Victory Conditions (26 page)

At the next medical conference, Ky felt much better. Well enough, in fact, to leave. Her team had a different opinion.

“We’ve stabilized your biochemistry,” the chief neurologist said. “But we’re concerned about residual damage from that brain injury you suffered at Sabine. The surgeons did an excellent repair, considering the conditions, but our scans show several areas that could be improved. Besides, we haven’t yet dealt with the retraining you need. The two together will take another five days, but your fleet tells us the ships won’t be ready to depart for at least seven.”

“You’re sure I really need this?”

“The retraining, definitely. We could excise the memories that led to the trauma, but that might impair your judgment the other way. Retraining will help you modulate those memories, control their intensity.”

Ky agreed, and underwent a treatment that involved having short-lived nannites inserted into her brain, where they removed excess scar tissue from the surgery at Sabine and from a childhood concussion, then several days of adjustment trials to her implant controls and biofeedback work that was supposed to optimize both physiological and bionic response to stressors. Every day she felt a bit more clearheaded, until finally the team dismissed her.

“Here are the copies of material sequestered from you implant,” Adjan said. “They belong to you; they are from your implant. But I caution you that under no circumstances should you review this material for at least one standard year. Ordinarily we would ask you to deposit it with a trusted relative who would then lock it away—the temptation to snoop has caused more than one patient distress and required re-treatment. This is not possible for you, as you have no relatives here.”

“I could get a lockbox at Crown & Spears and leave it there,” Ky said. “With instructions to destroy it if I’m killed. Would that do?”

“That would be very wise,” Adjan said.

“I’ll arrange it, then, and let you messenger the cubes over. Then you won’t have to worry that my insatiable curiosity will undo your work…” She grinned at them all.

She dressed once more in her uniform, called to let her security detail know she was ready to leave, called to arrange a lockbox at the local Crown & Spears. Then she called Pitt.

“What’s my agenda? They’re kicking me out.”

“Well, if you’re able, there’s a string of memorial services where your attendance would be welcome. They’ve been holding off on the
Vanguard
one, hoping you’d be out in time.”

“Of course,” Ky said.

“With so few of us surviving—” And so few remains, Ky knew. “—it’ll be brief.”

Someone had thought to send along a mourning band with her security detail, so Ky was able to go directly from the hospital to a small chapel. She recited the ancient words commanders had used in Slotter Key for generations; others gave their memories of those killed. Argelos and Pettygrew attended but did not say much. The names, recited together, were too long a string to remember; Ky remembered faces, expressions, the sound of a laugh or a curse.

While she’d been gone, someone—she assumed Pitt—had gone through her quarters on the station and moved everything to her new flagship. Ky had been asked about that name, and agreed with the others that it should be called
Vanguard II.
The new
Vanguard
looked and felt very different from the old one. It smelled different; it sounded different; it was much bigger.

She felt different, too…not the kind of fresh-paint quality that gave the ship its distinctive smell but something else. She had the memories she needed, the memories that had given her the experience to do what she must now do. But she felt stable again, steady…she had not realized—had not had time to realize—how long she’d been struggling to stay upright, as if one mental leg had been lopped shorter than the other. The implant’s software addition, tweaking her biochemistry, kept it in an allowable range, the doctors had explained. She could still get angry, be scared, feel grief and triumph…but extremes would not create feedback situations that maintained an abnormal level.

Pitt had visited, the last two days in the clinic, and so had Argelos and Pettygrew. She’d been fully awake by then, still on an IV to boost neural retraining but able to have visitors for an hour. Both captains had offered her data cubes, but—obedient to the doctors’ orders—she’d refused them. Now she’d have to tackle them. She felt well able. Moray had an extensive library of military science, tucked into the larger database of technical material. Though their own space force had been, like Slotter Key’s, intended for System Defense only, their archives held the records of many previous conflicts, going all the way back through human history to the origins of war.

Ky downloaded the sections she found most relevant: strategy for large, diverse units, information on how best to organize units from different original governments into a unified force, and how to organize the staff for such a large force. While space warfare had always suffered from lightlag in communications, even after system ansibles become common, pre-space warfare with its much shorter distances had dealt with instantaneous communication—its value and its problems—for centuries. Strategy for surface warfare had to be translated into multidimensional terms, but she found ideas that no one else had used for a long, long time.

She pulled her attention out of this fascinating topic to attend another memorial service, this time for those who had tried to use the sabotaged ships against Turek’s force.

Unlike the small private service for the
Vanguard
dead, the memorial service for the civilians killed in their attempt to fight off the invasion packed the largest hall Moray Station could find. Despite the urgent need for ships, construction work halted long enough for the ceremony, because riggers closed ranks around their Miznarii co-workers and their families.

Ky and her escort had a space near the front; they edged through the already crowded room. At the far end, on an improvised stage, someone had mounted images of those who had died. Along the sides of the room, as outside, a line of station police kept watch. Ky had to shake innumerable hands, nod and smile innumerable times. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to speak to her, touch her. She was glad this was the last such service—for now—she would have to attend. That for the crew of
Vanguard,
delayed until she was out of treatment, was only a day past.

On the professional side, what the riggers had done was foolhardy and even stupid: once they’d undone the controls the enemy had placed on the ships, they should have let the station take over control and bring them back to dock. But that would have meant turning their Miznarii friends over to Station Security as saboteurs, exposing those families to legal scrutiny and public scorn, or worse. Instead, they had chosen to make heroes out of potential suspects. Moray’s senior security officer, Kendelmann, had shared with her the initial record of the conversation between riggers and the station on the ship they called Thirty.

It would’ve been remarkable if even one of the crews had done this, but they all had.

“They’re a tight-knit bunch, the riggers,” Kendelmann had said. “And this particular group all live in the same neighborhood. The Miznarii keep to themselves somewhat, but the neighborhood leaders are all unusually gregarious.”

“So do you think this Lozar knew what he was doing?”

“No. I think it’s like his friends said. He was just barely bright enough to be a rigger, and he was always a go-along kind of fellow. That new cleric of theirs, though, he knew what those datadots were for, and he knew Lozar was gullible enough to believe what he was told.”

Now, surrounded by friends and relatives of those who’d died, Ky was ushered to a seat in the second row, next to a stocky dark-haired middle-aged woman and a girl who was obviously her daughter…neither with implant bulges. On the far side of them sat a young redheaded woman, her implant bulge showing through hair pulled back to a bun. She had her arm around the shoulders of the daughter.

“Phittanji’s widow and daughter,” someone murmured from behind her. “It was poor Lozar—”

They could not know that she, Ky, had a reason—distant and minor, comparatively—to be less than sympathetic to Miznarii. The woman turned to Ky. She looked miserable and exhausted, but she summoned up a weak smile. “Thank you for saving us from those pirates,” she said.

“I wish I had been able to save all your families,” Ky said.

“It was not—it was not possible to save Lozar, once—once he—” Her shoulders trembled; tears overflowed her eyes. “He only did what he was told—”

Ky was not sure what was culturally acceptable; the Miznarii woman would consider her—anyone—with an implant a humod, and so might consider contact a contamination. But the woman’s obvious distress required something—she put out her hand, and Sera Phittanji clung to it.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “We have no savings; my daughter was to be married and we had spent everything on her—” In a low, rapid voice, she poured out her troubles as if Ky should be able to do something. Lozar’s disgrace, the rent due, the death of her daughter’s suitor on another of the ships, the confusion of the congregation when their cleric turned out to be one of Turek’s agents, everything. All Ky knew to do was listen, let her hand be squeezed out of shape, and hope that the ceremony started sometime soon.

When it did start, Sera Phittanji let go of Ky’s hand at last. Each rigger’s family had a chance to speak, usually telling some anecdote about the family member. They were taken in order of the ship numbers. When number seventeen was called, the red-haired girl three seats down got up and made her way forward.

“Both her parents,” Sera Phittanji said, tears running down her face. “Both of them dead, and her mother was the sweetest woman. We worked together on some committees. I don’t know what Meg will do…”

Ky froze; she had been where Meg was, only this girl was younger. She could not speak; she wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else rather than here. At least no one had asked
her
to give a speech after losing her parents in a violent attack. Unlike the other speakers, Meg did not talk about her parents specifically; instead she talked about their decision—all the riggers’ decision—to try to attack the invaders and in the process save their Miznarii friends.

Silence held the room as she spoke, her earnest young voice catching now and then, but clear. “It was the right thing to do,” she said at the end. “And they did it. And we need to do it, too.” Ky felt tears stinging her own eyes.

When the time came for the families of those who died in Thirty, Meg stood up with Lozar’s daughter and helped her to the front. The daughter read from a sheet of paper, now much-crumpled: her father had been loving and honest. He had not known—her voice broke there. He had been a good friend to his friends, and his friends had been loyal to him…her voice broke again and she ducked her head. Meg patted her shoulder and helped her back to her seat.

Ship Thirty was the last of the “hero ships,” as the local press called them, and when a co-worker of D. Watson, who had no family at the memorial, had talked about the man’s fascination with the same entertainment series many of the group enjoyed,
Swords of the Spaceways,
a government official handed out medals from the stage.

Then family members lined up to walk past the row of pictures while others stood around in clumps, talking and waiting their turn. By the time she left, Ky had a dozen invitations to lunch, dinner, a couple of birthday parties, and various private wakes.

“Good bunch of people,” Pitt said.

“Yes…I can’t get over that girl—Meg. When my parents were killed, I don’t think I’d have been so forgiving of someone who’d made it possible.”

“She was already friends with the families,” Pitt said. “She and that Phittanji girl had been in classes together. It’s different when you know the people.”

Ky tried to imagine how she’d have felt if she’d known that someone in the office at Corleigh, some gardener or the mechanic at the airfield, had been involved. She’d played with their children, years before…and no, she couldn’t see blaming Ekar or Adadi if one of their parents had been involved.

“It’s a good thing they were all so close, then. Kendelmann told me he thought there’d be riots when people found out, but the riggers wouldn’t let nonriggers into their neighborhoods for days.”

“Did she break any bones?” Pitt asked, glancing at Ky’s hand.

“This? No, but I was afraid she would. Poor woman. She’s got more problems than most, at this point.”

“If I could make a suggestion—”

“Of course,” Ky said.

“Have the fleet—your fleet—set up a fund for those families. Let everyone toss in a few credits; it’ll add up. Kind of back up that solidarity they have.”

“Good idea,” Ky said.

“I borrowed it,” Pitt said. “It’s something Mackensee does, spread a little butter around on something other than bars and brothels and weapons suppliers. Seems to create goodwill, anyway.”

Back at the ship, Ky took the time to download and install the new command data set for this ship, then review the news that had stacked up even in those few hours.

Moray Security had located one of the small ansibles in a shop stockroom; the owner claimed no knowledge of it, but was in custody, and one of the employees, under interrogation, had suddenly died. Despite an intensive search, they’d found no more of the ansibles, and felt that they’d blocked local agents—if there were more agents—from communicating with Turek. Moray had technicians capable of restoring service to the system ansible, which they had done, but only for government use.