McGee, slipping an arm around her shoulder, “it doesn’t. Not in the least.”

Jen looked down at their son, who had nodded off, lips bubbling out milk remainders in rhythm to the respirations of his infant sleep. “And this is all of deep and abiding interest to you, isn’t it, Alexander Peters Peitchkov-McGee?” She looked out to sea again, her eyes suddenly liquid bright. “I miss Cap Peters,” she said hoarsely, “and Jon and all the others. I wish we could have named him for all of them.” She paused. “Even Heide. He deserves some remembrance, at least.”

“Yes,” McGee sighed. “At the last, he was bigger than his fears. That’s why I’ve proposed that when we rebuild Van Felsen Base on the site of the old Acrocotinth, we make sure it is serviced by runways and pads that are called Heide Airfield.”

Jen let the tears run down her face, now that she was able to smile through them. “He’d have liked that.”

“Well,” observed McGee, “I figure a planet chock-full of names from ancient heroes certainly must have room for a few modern ones as well.”

Jennifer leaned against him. “Yes, I expect it can bear up under the strain. After all,
we
did. And now, finally, we’re safe.” She turned to McGee and placed a very tender kiss on his cheek as she hugged Zander close. “At last. We’re safe. We’re all safe.”

TRNS
Li Han
, Allied Fleet, Bellerophon

Rank hath its privileges. The admiral’s quarters aboard
Li Han
boasted a wide-curving outside viewscreen.

The Trevaynes stood before it, gazing at the blue-and-white-and tan curve of Bellerophon as viewed from low orbit. In the distance, the shuttle carrying Cyrus Waldeck receded toward his flagship.

“I hope Cyrus doesn’t find RFNS
Zephrain
too cramped now,” said Mags with a mischievous twinkle. “After all, she’s only a supermonitor.”

“He
did
seem a bit overwhelmed by this ship, didn’t he?” chuckled Ian Trevayne.

“He might even acquire a case of…uh, flagship envy.”

“Hardly likely. Too bloody many rebels in this one,” Trevayne deadpanned, earning an elbow in the ribs.

It had been almost anticlimactic. After the finalization of the treaty, Waldeck had brought Second Fleet into the Bellerophon system from Astria, peacefully transiting the warp point they had tried so often and so bloodily to fight their way through. A cynical person (which Trevayne of course was not) might have reflected that the presence in Bellerophon’s skies of Second Fleet in addition to his own forces—a combined array of naval power without precedent in history—provided a doubtless unnecessary assurance that the terms of the treaty would be adhered to.

“At any rate,” he continued, grasping his wife by the arms to forestall any additional jabs, “I think Cyrus is more interested in heading out for Tangri space to assume his new command without unnecessary delay. And he hasn’t asked for any DTs or SDTs, which would be unnecessary at this stage of that campaign.”

They had been conferring with Waldeck on the developing collapse of the Tangri Confederation. As long as the liberation of Bellerophon had been the first priority, Trevayne had left the campaign at that end to subordinates. Their progress hadn’t been entirely satisfactory. True, the Tangri fleets—decimated, scattered, and without reliable bases—were no longer a serious threat. But the organization of the freed systems was proving a problem.