Killbox

Dina has her own soldiers? I can’t wait to see her face when she finds out.

“Let me guess. They sign with the slogan: ‘The Oppressed Shall Rise.’ ”

Tarn seems surprised. “How did you know?”

“I came across their handiwork on Perlas Station, but I didn’t know what it meant until now.”

It’s amusing to think of a royalist party as oppressed; but history teaches us that any government, however egalitarian it purports to be, can swiftly become more brutal and corrupt than the one it supplants. That thought leaves me uneasy as I study the face of the Conglomerate. Will Tarn one day be worse than the Farwan execs?

“What news from Emry?” March asks.

We left Surge in charge of liaising with New Terra. Time to see if he’s reported anything of note, as his messages may not have caught up with us. That’s the danger of frequent jumps. By the time the satellite relays catch up, your ship is somewhere else.

“Varied,” Tarn returns. “He reports that ships have arrived from seven different nontier worlds, Outskirts rabble mostly.”

I grit my teeth because that rabble is fighting and dying bravely on his behalf.

Tarn goes on. “They were private vessels, come to collect some missing children.”

Finally, some good news.

“But after hearing what the Armada did on their behalf, their leadership contacted me, requesting to join the Conglomerate. They’ve since pledged ships and trained soldiers to our cause,” the Chancellor concludes.

The Armada, my ass. It was us, plain and simple. But I’m thrilled to learn those kids are going home, and even happier to hear we can count on the support of seven more worlds. We’re going to need that strength of numbers real soon.

March pauses behind Tarn, who has drawn up outside the senate chamber. “Nice to know what we do out there makes a difference.”

I peer inside, taking in the vast room with stadium seats. The magnitude steals my breath, though part of me wonders if the credits that went toward this construction might’ve been better spent on ships and soldiers. Still, I must admit it’s impressive. In a few moments, this ivory-and-gilt chamber will be filled with representatives who will decide the fate of the galaxy.

Tarn levels his gaze on both of us, for once devoid of his politician’s charm. “You are the last dam holding back a very dark tide. Never doubt what you do matters.”

March inclines his head. “Thank you. But you may feel less grateful when you hear the news we carry. It’s grim intelligence, Chancellor.”

“Do I need preparation or can it be presented with the rest at the summit?”

March slides me a look, touches my mind with his. The warm prickle warns me. He’s taking a quick census as only he can.

Thus assured of my position, he says, “I think we’d better talk first.”

Alarm registers on Tarn’s mobile features. “Then let’s step into my private office. It’s not far.”

Once the door slides shut behind us, and we’ve all seated ourselves, March summarizes what I learned from the downed Morgut ship. Though he levels a sharp look at me, Tarn doesn’t ask how I understand them. Just as well—we’re short on time.

“Such tidings are . . .” For once, he seems at a loss for words.

“Catastrophic?” I offer.

“That will do. I haven’t been idle,” Tarn says. “Each tier world has complied with the decree that they levy at least one ship and crew toward defense of the Conglomerate.” Seeing my surprise at the paucity of the offering, he explains, “Some tier worlds are colonies barely starting out. Even this will prove a hardship. But I’ve received promises of aid from Tarnus, Rodeisia, and the Nicuan Empire, well beyond that single ship.”

That astonishes me. By March’s expression, he shares the feeling. “They’ve agreed to put aside their own differences long enough to commit resources to a galactic conflict?”

Tarn nods. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“It’s wise of them to be concerned,” I say softly. “The Morgut are not just attacking. They’re colonizing. Conquering. One world will never be enough.”

“So reinforcements are coming.” March threads his fingers together, looking weary but thoughtful.

“That means we need enough time to let our allies get their ships in place.”

“Having the coordinates will help,” Tarn says. “But I fear many colonies will be lost.”

No shit. I share that fear. He’s never seen the Morgut close up. New Terra has never seen what they can do. If we do our jobs here and now, it never will.

Secretly, I’d hoped to hear from my mother by now, but it’s not like she ever helped me before. It’s kind of a long shot. Her goons will most likely go about ransacking the galaxy until the very end.

“Not having their timetable as well as the locations will cost us,” March agrees.

“Any news from Ithiss-Tor?” I’m curious what the new, permanent ambassador is like, and how he or she is getting on with Vel.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Computer, play message 49781-B.”

“Certainly, Chancellor Tarn.”

Hearing the voice I chose for Constance come out of Tarn’s terminal gives me a little start, but that’s forgotten when Vel’s image resolves on the display. How like him that he omits a greeting and begins the report immediately. “The opposition party has been defeated and manufacture of new vessels has commenced. I cannot say how soon the fleet will be ready, but a number of lower-caste kinsmen have entered training to crew them.” He etches a wa in closing, though the meaning is lost on Tarn: At last we hunt again.

A woman steps forward then. She is slim and fair, every hair in place. Instead of my haphazard burns, she has ritual scars etched into her shoulders and elegant patterns notched into her cheeks. Once, I would have found the effect akin to self-mutilation, but my perception of beauty has expanded considerably since my callow youth. Loveliness is not just smooth skin and bright eyes. It comes in all hues and aspects.

“Chancellor Tarn.” She pauses as if giving him a chance to respond. Her smile reflects that she knows the impact of her manner. “As my cultural liaison notes—” There’s warmth in her gaze as she glances at Vel. “Things proceed apace. I am confident not only that the trade agreements will hold, but that I shall forge some new pacts as well. There is a hungry merchant faction that will permit me to leverage the issues we discussed.”

She must be talking about the war. When I was there, the Ithtorians were wary of being dragged into our conflict; but once a hunter scents the blood of an old foe, they find it hard to reject a new contest. The ambassador’s gold robe shines as she closes the vid letter.

There’s an unwelcome hole in my gut because Vel’s there with her. If I didn’t know better, I’d call the feeling jealousy. He’s supposed to be here with me. Because I must, I set the sensation aside to consider later.

“Who is she?”

“Catrin Jocasta,” Tarn tells me.

“Jocasta,” March repeats.

“You know the name. She is Miriam Jocasta’s daughter, a diplomat trained at her mother’s knee. It took months of begging before she would leave her seclusion.” His expression says he’d have sent her instead of me if she hadn’t been grieving, and Vel would’ve consented to escort her.

That explains it. Miriam Jocasta died on the Sargasso, the most famous of Farwan’s victims. New Terra itself spent a whole day in mourning for her when we revealed the truth of her murder. If Catrin is truly her mother’s daughter, she will bring an exquisite gravity to her role as ambassador, and Vel will cherish the time he spends with her. I wish that prospect didn’t fill me with such ambivalence.

“I’m glad they’re in good hands.”

“Technically,” Tarn says, “that was old news. They arrived on world for the summit, just yesterday.”

“So there’s an Ithtorian delegation present?” The pomp and circumstance must’ve been enormous. But I need to see Vel—Mary, how I’ve missed him.

Tarn rises then. “Yes, Catrin handled things beautifully from start to finish. I’ll think on how best to present this information to the summit. I don’t want to start a panic.”

“Will you need us to speak?” I ask.

“Commander March, if you would stand by in case you’re needed, I’d appreciate that very much.”

“Can I watch?” Everyone else will see only snippets of history being made, after it’s all done. I hope to have a front-row seat.

The Chancellor says, “Of course. If you’ll excuse me?”

The show is about to begin.

CHAPTER 47

I’m watching the summit.

I can see everything through the windows of a small room off the senate chamber. The tiered seats are now full. So many representatives have come from so many worlds. It’s mind-boggling. Searching the vast hall, I find Vel standing beside the Ithtorian representative—of course, they need him to interpret the proceedings and speak for Ithiss-Tor. From where I stand, I can’t make out who has been elected.

March waits with me in case he’s needed. He shoots me a quiet glance, but even when we’re alone he doesn’t get personal. His self-discipline kills me.

Into the silence steps a slim, lovely woman. I recognize Catrin immediately from the vid message Tarn played for us. As a VIP, she’s joined us for the up-close view. I wonder how well she knows Vel.

Dismissing the thought as jealous and petty, I extend a hand. “Sirantha Jax.”

“I know your work,” she says, shaking it.

I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad one. Her expression gives me nothing. The summit commences, sparing me from further social intercourse.

Tarn completes his opening remarks, greeting his fellow representatives. I can’t think when so many dignitaries have been gathered on New Terra, and part of me thinks this would be an excellent time for an attack. Farwan used just such an occasion, after all, but the Conglomerate has learned from their mistakes, at least; the representatives arrived on different ships, preventing such a great and collective loss.

There are chairs, but I don’t want to sit. This seems like an occasion I ought to face on my feet. Tarn wades through a number of less weighty issues first, and votes are taken. It makes sense to organize the docket that way. But at last, he has no choice but to broach the news we’ve given him.

“One final order of business, ladies and gentlemen.”

A restive hum sweeps over the assembly. If I were watching this on the bounce, where the general populace will catch only a glimpse later, the camera would zoom in for some strategic close-ups. Instead, I make my own observations. That one is bored and needs to use the san facility. This one has some idea what’s coming, a wreath of worry crowning her brow. I can identify them by the symbols set before them.

“We have long known this day was approaching, but I am afraid it has now arrived. We are at war.”