The Killing of Worlds (41 page)

If the sovereign chose to fight, the Empire might remain divided for a long time. The Apparatus could easily keep a few warships, perhaps even a majority of the fleet, in the dark for years. Vessels could be ordered into deep cover for decades, receiving only censored information from the outside universe. But slowly, the truth would chip away at the loyalists, the conditioned, the willfully blind. Though some of the military would certainly remain loyal to the Emperor regardless of his lies, the Eighty Worlds would turn against him one by one. And what would follow this civil war? A republic? A new sovereign? It might take decades to resolve the question of succession.

The
Lynx
‘s problem was more immediate, however. As Nara had warned, the vessels pursuing them were under orders to destroy the object, Zai, and his ship. One had to assume that they’d been under deep cover from the start of their mission—and Imperial writs were difficult code to subvert. In a few years Absolute, they would be closing with the
Lynx
, their velocities almost matched. With the extra mass of the object in tow, the frigate could not outrun them. Outnumbered, with a half-untrained crew and an imperfectly repaired ship, Zai would have to fight again.

He needed an ally, and he was alone in deep space.

All he had was the object.

He reached down toward the absence below him, looked at his gloved hand against the absolute blackness of the thing. He pulled off the glove, and gazed upon the smooth metal of his hand. If the Rix were at long last arriving in the Empire, they had begun with the right man. Laurent Zai knew what it was to be half machine.

And he wanted to return to Home; that was all that mattered. That was what had moved him from the start. Now that everything else— honor, tradition, sovereign, and immortality itself—was stripped away, he had love to return to.

Nara.

“Bridge.”

“Captain?” Hobbes’s voice came.

“Assemble the senior staff in one hour.”

“Yes, sir. Command bridge?”

“As good a place as any.”

“Any prep, Captain?”

“Consider contact with the object, Hobbes, an alliance of convenience with the Rix. Consider how to fight a guerrilla war in a crumbling Empire. Consider how best to explain to our crew that death is final, and that we all may die soon.”

There was a pause, but not a long one.

“On it, sir.”

The four officers entered the Great Forum slowly, as warily as a pack of predators trespassing in another’s territory. They clearly didn’t want to be here, committing this transgression.

The rows of white-clad senators watched the four descend the steps toward the dais. A murmur rose up, a sound halfway between defiance and fear. Nara Oxham felt the two emotions collide and mix, creating a strange discomfort that was almost like embarrassment. In their black uniforms, one might have mistaken the officers as guests arriving at a ball wearing tragically confused dress—fantastical masks at a white-tie function.

But then the fear grew, displacing everything else. These four had thousands of soldiers under their command, who surrounded the Forum even now, dozens of ships in the skies above.

“President,” the most senior officer said, nodding a small bow.

Drexler looked down upon the four with undisguised anger.

“You have broken the covenant, Admiral. Would you destroy the Empire?”

The woman looked surprised. With the Forum infostructure down, Oxham had no prompts, but Nara recognized her from official parties. It was Admiral Rencer Fowler IX. She had been on Home for some time, and had aged the last ten years at full Absolute.

“We are unarmed, President Drexler. We meant no violation of the Pale.”

The old man scowled. “No Imperial soldier has ever come inside the Forum before, Admiral, and your troops threaten us even now.”

“These are strange times, President,” she said simply, as if in somber agreement. “The four of us wished to speak in private with you, but the secure lines crossing the Pale seem to be in disrepair.”

The Forum reverberated with a hissing sound: the word disrepair spoken with contempt. Against the feigned politesse of the admiral, defiance reasserted itself.

“The hard lines were deliberately destroyed,” the President said coldly.

Admiral Fowler nodded. “That would seem likely.”

“Do you claim this was not the military’s doing?”

She shrugged. “We aren’t certain. We suspect the Apparatus is responsible. In any case, we four do not represent the military per se.”

Confusion filled the Great Forum now. Nara could read nothing useful from the officers. They were soldiers on a mission, hard-minded, determined not to consider the greater implications of their actions. Whatever Fowler’s claims, the four were following orders.

“You carry a writ from the Emperor himself?” Drexler asked.

Fowler shook her head. “We don’t represent the Emperor, either. Can we speak in private, President?”

“The Senate is in session, Admiral. We are conducting a trial.”

Fowler looked about the hall, begrudgingly recognizing the hundreds of senators surrounding her. She sighed, and turned to address them all.

“Two of us are here to speak for the Home Fleet and certain ships of the High Fleet. My own flag vessel, for one.” She indicated the men on her left. “And these fine officers represent ground units of the Capital Guard and Home Reserve. But not much of the latter, I fear.”

Nara Oxham swallowed. The military was divided.

Drexler raised his eyebrows. “The situation is complicated, then, in terms of your chain of command.”

Admiral Fowler nodded slowly. She glanced nervously around the Forum, as if wishing again for a smaller audience. Then she shifted her weight, looked at the gray marble floor, and spoke carefully.

“Yes, but perhaps you could clarify matters for us, President Drexler. Due to the communications situation, the War Council has rendered an incomplete vote on an issue of great importance.”

“An incomplete vote?”

“Eight members have voted, President, and the result is a four-to-four tie. Certain members of the military command structure insist that the Emperor’s vote should break the tie, as per tradition when the council is not at full strength.”

The admiral cleared her throat.

“But others of us would prefer to wait for the vote of the ninth member of the council, given the importance of the issue. Should she be available.”

For the first time, the admiral looked at Oxham. Nara could read nothing in the woman’s expression. Fowler’s mind was clean, as if she were a disinterested, slightly bored observer at some hoary political convention.

“What is this issue?” Oxham asked.

The admiral spoke officiously. “The council has voted—partly voted—on an order to the Capital Guard. The order is to suspend temporarily the normal operations of the Senate. To arrest Senator Oxham and turn her over to the Apparatus.”

“To cross the Pale?” Drexler hissed.

Admiral Fowler nodded. “That exceptional action was explicitly dictated.”

Drexler’s face darkened.

“Thus, in a manner of speaking, we four are authorized to be here, President,” the admiral continued, “by partial vote of the council. But, being on this side of the Pale, we discover the ninth member of the council.”

The woman bowed to Oxham. Finally, emotion finally surged from all four them to reach her empathy. Strong affect, focused directly on her.

“Should she be available.”

President Drexler spoke carefully, joining the admiral’s dance of words.

“Senator Oxham’s membership in the War Council has been suspended, as you may know, pending the result of this trial.” He looked down from the dais at Oxham, raising one eyebrow.

For a moment, Nara wondered if this was a charade, all a trick. Her empathy was mostly suppressed; she couldn’t feel the emotional reality of the situation. The confusion of the divided city raged around her, but the emotions of these officers were too subtle to read. But one thing was certain, Nara had to act.

Four to four, she thought. The Plague Axis had made good on their promise. And now she could break the tie.

“President Drexler, I rest my defense. And call for a vote on my expulsion.”

The young Secularist who had replaced her as party whip, rose.

“I second the call. A fast vote, if the President pleases.”

Puram Drexler’s gavel thundered. “Senators, you have fifty seconds. Vote by standard gestural code.”

A few objections were raised from the shocked Loyalist benches, but Drexler gaveled them into silence. The Senate was stunned for a few moments, but then votes began to tally. Oxham almost failed to cast her own, forgetting that she had never been officially removed as His Majesty’s Representative from Vasthold, Senator of the Empire, and that she had every right.

The Senate voted.

Half a minute later, it was over. Even a sizable number of Loyalists—whether from confusion, the realization that defeat was certain, or a final faithfulness to traditions even older than the Emperor— voted with the majority. Nara Oxham had been overwhelmingly acquitted of treason; the motion for her expulsion had failed.

The suddenness of it all left her empty inside; relief would take a long time to come.

“Senator Nara Oxham is returned to full status and duties, without prejudice or delay,” President Drexler announced.

The old man turned to the officers.

“She is available, Admiral,” he finished.

They turned to her.

“Senator, we await the final vote of the War Council.”

Still stunned at the speed of events, Nara gathered herself. Enough of the military had dared to forestall the Emperor, Drexler had supported them, the Senate had acted quickly and true. All that was left was for her to finish the job.

Again, it all came down to a word.

“I vote against the proposal, Admiral,” she said quietly.

“Thank you for the clarification,” Fowler answered. She turned to face the Senate. “We apologize for this intrusion. Certain elements under our command will remain—outside the Pale—to render technical assistance and all necessary protection to the Senate.”

“That is acceptable,” Drexler said.

“Death spare the Senate,” Fowler said.

“Death spare the Senate,” came the murmured response of the assembly.

Three of the officers turned and strode from the Forum, hurrying back to the Pale and the military infostructure, where they could give orders to their troops and ships. But one of the navy men stayed behind, and took a step toward her.

“Senator Oxham?”

“Yes … Commodore?” she asked, reading his rank.

“My name is Marcus Fentu Masrui.”

She blinked, recognizing the name. Masrui had been Zai’s commanding officer on Dhantu. In fact, she’d come close to meeting the man on the night she’d met Laurent, ten years ago.

“Is it true, Senator?” the officer asked.

“What, Commodore?”

“That the Emperor wanted to kill Laurent Zai? After everything?”

She nodded. “Absolutely true. I heard him say the words.”

“And that there is no immortality?”

“Yes. It’s all true, Commodore. Laurent himself told me.”

The Commodore shook his head ruefully. “If any man deserved to live forever, it was Zai,” he said.

She felt it then, the emotion the officers had hidden so well. It burst from behind Masrui’s discipline, from behind his decades of training and loyalty. The prize they’d all been promised, the Valhalla where their dead comrades had gone for rewards eternal, the very reason many of them had joined the military: All of it was a lie.

The man’s face wrenched, as if he were swallowing something awful. Then he took a deep breath, and focus returned to his thoughts.

“And, another thing, begging your pardon …”

“Yes, Commodore?”

Masrui bit his lower lip before speaking.

“Were you and Zai … really lovers?”

“Yes, Commodore. We are lovers.” :

For a moment, his face was blank. Then he grasped her hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

Nara found herself speechless for a moment. Then she pulled her hand from his. “No thanks necessary, Commodore. It was never pity.”

“Of course not, Senator. I didn’t mean to imply pity. Thank you, though. I wanted … all of us wanted somehow to restore Zai. He lost too much on Dhantu. After the Legis rescue failed, we thought the Emperor’s pardon was real.”

“It wasn’t.”

He swallowed, the bitter taste of another lie showing on his face.

“Commodore, tell me something,” Oxham said.

“At your service, Senator.”

“Are there enough of you? Enough to fight those who’ll follow the Emperor without question?”

“Not yet. But there will be. The truth will turn them.”

He looked up at his departing comrades, realizing that he should join them and put this revolution, this righteous treason, this civil war into motion. But he turned back to Nara.

“Laurent Zai’s name will turn them,” he said.

“And death,” Nara added.

“Death, Senator?”

“Death is real again, Commodore. Remind them of that.”

Commodore Masrui thought about this for moment, then shook his head.

“It was always real, Senator, for us soldiers. Death out in space rarely left enough for the symbiant. But I suppose that now death is unavoidable, as it always was before the Emperor’s lie.”

“Spread the word, then,” Nara Oxham said. “We’re free again.”

After a long time, the sun and moon stopped wheeling in the sky. The tides were over.

The fisherman looked down at himself. Somehow, he was still here, still whole after having been consumed a thousand thousand times. The fish were placid now, half in the tide pool, half in the bay.

But no, there were more of them … in the sky.

The dark night seemed to have filled with stars, as if he’d jumped ten thousand light-years closer to the core. But what looked like stars were in fact the little luminescent fish, strewn across the sky to make a galaxy, a milky river of light. The fisherman’s thoughts grew clearer, and he understood what had pacified the ravenous schools: They had reached their goal, resplendent and sovereign in the dark.