Matriarch

  “It must be hard to live with faded glory when your ancestors’ memories are part of you. I imagine it makes for bitter personalities.”

  “And delusional ones, perhaps.”

  “Why?”

  “In their minds—in their genetic memory—they’re still a powerful imperial army that took on the wess’har and almost won. In the flesh, they don’t appear to have had any substantial military experience in many generations.”

  It was a telling comment. The military capacity of Umeh surprised Esganikan by its inadequacy. Isenj did something Eddie called “talking a good game”: their threats were more impressive than their actions. She realized she was fighting the equivalent of police and civil emergency teams on Earth. Isenj weren’t a particularly aggressive species, and the Northern Assembly didn’t even have a specific minister with sole responsibility for defense, as the gethes always did.

  And the isenj were no longer the galactic engineers who built and deployed the communications networks that the gethes called ITX: they didn’t even have the resources to maintain them across light years now. The glory days of their civilization were over, eroded by environmental pressures and the increasing need to manage every aspect of their climate. They were already long in decline. But—like their faith in their military prowess—their genetic memories were those of a colonial power who believed its engineering skills could solve any problem. That illusion was probably the basis of their undoing.

  If Eddie Michallat wanted to demonstrate to Earth what would happen to it if it didn’t mend its ways, it wasn’t Eqbas military strength he needed to show: it was the decline of the isenj themselves.

  Joluti took his virin and stared into its layers. “ITX was superior to our technology in many ways at the time. They must feel bitter to think we benefited so much from it.”

  “Knowledge can never be owned for long.”

  “Eddie thinks we’re too open about our military capacity,” said Aitassi.

  “Then perhaps he should stop reporting on it, if it troubles him.”

  “What if the gethes were to acquire countermeasures?”

  Esganikan’s confidence was based on the knowledge that Earth’s technology was a civilization’s history behind her own. They probably knew that too. Perhaps they were hoping that if they tried to repel the Eqbas task force rather than cooperate, then a computer virus, terrestrial bacteria or even a simple element like water would strike down her personnel: they seemed to believe these things, or at least fantasize about them in their myths to comfort themselves that they were special and that fate would always spare them.

  “It would be a technical advance on an unprecedented scale,” said Esganikan. “But we have the blueprint, as they call it, for nearly all life on their planet, including their own species.” She glanced at a remote surveillance image of the remnant of Tivskur’s shattered fleet, half-submerged in its harbor. “And they do not have ours.”

  The surveillance remotes continued to show space-capable vessels from the Sil and Tivskur continents gathering on Pareg. The build-up was far smaller than she expected, no more than three thousand fighters: a large nation’s air force, not a planet’s combined forces.

  “I never expected them to be so inadequate,” said Joluti. “But even if they had the resources, I doubt if they could use them effectively.”

  “I hear the Wess’ej matriarchs never attacked Umeh even at the height of the wars.” Esganikan could imagine their polite, non-interventionist agreement. “And the isenj never targeted Wess’ej.”

  “Bezer’ej was always the disputed territory.”

  “That explains why they’re not equipped for planetary defense.”

  “We could destroy most of the aircraft on the ground,” Joluti looked hopeful. “Do I have your permission? There’s something distasteful about knowing their inadequacy and waiting for them to make a move that justifies our action. Let’s end it now.”

  “How long before the shuttle is inboard?”

  “Half an hour, no more.”

  “Very well. Put the air group on alert.”

  Joluti was right. There was something tragic about it. The isenj have been left in peace to decline and die. Esganikan wouldn’t have felt uneasy and could have concentrated on planning the Earth mission.

  But Par Paral Ual had asked for her help. If one isenj could change, it was worth the fight.

  Library, Nevyan’s clan home, F’nar

  “They either think it’s the Second Coming or the end of the world,” said Barencoin. “That’s the trouble with aliens visiting Earth. Every dingbat and loony this side of the Black Stump is going to be out in force.”

  He slurped his tea and watched the BBChan feed on the ITX with Eddie. Some evangelist group was hailing the Eqbas visit as the beginning of the time of judgment, a wakeup call to repent. The story was buried with the novelty features like water-skiing squirrels and people who set records for eating glass.

  Eddie wondered when to show Barencoin the footage from the Eqbas raid.

  “Maybe it is the end of the world,” said Eddie. “You know the isenj in Jejeno want the Eqbas to give them bioweapons to use against their neighbors, don’t you?”

  “I lose track of the NBC ordnance these days, mate. There’s so much shit around this system.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you? Tailored biological weapons? Target-by-genome?”

  “What, like on Bezer’ej? Courtesy of Eddie Michallat?”

  “That’s defensive.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, then.” Barencoin flipped his knife from his belt. “So’s this. And I can only use my powers for good. Christ, you fucking civvies. You can’t create a weapon and use rules as the safety catch.”

  “They’d have acquired isenj DNA in time anyway, without my help.”

  “We had no business interfering on Bezer’ej.” Barencoin replaced his knife. “And no business telling aliens how to run their affairs when we can’t even run our own.”

  “Okay, Mr. fucking Isolationist,” said Eddie. His language got steadily worse in the company of marines. “We’ve got more than three hundred people still in Jejeno.”

  “Agreed. We should be over there. Just in case.”

  “Five marines and a few billion isenj. What do you think it is, Rorke’s Drift?”

  “Six. And isenj don’t have a problem with humans.”

  “Collateral damage. They don’t have to have a problem. And Shan will have something to say about it if you try to get Ade over there.”

  “Yeah, I thought she might.” Barencoin looked defocused, as if calculating. “I bet the ladies here could lend us a ground-to-air defense system.”

  “Anyway, you lot were fired, remember?”

  “That’s just technicalities.”

  “Could Mar’an’cas cope with just the civvies? That’s just over a hundred.”

  “What about the naval personnel? Don’t blue suits matter?”

  “I’m just thinking aloud. By the time we work out how to find enough food for them there could be fighting in Jejeno anyway.”

  Barencoin didn’t answer. He looked a threat at the best of times, a very big man who never looked clean-shaven however often he used a razor. The news footage absorbed him for a few moments.

  “Let’s watch the main topics,” he said, and Eddie didn’t argue.

  However abrasive Barencoin could be, Eddie admired and liked him. He still did the job, fired or not, and took his responsibilities seriously even when stripped of his status and honor. Eddie stifled the reflex that made him want to garrote politicians with rusty razor-wire.

  “What do you fancy doing when you get back to Earth?” asked Eddie.

  “What, if it’s not a smoking pile of slag by then, you mean?”

  “Assuming that, yes.”

  “I have a Master’s in international law and my first degree was politics. I don’t fancy doing either for a living.”

  “Sorry?”

  Eddie’s shock must hav
e been visible. Barencoin’s jaw clenched a little. “I’m just a mindless grunt right?”

  “No, I never—”

  “Liar.”

  “I just didn’t have you down for a lawyer.” But it was true: he really was shocked that Barencoin had an academic background. He’d taken his smartness for rat cunning. “You’re a bit…direct.”

  “Anyway, being dismissed the service doesn’t look great on your application, does it?”

  Eddie suspected there’d be a lot of security work for special forces troops with no place to go in about thirty years’ time. The FEU forces already had enough trouble keeping their personnel, faced with the lure of better pay outside for the same risk of getting your head shot off, or worse. He had a sudden image of Barencoin in some vile foreign jail and it upset him. He deserved better. They all did.

  “I wish I could be some help, Mart.”

  “You’re not my mum.”

  “Media always needs security minders overseas.”

  “Well, got time to think, haven’t we? Five years to do some distance learning course. Flower arranging, maybe.”

  “Want to evaluate some reconnaissance footage for me?”

  “Is this like your little job of getting us to snatch Rayat and Neville from the isenj?”

  “Not really. I just need to show someone.”

  “Okay.”

  Eddie loaded the file and leaned back to let Barencoin watch the uncut footage from Esganikan’s operation.

  The marine scared him. If any of them were capable of random violence, it was him; just like Shan, he had nasty bastard written all over him and it would come as no surprise if he punched you in the face from a cold start. He watched the recording with an occasional tilt of the head as the cockpit view skewed, and didn’t turn a hair.

  “Those things can really move,” he said as it finished. “So, what else do you want to know?”

  “Does that disturb you?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “It got to me.”

  “How many conflicts have you covered, mate?”

  “Five. Six if you count this.”

  “Then you must have spent your time in the hotel bar. Because that’s what it’s always like. Except they’ve got better kit than us. Lots better.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you think happens when there’s an air strike on ground troops?”

  “In a civilian area.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. We’ve never done that, have we? Jesus, Eddie.”

  Barencoin was an elite commando and it was his job to get it done before someone did it to him. Eddie found himself increasingly adrift in a world where physical aggression was part of his own community’s rules and not just something he reported in disapproving terms.

  “The Eqbas scare me.”

  Barencoin snorted. “Esganikan just loves you. You’re Eqbas Vorhi’s favorite spokesman.”

  Spokesman. Eddie always had a feeling it was true, but he wanted at least to be in denial rather than suppressing the instinct to blush and nod. Mart was definitely far from a grunt.

  “I’m editing this to file later.”

  “Have you looked at the situation developing back home?”

  “I’ll say. On the hour, usually.”

  “The Aussies and the Canadians can’t wait to gang up on the FEU. The African Assembly’s pitching in and nobody knows what the Sinostates are going to do. The veggies are fighting the meat-eaters. Somehow, I don’t think they’ll notice Attack of the Parrot Woman.”

  Eddie did his maths again about the return to Earth, and it was the numbers that always made his stomach churn. Twenty-five years was a long, long time, and fifty was unthinkable: and that was how long the round trip to Earth would take, plus however long it took for the Eqbas to complete their restoration—an unknown period that might be anything from a short and catastrophic war to a permanent occupation.

  There was no guarantee that it would be a round trip at all. The prospect of permanence on Earth scared him now, standing on a balcony somewhere back home and looking up at the stars, and trying to pick out where he had lived, and where his friends were.

  He dreaded waving goodbye to Giyadas and leaving Wess’ej knowing that if he came back, she’d be a grandmother. Nevyan would still be alive: wess’har lived to a good age, longer than humans, but it was a lifetime’s separation.

  Barencoin stared at the news output, arms folded across his chest. Eddie wondered how it felt to have only a uniform to wear, and for that uniform not to be yours any longer. Everyone who’d made the journey from Earth—whether in Thetis or Actaeon—was now permanently displaced not only from location but from their culture.

  “I’ll miss F’nar,” said Eddie. “I like wess’har—the ones here, that is.”

  “You got a few years to go here yet, if you’re heading back with the Eqbas. What’s brought this on? Wangled a private flight or something?”

  “Y’know, if I could transport back to Earth instantly right now, I’m not sure I could fit back in.”

  “I’m worried about you, Eddie. You used to be gung ho and up for anything.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What changed?”

  “Me,” he said. “Because I used to be able to choose when dangerous adventure was over. If I could get transport, I could go back to a nice, safe home. But there isn’t a safe home anywhere now. And I’ve reached the stage where I’m not sure if I should get morally outraged over biological weapons. If that’s not fucked, I don’t know what is.”

  Barencoin leaned over him, voice dropping to a whisper. “I got one more bit of bad news to break to you, then, mate. There’s no hamster heaven either.”

  Barencoin could always make him laugh. The marine probably despised him, but he hid it well.

  “Mart, if we have a war with the Eqbas, would you fight against them?”

  Barencoin shrugged. “If I did, it wouldn’t be for long.” He walked to the door. “Beer and small eats tonight at Frankland Towers, okay? Be there. Be festive.”

  “I will.”

  Eddie spent a while trying to work out why there was so much conflict over Australia’s invitation to the Eqbas and yet his reports were slipping further down BBChan’s list of priorities. It was like the warnings of environmental disaster over the centuries: somehow they were of more use as an excuse for an international brawl than as a warning to do something before it was too late.

  And it had been too late.

  After a point, nobody wanted to hear unending bad news. And that was the only kind of news he had to offer.

  F’nar: December 24, 2376

  Eddie looked like shit.

  “You need a drink,” said Shan. He slumped past her as she opened the door and there was no smart-arse greeting or any sign of the old Eddie who always had to reduce everything to one-liners. His face was etched. There was no other word for it. Lines she’d never seen before formed a fine net around his eyes.

  “I brought one. A large one.”

  He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a clear industrial container of equally clear liquid and handed it to her. About two liters, she estimated: she popped the cap and sniffed. It seared her sinuses like cleaning fluid.

  “Shall I just put a straw in it for you?” She turned to Aras and tilted the bottle in mute request for a glass. “I take it that this anesthetic is connected to what you wanted to talk about.”

  “It’s been an educational couple of weeks.”

  Aras held out two heavy glass cups, clear deep amber with swirls of purple in them. Shan slopped in a respectable amount of the unidentified spirit and thrust it into Eddie’s hand. She poured a little for herself anyway, pointless though it was.

  “You should eat something first,” said Aras. “It won’t reduce the toxicity of the product, but it might make you feel more comfortable.”

  “He never quite got the hang of hospitality training,” said Shan, but Eddie didn’t laugh. She exchanged a discreet o
h-dear look with Aras. He inhaled by way of comment and went back to join Becken and Qureshi, who were laying out food on the table with all the bowls and plates at a precise distance from each other.

  “The whole gang’s here, then.” Eddie hung his coat on the nail by the door one-handed with all the unconscious familiarity of a man who’d lived here while she was temporarily dead. “How are you…three?”

  “We’re fine. You? Okay, bad. I know.”

  He took a pull at the glass. Shan couldn’t tell from the smell what it had been distilled from and it probably didn’t matter: Eddie could do one thing denied her by c’naatat, and that was to get as pissed as a handcart. She’d always taken a dim view of getting drunk, but the fact it was now beyond her always made her a little wistful.

  “If I blurt all this out it’s going to screw the evening. “I’ll tell you later.” He looked around. “Well, this is festive.”

  “Ade’s handiwork.”

  Barencoin interrupted by fetching Eddie a plate piled with chunks of cake and flatbreads. “It looks like pita,” he said. “But it doesn’t taste like it. And there’s a bowl of something suspiciously like dip on the table, but it’s beans menaced by a bit of garlic. Oh, and beer. Get stuck in, and for Chrissakes cheer up, you miserable sod.”

  “It’s such a convivial time of year,” said Shan. She steered Eddie over to the door that opened onto the rear terrace, bottle under one arm. However cold the wess’har thought it was, the weather was mild by human standards, mild enough for a barbecue later. Ade insisted; he’d built that bloody barbecue and he was going to get the most out of it if it killed him. Eddie cradled his glass and stared at it in a way that suggested he wasn’t seeing the glowing embers on a jury-rigged trestle of pipes and metal sheet but something else entirely.

  “Okay, spill your guts before that stuff destroys too many neurons.”

  Eddie transferred his glass to his left hand and fumbled in his pocket to extract his handheld. “That’s the rushes. Cued up.”

  “Rushes of what?” Shan pressed the pad one-handed, clutching her glass in the other. “Oh.”

  Eddie said nothing. She watched. The images were long sequences of steady shots from a high aerial position. It had to be Umeh, but some of the more conspicuous buildings were a different style of architecture; it might have been from the Maritime Fringe, although she hadn’t seen many intact buildings on her brief visit. It definitely wasn’t Jejeno, though.