The Sundering (42 page)

“Thank you,” Martinez said. He slid into his bed and Alikhan turned off the room lights as he made his way out.

Martinez stared up at the Maw, the ruddy luminous circle of supernova ejecta that dominated Protipanu’s sky. The picture feed was fantastically detailed, and he could make out details of the Maw’s architecture, luminescent swirls, mysterious dark clouds, smoky pillars.

He closed his eyes, and saw the faint glow of the red ring on the insides of his eyelids.

Much better, he thought, than seeing
Beacon
die all night, over and over.

It was his last thought for many hours.

With the red light of the Maw leaking through the view port, Lieutenant Shushanik Severin sat in the hushed silence of the control room and watched the Naxid squadron destroyed in ripples of distant fire. Knowing approximately when the battle was about to take place, he had brought his crew and his lifeboat back to the Protipanu system, drifting through the wormhole with engines dead and every passive sensor combing the darkness for the signs of combat.

When he’d left Protipanu three days earlier he’d steered straight for the Seizho wormhole station. The station had been abandoned, but it was still full of supplies, and for two days his crew had luxuriated in warm beds, unlimited hot showers, shaved chins, and giant meals.

His superiors on Seizho, Severin suspected, didn’t quite know what to do with him. He had disobeyed orders when he moved the wormhole, and so they would be justified in instituting disciplinary action; but on the other hand his action had prevented the system from being attacked by a Naxid squadron, and he had returned to Seizho with a load of intelligence and a field promotion from no less than Squadron Commander Chen. They decided, apparently, to follow Lady Michi’s lead, and sent congratulations and a series of commendations. Severin was to be awarded the Explorer’s Medal, and his crew the Award of Righteous Conduct.

Other news was less encouraging. The Naxids had taken Zanshaa.

His crew was surprised that, with the fall of the capital, the war would actually continue, but as soon as Severin heard the news he realized at once what Chenforce was hoping to accomplish: a massive raid into the enemy heartland while the Naxids were pinned down defending the capital. Severin approved. The plan had a devious flair that he found very much to his taste.

Returning to Protipanu had been his own idea. He hadn’t asked permission, merely informed Seizho that he was going. He would be on the other side of the wormhole before any objections reached him.

Now, as the sensors showed him ten enemy ships vaporized and seven loyalist survivors burning for Wormhole 3, Severin was pleased that he’d made the decision. He could inform the empire of another loyalist victory, ten enemy ships destroyed at the cost of a single warship. It might not reverse the blow that was suffered by the loss of Zanshaa, but it might help to boost the morale of the population and give any defectors second thoughts.

And Chenforce had used some interesting tactics to accomplish its victory. Severin was going to have to think about those.

Severin made certain that the lifeboat’s computers had successfully saved and duplicated the recordings of the battle, and then ordered the maneuvering jets to turn the lifeboat’s bow toward the wormhole, then the engine startup countdown resumed.

While he waited for the engine to fire he sent a message to the loyalist squadron. Knowing there were no longer any Naxids in the system to overhear, he used radio and sent his message in the clear.

“This is Lieutenant Severin to Squadron Commander Chen,” he said into the camera, and allowed a grin to break out on his face. “Congratulations on your sensational victory!” he said. “I’m in the system temporarily as an observer, and as soon as I return to Seizho, I’ll transmit a full record to the authorities.” He paused, his grin fading, and then added, “I hope you’ll forgive my presumption in mentioning this, my lady, but I suggest that you double check the location of Wormhole Three as you approach. The Naxids may have moved it, the same way I moved Wormhole One.

“I’ll have left the system by the time this message reaches you. My best wishes for the success of your mission go with you. Message ends.”

The message was sent flying into the darkness just as the engine fired, and Severin instinctively raised a hand to keep his face from being splashed by a rain of cold water. There was no splash of water: the condensation had evaporated days ago.

Severin laughed. Life wasn’t simply good, it was interesting. And
interesting
was the best thing of all.

T
en days after the fall of the ring, the first message came to Zanshaa from the Naxids. Sula stepped over the empty iarogüt bottles in the hall and entered the backup apartment at Riverside to find Spence and Macnamara watching the wall video.

“It’s been going on for most of the last hour,” Macnamara said. “The Naxids are changing the administration of Zanshaa.”

The video showed a Daimong announcer, who was reading the same announcement over and over. The choice of a Daimong was a good one, Sula thought—that fixed face couldn’t show emotion, and if there were emotion in the voice, only other Daimong would detect it.

“Lady Kushdai, Governor of Zanshaa under the Committee to Save the Praxis, has given the following orders,” the Daimong said. “A series of appointments are now commanded. Lord Akthan is appointed vice-governor, and will proceed at once to take possession of the Lord Senior’s quarters, and to form a government for Zanshaa until Lady Kushdai can take up her post in person. Lord Akthan will have full powers to appoint and dismiss officials. Lady Ix Jagirin is appointed to command the Interior Ministry. Lord Ummir is appointed Minister of Police. Lady Kulukraf is appointed head of the Ministry of Right and Dominion, with power to command all Fleet resources in the Zanshaa system…”

“Now we know the conspirators on the planet,” Macnamara said grimly. His hands flexed as if it were closing on a Naxid windpipe. “These are the traitors we’ve had among us all along.”

Sula considered this. “Not necessarily,” she said slowly. “These are all prominent Naxids who have been in the civil service for years. Some of them had high office before the rebellion, but were dismissed since. Lady Kushdai might have just appointed people she thought could keep things going until she arrived.”

Kushdai had probably thought she was going to come down from the ring and simply take over, Sula thought. The fact that the ring had been destroyed and the takeover delayed had been transmitted to Magaria, and the decision to create an interim administration transmitted the other way.

“I think we should kill them before they can organize protection for themselves,” Macnamara said.

“We’ll see what Blanche says about it,” Sula said. Even if those called to their posts were innocent of any conspiracy against the government, a few of them probably
should
be gunned down, just to make any others think twice.

The Daimong went on with his announcement. “The following individuals are to turn themselves in to the police, or face arrest. Former Governor Pahn-ko. Former Lord Commissioner of Police Lord Jazarak…”

Suspense hummed in Sula’s nerves as the names continued, and then the list came to an end and Sula’s name had not been mentioned. Neither had Lieutenant Captain Hong, or anyone in Group Blanche.

All records of the stay-behind groups, along with all
other
Fleet records, had allegedly been erased from the computers at the Commandery, the space they’d taken in storage turned into strings of random numbers. Any official trail that led to Action Group Blanche was supposed to have left the planet when the Commandery was evacuated.

It seemed as if Sula and her comrades, for the moment, were safe.

“The lord governor left the High City successfully, before the Naxids could move against him, and is now in the hidden seat of his administration. We still have a legitimate government on Zanshaa. The chain of command still functions.”

As Hong spoke, his servant Ellroy still circulated among the guests with refreshments, but in somewhat more cramped circumstances. When the Naxids were called to power by the authority of the fleet that now occupied the system, Hong had left his conspicuous life and quietly moved to a smaller apartment under his primary backup identification.

He also complained about no longer being able to visit his clubs. Sula was relieved to know Hong was taking at least a few precautions.

“Blanche,” Sula said, “we now have a group of Naxids who are supposed to be running the planet on the behalf of their Committee to Save the Praxis. There’s nobody to protect them except some Naxid police, and we know a lot more about guns and explosives than the police do. Shouldn’t we make an example of some of these people before the enemy can give them proper protection? That should deter others from following their example.”

Hong nodded. “That’s a possibility, Four-Nine-One,” he said. “Some of our people are keeping a few potential targets under surveillance. But the lord governor has decided that maintaining civilian morale is the best deterrent against people cooperating with the Naxids. We must inform the population of the existence of the secret government, and countering enemy propaganda, so the first priority has to be the distribution of the first issue of
The Loyalist.
”

The Loyalist
was the less-than-inspiring title of the covert newssheet that the government intended to distribute in Zanshaa city. Newssheets were normally distributed by electronic means, and printed locally either by subscribers or at a news café. Unfortunately a covert newssheet could not be distributed this way, for the simple reason that the entire electronic pathway from the publisher to the subscriber was under the direct supervision of the government.

Computers were ubiquitous in the Zanshaa environment: they were in furniture, in walls, in floors, in kitchen appliances, in ducts and utility conduits, in clothing, in audio and video receivers, in every bit of machinery. Not all of these computers were very intelligent, but still they amounted to a couple hundred computers for every citizen. The Shaa had been perfectly aware of the potential for mischief in a computer network that they didn’t control absolutely, and so every computer built over the last ten thousand years was hardwired to report its existence, its location, and its identity to a central data store under the control of the Office of the Censor. A copy of every text or picture transmission went to the same place, where it was scanned at high speed by highly secret algorithms that attempted to determine whether or not the message had subversive content. If such content were found, an operator could determine the route of the transmission—which computer had sent it, which had received it, which computers had played its host en route. Officers of the Legion of Diligence could be sent on their way to make an arrest within a matter of minutes.

The Legion of Diligence had been evacuated along with the government, but it was only reasonable to assume that the Naxids would soon have its equivalent, and that meant
The Loyalist
could not be distributed by electronic means. A printing press had been procured somewhere outside the capital, and stocks of paper, and a distribution network set up into Zanshaa. An entire branch of the secret government, Action Group Propaganda, was devoted to this purpose.

So assassination was out. Playing news agent was in.

And, Sula thought, who was to say that the Lord Governor wasn’t right? Even if the Action Group managed to kill a few of the newly appointed administrators, who would know it? The Naxids controlled all media, and if they didn’t choose to inform the population, no one else would. Not unless the distribution channels for
The Loyalist
were working.

“The first number of
The Loyalist
will have important news,” Hong said. “A Midsummer Message from the Lord Governor, of course, but also news of a victory. Chenforce has destroyed ten enemy ships at Protipanu.”

The other officers gave a cheer while Sula’s heart gave a sudden lurch at the knowledge that Martinez had been present at the battle.

Ten enemy ships. Martinez was making a habit of knocking them down by tens. Maybe he liked round numbers.

Sula suppressed a sudden, foolhardy burst of laughter. It was ridiculous how thoughts of Martinez could turn her perfectly organized mind into a seething, useless stew of anger and undirected passion.

“Were any of our ships lost?” someone asked.

“There were no losses reported,” Hong said, which did not quite answer the question. Sula suspected that if it had been another bloodless victory, as at Hone-bar, the news would have been trumpeted to the skies. There had been loyalist casualties, then.

Sula was confident that Martinez hadn’t been among them. She could trust his luck that far, at least.

The bastard.

The rest of the meeting was devoted to discussing strategies for distribution of the newssheet. Sula contributed little, just sat on her chair, drank the excellent coffee that Ellroy passed out, and nibbled anise-flavored cookies handed round on a platter.

If Hong knew of this victory over the enemy, she realized, if details were to appear in the newssheet, then that meant that Hong, or the governor, or someone in the chain of command had a means of contacting the government, and receiving information from them. Since the accelerator ring was gone, and since the Naxids couldn’t be expected to permit messages through whatever normal channels remained, then they had to have managed it some other way.

Sula let a bite of the anise cookie melt on her tongue and considered how it could be done. You could reprogram some of the communications satellites in orbit so that they could send messages without the authorities knowing. If the signal was strong enough, and the transmission accurate enough, they could go through the wormhole without having to use the wormhole repeater stations.

But at that distance, a laser signal would be subject to some scatter, and the wormhole station might well detect the message. So to avoid that, you’d send your signal to a satellite constructed so as to be invisible to radar and placed somewhere near the wormhole, not between it and Zanshaa like the relay station but well out to one side, perhaps even on the other side of it. The satellite would receive a message from Zanshaa, then retransmit it across the wormhole, as it were, the beam moving at an oblique angle to another satellite similarly placed on the other side. If the satellite were placed correctly, the message would be undetectable.

And if such a means were used, what the head of Action Group Blanche would require in order to report directly to the Fleet Intelligence Section would be a laser transmitter and receiver, and an apartment with a south-facing balcony.

Sula noted the summer sun streaming in through the balcony doors, and afterward, when the team leaders left individually or in small groups to avoid attracting attention, Sula remained to the last and took a stroll on the balcony. And there was the transmitter—Hong hadn’t even taken it indoors after his last transmission, just packed it in its case and put the receiver under a chair, and leaned the laser attachment, in its waterproof case, in the corner behind a potted dwarf pear.

The object didn’t seem worthy of comment, so Sula didn’t mention it when Hong joined Sula on the balcony. Sula thanked her superior for his excellent coffee, and asked him how much he had left.

“Not much,” he said, and shrugged. “I can always buy more, though the price is going up.”

“I have a contact,” Sula said. “Let me see what I can do.”

While the summer burned on and newly appointed Naxid bureaucrats settled into their offices, Action Group Blanche and the other action groups were involved in the old-fashioned business of picking up newssheets and distributing them around the city. This required more time and organization than one might expect: Action Teams 211 and 369 found private garage space for the Group Propaganda trucks that moved the sheets from the printing plant, and then the amazingly heavy crates—labeled “fruit preserves,” with two layers of genuine fruit preserves packed around them in case anyone checked—were unloaded, and bundles of newssheet were passed on to the other action teams. Sula, whose team had been provided a Hunhao sedan, filled the car with so many papers that it sagged on its suspension.

In their garage Sula and Team 491 filled briefcases, shoulder bags, and rucksacks with papers and tottered away on their errand of distribution. Piles of sheets were left on the doorsteps of bars and cafés, where patrons could pick them up, some sheets were placed on benches in parks, some taped to lampposts. Each newssheet bore the plea, “Please reproduce this sheet, and share it with loyal friends. It would be dangerous to transmit its contents through electronic means.”

The tension was unending. It was a simple enough mission but it called for a high degree of alertness, Sula moving along the streets with dangerous documents under her arm, scanning for police, for Naxid silhouettes, for anyone that might be following her. Getting arrested for something like this would be inane. One of her team paralleled her, moving on the other side of the same street. The third kept watch, and as they moved, their roles switched in rotation.

Every time the team disposed of its sheets, they returned to the sedan for another pile. It was three days before Team 491 finally disposed of all its copies. Towards the end Sula, feet and back aching, wanted to take a stack of sheets to the top of a high building and hurl them to the four winds. For some reason she didn’t.

The sheets seemed to have some effect. The news reported a decree from Lady Kushdai that anyone caught distributing subversive literature would be subject to extreme penalties. She overheard people discussing the battle at Protipanu in cafés where she stopped for refreshment. Three times Sula saw obvious facsimiles of
The Loyalist
stacked in various public places. She knew they were copies because the quality of the paper was superior to the original.

Aching and exhausted, Sula retired to her private apartment and caught up on the messages from the Records Office. She wasn’t surprised to discover that Lady Arkat had been retired as head of security. She had been allowed to send a graceful message of farewell to her subordinates, thanking them for their years of service and wishing them the best. She had then turned over her access and her passwords to her replacement, a Lieutenant Rashtag of the police force, and the altered executive program promptly sent copies of Rashtag’s new passwords to Sula.