The Others Page 8

  She is scared.

  Carmetia continued, maintaining her composure, but unable to completely hide the fear Barron suddenly believed was very real. “I am here to speak of an enemy we call the Others, an adversary who is not only deadly dangerous to the Hegemony, but also a dire threat to the Rim, and all humanity wherever it exists.”

  It was an almost wild claim, a lie so daring, so exaggerated, it wouldn’t fool a child. There was only one problem, and it weighed on Barron like chains.

  He didn’t think it wasn’t a lie.

  He prided himself on reading people, which most of the time meant disbelieving what he was told. But now his eyes were fixed, and his attention was on the Hegemony Master, even as pieces began to assemble in his mind, most prominently, the explanation Carmetia’s claim offered for the Hegemony’s sudden abandonment of their invasion, and perhaps even more for their stunning surrender of Colossus.

  “That is quite a claim, Ambassador. In the bayous of Philophoria, we’ve got a saying. When somebody tells you they ran into a swamp lizard, cut the size in half.”

  Barron’s eyes shifted to the politician. His first thought was to deride the man, to wonder how he could miss what he himself perceived so clearly as sincerity in Carmetia’s statement. But then he realized. He does believe her, or at least he suspects there is truth to what he says. He’s working her, trying to see how she reacts.

  He stared at Flandry, and his read on the politician changed. The Speaker still disgusted him in many ways, but there was a new respect growing. Or, at least, something like respect.

  Don’t underestimate this man…

  “Speaker Flandry, I assure you I am telling nothing but the truth. Our recent…withdrawal…from the Rim is a testament to the danger. The Hegemony has never failed to absorb a human population, never in its history before the cessation of the recent war. It was the appearance of the Others that prompted our actions, and whatever differences and bad feelings remain between our peoples, I can assure you most earnestly, that the Others are a deadly threat not only to my nation, but to yours. If we of the Hegemony are defeated, the Rim will fall in its turn. I have come to warn you of this threat, and I have brought evidence with me. I urge you all to review it, to understand the magnitude of the threat, and when you have, my government has instructed me to…”

  Carmetia paused, and for the first time she seemed visibly uncomfortable. “They have instructed me to request a treaty with the Confederation, and with its allies.” Another pause. “I am here to ask for an Alliance, for the Rim powers to stand with us against the Others. To contribute your armed forces to the fight against the Others.”

  The room was silent, even Speaker Flandry apparently lost for words. Barron looked around the room, struggling at first to get a read on the Senators present. Then, slowly, he began to see their doubts, even anger. Carmetia’s words hadn’t swayed them.

  But they had convinced him. He was still trying to fight it off, to argue with himself, but deep down, he believed she was telling the truth, that there was a deadly threat out there.

  And he suddenly realized, he’d been concerned about something of the sort for months, ever since the war’s sudden end.

  Barron feared the idea of a deadly new enemy, of leading his exhausted and depleted warriors into a new fight, a deadlier fight. But perhaps most of all, he dreaded having to stand beside the enemy that had hurt his people so badly. He wasn’t proud of his hatred, but he also knew it had helped him deal with the losses, the pain. He wasn’t sure he could let it go.

  He wasn’t sure he could survive without it.

  “By all means, Ambassador, you have been granted an audience with the Senate’s leadership committee…show us your evidence. But I warn you, whatever you have brought will have to be compelling to overcome my doubts, and I suspect those of my colleagues as well.” Barron watched as Flandry spoke, and for all the Speaker’s evident skepticism, he became more certain with each passing second that the politician was at least concerned.

  He had been standing since he’d arrived, but he sat down as Carmetia proceed to lay out the supporting evidence she’d brought with her. By the time she was finished, Barron felt fear, worry, foreboding. But one thought rose above them all, one realization he found most daunting.

  How am I going to tell my spacers and Marines they have to fight another war…as allies of the Hegemony?

  * * *

  “I’m going to be blunt, Admiral. I know you don’t like me. You don’t like any politicians. That’s okay, I don’t much like most of the officers who prance around with chests full of medals, feeling superior to the rest of us, as if fighting a few battles is all it takes to run the Confederation. So, let’s make an agreement, just between us. We’ll both cut the carnosoid crap. I like to think I can smell a load from a kilometer away, and my read on you is that you can too.”

  Barron didn’t like the politician, but his quasi-respect for the man’s intellect was growing. He’d been surprised when the Speaker had requested—requested, not ordered—that Barron come to a private meeting. The whole thing felt a little like climbing into some kind of mudpit, but he needed to find out just what the Speaker thought of Carmetia’s request, and he figured there was at least a chance of honesty and straight talk if no one else was around.

  And that sounded like straight talk to me.

  Barron couldn’t remember the last time someone had begun a conversation with a declaration of mutual dislike. He found it strangely refreshing. Flandry was still vermin, his thoughts on that hadn’t changed. But he was smart vermin…and just maybe, that made him useful as well.

  “I like to think I have a reasonable nose for it, Speaker. Though, I’ve never seen a carnosoid, I’m afraid. We don’t have anything like that where I’m from. Just some good size birds of prey…wing spans of three, three and a half meters.” Barron almost continued, but he decided to let Flandry take the lead.

  “I’m certain of that, Admiral, your nose, I mean. As to the matchup of a flock of giant birds against a carnosoid, we’ll just have to leave that with a big question mark on it.”

  Flandry paused, and a crooked line appeared on his face, something quasi-disturbing that Barron guessed was a smile. “So, let’s do each other a favor. I won’t congratulate you on your wedding, and you don’t tell me how wonderful you think it is that I gained the Speakership. Neither one of us cares. But I do think we both care about keeping the Confederation safe. Whether that comes from some high principle of patriotism, or simply a realization of vulnerability emphasized by the debris spread across Megara and the other costs of the last war, is irrelevant. We have been forced to stare into the face of our exposure, and I feel confident that neither of us wants to see Megara occupied once again by an enemy…any enemy.”

  Barron listened quietly, and then he nodded. “I believe we can agree on that, Speaker. We have too often allowed confidence to turn into pride, even hubris. And we paid a terrible price for it. I, for one, do not feel we can ignore any threat, proven or not. The White Fleet was a noble effort.” Barron paused. It had been noble to his view, but he hadn’t been oblivious to the fact that it had also been a way for the Senate to get rid of a military officer who’d become a bit too popular.

  “Then, we are agreed. Despite the Committee’s rejection of Ambassador Carmetia’s request, I do not think we can simply ignore this potential danger. And yet, neither do I believe we can simply join forces with the Hegemony. For one, what guarantees do we have that they will not simply continue their attempt to conquer the Rim after we help them defeat their enemy?”

  Barron was surprised at Flandry’s words. They went against much of what he’d come to expect from politicians and their short-sightedness.

  “You are realizing I’m not the same kind of political animal you’ve dealt with before, Admiral. Oh, by all means, let’s continue our agreement not to dance around each other. I’m as much of a politician as any you’ve ever met. But I’m a practical man, as
well, born on a bayou rice plantation that made enough in a good year to feed us all, and maybe fix a leak in the roof. I don’t believe my own bullshit, at least not entirely. I know you blame past Senates for the lack of preparedness for the Union wars, and I can’t argue with you about that. You’re right. It’s understandable enough. Senators from places like Ulion or Craydon have their hands full often enough just maintaining their grip, but they’re generally for more military spending to keep the factories running. But it takes a lot more to grease the population of a core world like Ulion that a few big orders for guns or ships…at least it did before the Hegemony War. Fortunately for me, Philophoria is a putrid, bloodfly-infested pit, whose people don’t have the vision to see much beyond a Confederation-funded flood control project or two. It’s cheap and easy to maintain my base, Admiral, and I don’t need to raid military budgets to fund a lot of crowd-pleasing foolishness. You may look at me and see a corrupt politician, but I’m also one free enough from the need to buy my next reelection to actually try to decide what’s best for the Confederation.”

  Barron listened to every word with growing surprise. He’d never heard a politician speak quite so…honestly. He found it refreshing, but also unnerving.

  “I appreciate your candor, Speaker. It is quite…unexpected.”

  “It’s not something you’re likely to hear outside the walls of this office, Admiral, but I think we understand each other. You’re an idealist in some ways, or at least enough of one that I don’t think you harbor images of making yourself a dictator or emperor. You’ve had chances before…ones I suspect I might have taken myself. So, if I don’t have to worry about you as a rival power—not too much, at least—then I can work with you, and take advantage of your unquestioned military skills.”

  The room was silent for perhaps half a minute, Barron was trying to wrap his mind around what he was hearing, and Flandry was giving him the time he needed. Finally, the Speaker spoke again. “So, Admiral, assuming your silence signifies some type of tentative agreement, perhaps we can discuss a course of action. Simply put—straight from the swamp as we put it back home—what should we do next?”

  Chapter Ten

  Hall of the People

  Liberte City

  Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV

  Union Year 225 (321 AC)

  There was no way to deny it, no time for pointless hopes or prayers for a miracle. The coup had failed, and it had failed badly.

  Gaston Villieneuve was a sociopath, a man utterly without conscience, without regret for any of his actions, however vicious and violent. But he wasn’t a fool. Quite the contrary, he was a genius in his own right, a brilliant, if twisted intellect.

  Kerevsky suddenly knew, the realization hitting him like the first shaft of dawn light. It was over. Any chance of overturning the Union’s government, of whatever faint and fragile hopes he’d had that Sandrine Ciara might prove to be a less despotic leader—or at least one less hostile to the Confederation—were gone. All he could do now was try to mitigate the damage.

  He’d covered his own tracks fairly well, at least he thought he had. But suddenly, he was plagued with doubts. Was he underestimating Villieneuve again?

  He turned and snapped off a series of orders to his aide. He had to assume the worst, and that meant staying in the shadows, at least until he had a better sense of what was happening. He considered himself tough, and he’d seen his share of pain, but he was also experienced enough to dispense with false confidence. If Sector Nine came for him, if Villieneuve was prepared to risk provoking the Confederation by torturing its ambassador, he was certain he would tell them everything he knew. Not quickly, perhaps—he still liked to think he could maintain his defiance for a good while—but Sector Nine was expert at breaking people, and they would eventually wear him down.

  No, you can’t let them take you…

  He would kill himself before he let that happen. But he wasn’t one to give up easily, and he had another alternative. He could lay low. Even hide, if he had to.

  His first thought was to get to his ship, but that was pointless. If Villieneuve was prepared to throw the Confederation’s ambassador into a torture cell, he’d be ready to open up Montmirail’s defensive batteries and blast one lone Confed cruiser to dust.

  There were other options, preparations no normal ambassador would have made. Kerevsky was a spy himself, and the foot in that camp had always been more securely planted than the one in the diplomatic world. He had safe houses, stashes of currency and weapons, all sorts of resources in place for just the eventuality he faced. Sector Nine could find all of those, too, of course, if they looked hard enough. But not immediately. And with the failure of the coup, all he could do was play for time.

  “Destroy the records, Kyle…and get the staff ready. We’re going to activate one of the safehouses…now. Just in case.”

  “Yes, Ambassador.” Kyle Corbin had always looked even more uncomfortable in his role as a diplomat’s assistant than Kerevksy had been as ambassador. Corbin was a spy, too, and a damned good one.

  Kerevsky paused, Sandrine Ciara pushing her way into this thoughts. Doctrine was clear regarding the handling of burned assets, but he was having trouble writing her off so quickly. If she was even still alive somewhere.

  He told himself they’d been using each other, that they’d become lovers for practical reasons, to work each other the best they could, and not out of any emotional nonsense. Sex had always been a prominent part of espionage toolkit, and the fact that each of them had been employing the same tactic on the other didn’t change the basic facts.

  But the thought of her in a Sector Nine cell, screaming in agony until her throat and vocal cords were reduced to bloody ruin, troubled him. He cursed himself, berated his lack of discipline, his weakness in allowing himself to care what happened to someone he should just have been using. Worse, perhaps, Ciara had failed, and her value and utility had plummeted along with the prospects of her coup. She was a liability, even if he could find her. Trying to save her would be exceedingly dangerous, and even if he pulled it off, having the prime perpetrator of the coup remain at large would only inflame Villieneuve’s paranoia, and eliminate any chance of things blowing over.

  But then he saw her face again, smiling, lying next to him at first, but then morphing into a screaming, tormented nightmare.

  “Get everything ready…I’ll be right back.” It was stupid, insane, and every bit of his training and experience cried out to stop him. But it all failed, sense, tradecraft, the cold, analytical way he normally approached problems. He just couldn’t leave her, not to the fate Villieneuve would inflict on her, and he knew she’d never escape on her own. Not without his help.

  He put up his hand, stifling his Corbin’s objection. “I know, Kyle, I know. Just do what I asked.” He exchanged a quick glance with his aide, and then he slipped out the door, heading toward the door…and into the wild tumult of a dying coup, and a city gripped in its deadly aftermath.

  * * *

  Sandrine Ciara raced down the street. It was more of an alley, really, lightly traveled and out of the way. If anyone spotted her there, they’d be suspicious at once, but at least she had a chance to avoid contact. If she ventured out onto one of the main avenues, she expected her lifespan would be measured in minutes. Her image was everywhere, and she hadn’t had the time or place to even make an effort at a disguise.

  No, they won’t kill you. Villieneuve wants you alive. He wants to show you what happens to those who betray him…

  She felt a chill, and her body shook uncontrollably. She was operating on adrenalin, her intellect and cunning subverted almost entirely to an animalistic desperation to survive. There was no place for critical thought, for detailed analysis. Such pursuits could only verify the hopelessness threatening to overtake her.

  Even as she ran, as her instincts led her, random thoughts drifted through her mind. It was strange, she mused, that she should feel such terror. She’d killed her
share of people, even sent many to the very torturers that awaited her. It seemed that one who had done such things, committed such cruel acts, should be ready to face their own fate with at least some sort of composure. But she was as coldly terrified as her victims had ever been, as much consumed by mindless panic as any target she had killed or tortured.

  It was worse, perhaps. She had a much clearer idea of what awaited her than most of Sector Nine’s victims.

  She turned a corner, her already knotted guts tightening further, until her eyes confirmed the alley ahead of her was still clear. She sucked in a deep breath, struggling to hold back the contents of her tortured stomach…and failing as she leaned forward and retched up a small bit of foam and bile.

  She knew she should keep going, that there was no time for rest. But she could feel her resolve fading, and even as her will to live flared up, screaming from inside for her to keep running, another realization formed.

  It’s over…there’s no way out. And you can’t let them capture you…

  There’d been a certain kind of courage in launching her coup, but she began to sense that much of it had been delusion, false confidence of success fending off the terror of the consequences of defeat. Now, she faced a grim conclusion. She had to kill herself. There were no other options.

  She’d taken lives before, many of them, yet the thought of killing herself, of plunging her knife into her own chest, seemed impossible. She knew she’d endure an end a thousand times slower and more painful if she didn’t, but as she faced the reality, it seemed an impossible thing to do.