“That’s not imp—” She stopped when Ekatya glared at her.
“Let me treat your fucking hands, all right? I need to get one Shipper-damned thing right today.”
Silently, Lancer Tal indicated the sideboard.
Ekatya stomped over and opened one door after another until she found what she was looking for. Wide eyes met her when she stomped back, and she forced herself to slow down. Given her mood, the Lancer was probably expecting the most painful treatment ever.
She crouched in front of her and took one hand into her own. “What happened is that my oath of service was violated,” she said, the harshness of her voice at odds with the care she was using on those knuckles. “Some power players in the Protectorate betrayed every principle I’ve ever fought for and made me a proxy for doing it. And when Lhyn tried to stop me, I wouldn’t listen. When you asked me for help, I wouldn’t give it. I didn’t think I could, because it’s honor and duty and the right thing above all else. We have to act for the greater good. Right? That means making the hard decisions.”
Lancer Tal didn’t answer, nor did she expect it.
“The negotiation with the Voloth is a scam. It’s not about saving civilizations or making peace; it’s about maximizing profit. There are no civilizations on those planets. And it would have been ever so helpful if I’d known that six days ago, or even this morning, but Lhyn’s people only found out the truth now. Probably right about the time I was trying to get that detonator out of Baldassar’s hands.” She paused and inspected her work. “Is this all right? Does it need more?”
“No, you’ve covered it.” Lancer Tal pulled her hand away and offered the other. “How did Lhyn’s people find out the truth when no one in the Assembly seems to know?”
“Oh, let me tell you about the fine art of buying votes. All it takes is having more wealth than the Seeders and the Shippers put together. You throw a little bit of that around, pledge to underwrite a reelection campaign or three, and there you go—Assembly ministers who will vote any way you tell them to. The key is to pick the right ones. You have to get the powerful ones on the right committees, the ones who control the information on whatever thing you’re interested in. Then you give them the doctored surveys that you want disseminated to the rest of the Assembly, and instruct your purchased ministers to push the vote your direction. Lhyn’s people found out because they didn’t get their information from the Assembly. They got it straight from the source.” She inspected the knuckles and went back for a section she’d missed. “You know what we need? We need empaths in our Assembly.”
“That would help, though high empaths could still do something like that without being detected.”
“Do you allow high empaths to control all of your Council’s most important committees and the flow of information?”
“No. For exactly that reason.”
“Right.” She released the hand and returned to her seat on the bench. “Let me see your face.”
“It’s not—”
“Don’t even try. I’m really, really angry.”
“Even Micah can probably sense that, and he’s a low empath.”
Ekatya ignored her. “And I need to stay angry, because if I don’t, I might start thinking about what I’ve just lost. So let me see your face.”
Lancer Tal turned her head without another word, and Ekatya got to work.
“The awful thing,” she said as she swabbed, “the part that’s so unfair, is that the man who sold you to the Voloth was instantly punished. He died a horrible death because his actions were so reprehensible that a bunch of academics turned themselves into a death mob. But the corrupt ministers in the Assembly and the people who bought them? They’ve done far worse, and they’ll never be punished. They’re too powerful.” Gently, she pushed Lancer Tal’s chin to the other side and began dabbing at the lighter marks. “It’s not as bad on this side.”
“You’re right-handed. And nobody should be above the law.”
“See, this is why Lhyn loves Alsea. Because its leader actually believes that. You may have mind-fucked my crew, but at least you got warrants first.”
“I wish you’d stop calling it that.”
Ekatya passed the cloth over her cheekbone ridge one more time and sat back. “Why?”
“Because that describes a vile and violent criminal act that I would never commit, nor would any of my Guards, and any Alsean that does is locked up forever in a place where they can never hurt anyone again.”
That sounded like something Ekatya did not want to learn any more about. “Then what would you call it?”
“Empathic force. But even that covers a whole range of possibilities, and what we did to your crew was at the very light end. You’re all sonsales; you have no protections. It took almost no effort to go into your people’s minds and give them a little nudge. All we wanted was information, enough so that we could operate your fighters and weapons ourselves. It hardly even qualified as force, and it didn’t interfere in any way with their normal characters or actions.”
“Except for Commander Kameha.”
“Except for him.”
“What did you do to him?”
“You know, we could have had this exact conversation in my office, when I asked you to sit down. We didn’t need to beat each other up to get here.”
Ekatya held up her hand and made a fist, marveling at the scabs that had already formed. “Actually, I think we did. And you haven’t answered my question.”
“Commander Kameha needed a…special effort. I had to bind his loyalty to me. He was still the Kameha you know, except that when he had to make a choice between obeying your orders or mine, he obeyed mine. That’s it.”
“If you’d told me that back in your office, I’d probably have hit you. Now I’m just resigned to the whole thing. So yes, we had to do this.” She remembered the Lancer’s odd words on the shuttle and said, “Did you…er, unbind him? When you said you released him?”
“I hope so. That was the intent, but there was no way to be sure when I couldn’t be there in person. Truthfully, I thought I’d never see him again, so it didn’t matter either way. He’d never have to choose again. But I’ll make certain of it now.”
Ekatya’s first reaction was to say Like Hades you will, but she’d just had a Sharing with this woman and come out of it fully intact. More than intact, actually. The time for deception was over; Lancer Tal was telling the truth.
“How much force did his ‘special effort’ involve?”
“Far less than I expected. Which means that he had no moral issues with what I asked him to do. I never had to force him to act against his character. He didn’t want to destroy the Caphenon, so I just gave him a reason not to.”
“And if you’d had to force Lhyn? If she’d been determined to leave with me? What would that have taken?”
For the first time, Lancer Tal wouldn’t meet her eyes. “More than I was comfortable with,” she admitted. “I had a crisis of faith over it.”
Ekatya thought it was a sign of emotional exhaustion that she couldn’t even feel angry at her for that. Or maybe this day had just redefined the threshold of what it took to really piss her off.
Or maybe, she mused as she watched the Lancer looking anywhere but at her, maybe she couldn’t find anger where there was so much guilt. Lancer Tal acted as if she were carrying the weight of a crime and facing a judge, but really, who was Ekatya to be that judge? She’d actually considered killing more than a thousand Alseans just so she could say she’d obeyed her orders. It didn’t matter how brief that consideration had been. And if it hadn’t been for the Lancer’s machinations, she would certainly have destroyed the one thing that gave the Alseans a chance. She would have single-handedly doomed them to slavery and death.
Lancer Tal had been prepared to hurt one person. Ekatya had been prepared to hurt five hundred million.
She sighed. “Well, I’m glad neither of us had to sell our souls.”
“Oh, Fahla.”
The Lancer buried her face in her hands, and though she made no sound, the shaking of her shoulders betrayed her tears.
Ekatya didn’t know what to do. Alseans had strange strictures about physical touch, but…maybe a hand on the back was all right. She rested her hand there cautiously, then began a soft rubbing motion. “If this is how you react when you didn’t have to do it, I’d hate to see what would have happened if you’d had to do it.”
“It would have torn me apart.” Lancer Tal straightened and wiped her cheeks. “I went to the Temple for personal advice, and I haven’t done that in twenty-five cycles. I asked the Lead Templar if Fahla would still accept me.”
“What would happen if Fahla didn’t accept you?”
“I’d never Return. When I died, that would be it. No next level, no transformation, no exploration of the potentials we can’t reach in this world. The door would shut in my face and I’d be lost forever. And if that happened, then I can only hope the scholars who say the alternative to a Return is simple death are right. I’d prefer just…stopping. Never knowing what I couldn’t have.”
Ekatya watched her in astonishment. When she’d referred to selling their souls, she’d meant it metaphorically. But Lancer Tal had been willing to risk hers in the most literal sense. No wonder she’d fallen apart.
“What did the Lead Templar say?”
“Enough to make me feel marginally better. Not enough to put me at ease.” Lancer Tal met her gaze directly and added, “Thank you. I can’t tell you what it means to have your forgiveness.”
“Does that mean you forgive me for trying to blow the Caphenon?”
“I never blamed you for it in the first place. I just made sure you couldn’t do it.” She sighed and leaned her head against the pillar. “Not that it matters now. We can’t use your fighters, and I don’t see any way out of this without them.”
“I’m not ready to accept that, and I can’t believe you are. You would have sold your soul to save Alsea and now you’re just giving up?”
“I’m not giving up. I won’t do that until they kill me. But I’m tired, Captain.”
She looked it. Ekatya wondered how much of that was the Sharing and how much was everything else pressing down on her. Certainly a cracked rib couldn’t be helping.
“I’m tired too,” she said. “Tired of making choices that have been forced on me, and of playing the fool for some power-hungry assheads who see me as nothing more than a kasmet game piece to be moved on the board. Those people sold their souls a long time ago, and it wasn’t for anywhere near as good a reason as you had. I swore an oath to the Protectorate, but this isn’t what I agreed to.”
Lancer Tal turned her head. “What are you going to do?”
“What we are going to do is get you to the healing center. And then we’re going to figure out how to beat the Voloth. Because we can’t let them win, and we especially can’t let those slime worms in my own confederation win. I know you’ve claimed salvage and you had every right to, but as the newly returned captain of the Caphenon, I’m putting my ship at your disposal, as well as any of my crew who want to join us. I think you’ll find that almost all of them will.”
Reaching up, she unclipped the captain’s bars from her collar and held them out.
Slowly, Lancer Tal held out her own hand, her eyes wide. “I know you’re serious about this. And I really shouldn’t be asking, but don’t you want more time to think about it?”
“No.” Ekatya dropped the bars in her hand. “I’m putting myself at your disposal as well. As of now, my oath of service to the Protectorate is rescinded. If you’ll accept me, I’m looking for a new oath holder.”
Chapter 47
Absolution
Micah took one look at the two women walking out of the training room and knew they’d worked it out. Tal looked as exhausted as a new Guard after basic training, but there was a peace about her that he hadn’t seen since the moment she’d told him to get the warrants. Captain Serrado’s features were stern and set with determination, rather than the killing anger she’d radiated before, and her physical closeness to Tal spoke of watchful protection. He hadn’t expected that much, but he wasn’t about to question it.
The Guards were all too well trained to utter a word, but every eye was on the women’s bruised faces. Tal met their stares and said, “An honor challenge was fought and ended. Captain Serrado accepts my leadership, and I have accepted her oath of service.”
No amount of training could prevent the gasps at that, and even Micah’s jaw loosened. “Will there be a formal ceremony?” he asked.
“That’s not a priority. Corlander, you’re in charge of the Gaians for now. Take them back to their quarters and tell them that their captain is fine and will be speaking with them shortly. Put a watch on Commander Baldassar. Micah, Gehrain, please escort us to the healing center. We’re taking my personal transport.”
It wasn’t until they’d left the other Guards behind and were nearing the small transport that Tal told Gehrain he was flying. Micah looked at her more closely.
“It’s the rib, isn’t it?”
Tal nodded once and silently palmed the transport lock. “Captain, you’ll be in the copilot’s seat.”
Micah frowned as he watched the careful way Tal folded herself into the back seat. He’d seen that kick land, but she hadn’t been debilitated by it then. Something else was going on, and when she rested her head on the seat back and closed her eyes, he was certain of it.
“Gehrain, all possible speed,” he said.
“Yes, Colonel.” Gehrain checked the captain’s harness, started up the engines, and was lifting off not ten pipticks later.
Captain Serrado turned and looked back at Tal in concern. “She Shared with me. It seemed to take a lot out of her.”
Micah’s jaw dropped for the second time that morning. “She Shared with you?”
“I’m not dead yet,” Tal said, but she wasn’t opening her eyes. “I’m not asleep either, so perhaps you could speak to me instead of about me.”
“You Shared with her.” Micah didn’t know how to begin to deal with that. “What in—” He stopped himself in time and finished, “Were you certain it was safe?”
“Lead Templar Satran did it with Lhyn Rivers and had no issues. She did say it was much harder than Sharing with an Alsean. I’ll have to tell her she’s a master of understatement.”
“I’m guessing Lead Templar Satran didn’t do that after a fight, several skipped meals, and six hanticks of sleep over the past three days.” He’d watched her run herself into the ground since the moment that ship landed, always saying there was no time. It seemed to be her mantra, but that was ending right now. Sometimes a Chief Guardian had to take matters into his own hands, and when the Lancer was sitting half-asleep in the back of her own transport, it was past time.
“I know,” she said, and he wasn’t sure whether she was answering his words or his emotions. “It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do. But it was the right thing to do.”
He met Serrado’s eyes and saw guilt there.
“Lancer Tal,” she said, “if anything happens to you because of me, Lhyn won’t just hate me; she’ll kill me first and then hate me. Your Guards won’t have to do a thing. Just so you know.”
Tal finally opened her eyes and smiled. “Noted, thank you.”
By the time they landed at the healing center, Tal seemed well enough to walk in under her own power, but Micah suspected that was more determination than anything else. Healer Graystone was on duty and met them at the door, escorting Tal into a private room and shutting the door in Micah’s face when he tried to follow.
Captain Serrado chuckled. “Healers are alike the galaxy over.”
Micah wasn’t amused. He leaned against the wall and waited none too patiently, arms crossed and fingers tapping a beat on his side. The others stood silently, Serrado gazing toward the window at the end of the corridor while Gehrain alternated between watching the door and checking
their surroundings.
After fifteen ticks, Micah couldn’t stand it any longer. “I should be in there. What in Fahla’s name is taking so long?”
He could see Gehrain’s agreement, but Captain Serrado shook her head.
“Colonel, I don’t know the Lancer the way you do, but I know what it’s like to be the one constantly in charge, constantly under protection, and constantly on duty even when you’re not supposed to be. Let her have some privacy. She might need that more than anything else.”
“You’re right, you don’t know her the way I do. And you’re one to talk about privacy when she Shared with you. She has little privacy left after that.”
“What does that mean?”
He pushed off the wall and faced her. “You just felt every one of her most guarded emotions and you don’t get why that would be hard for her?”
“But that’s—I didn’t feel her emotions.”
Gehrain joined them. “That’s what a Sharing is, Captain. Perhaps you didn’t understand.”
“I understood just fine. You’re not understanding. She didn’t—” Serrado paused, swore softly in her own language, and shook her head. “She didn’t share her emotions; she shared Lhyn’s. So I could feel what Lhyn feels.”
Micah and Gehrain looked at each other in shock.
“No wonder,” Gehrain murmured.
Micah nodded. “Yes, that explains it. That plus the way she’s worn herself to a blunt edge this last nineday.”
“Then perhaps you could explain it to the sonsales alien?” The captain’s tone was sharp.
Micah gestured at Gehrain, who said, “What Lancer Tal did is much more difficult than a normal Sharing. It’s natural and easy to let your own emotions flow in a connection like that. But to remember your experience of someone else’s emotions and reproduce them, to project emotions that aren’t yours—that takes a high level of skill, a lot of training, and a lot of energy. I’ve done it before, and afterwards I was as hungry as a mountzar that just woke up from the winter sleep. Tired, too. And that was Sharing with an Alsean. If Lead Templar Satran said a normal Sharing was much harder with a Gaian, then…”