Andira squeezed her hand once and let go. “I’m trying to tell myself that this is just an extension of the battle. The logical end. They either died back then, or they died today, but either way they had to die.”
“And I’m trying to tell myself that this was an act of mercy,” Lanaril said. “Which it was, but there isn’t anything in my training or a single one of my interpretive texts that applies to it. And I looked, believe me. I wanted to find some precedent to guide me or at least help me feel better about it, but it doesn’t exist. So I’m left with knowing it’s right, yet being unable to point to any trusted source to explain how I know it’s right.”
“I know what you mean. I stopped looking at the Truth and the Path for precedents while I was on vacation. That’s when I realized that Alsea has outgrown its past. We can’t keep looking backward for guidance. We have to look forward and inward instead.”
“Exactly. But it’s hard to convince other templars in a moral debate when my main source is…me.”
“Perhaps you should write the next text, then.”
“Well, someone has to do it, yes?”
They shared a chuckle before Lanaril continued, “I just wish my inner voice was a little louder right now. It was perfectly confident while you and I were strategizing. It was confident when I smashed that panfruit on a global broadcast, and it’s been confident while I waited for the Council to decide. But now…”
She trailed off, and in the silence, the next toll of the bell sounded twice as loud.
“I don’t know how many Voloth I killed in the battle. I didn’t keep track. It was a lot, but it certainly wasn’t two hundred and forty-four.” Andira tossed down half her drink and didn’t seem to notice. “One of them I shot at point-blank range after I empathically forced her out of her ground pounder. She was climbing down the leg and I shot her without a second thought. Then I ran past her almost before her body hit the ground.”
Lanaril watched her silently and wondered if she had ever spoken of this before now.
“When I climbed inside that ground pounder and saw the results of our projection—you don’t want to know what it looked like. Gehrain came up behind me and said…” She paused, a wry smile crossing her face. “He said we overdid it. And just for a moment, it was funny, because Fahla, we really did. There were brains—” She looked up in sudden realization. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’ve heard quite a few stories about what our people saw.”
“I guess you have.”
“But I haven’t heard yours.”
Andira’s expression said it all. She heard the encouragement to unburden herself, and part of her wanted to reject it. The other part, the part that was finally stronger tonight, couldn’t stop speaking.
“If I hadn’t been so focused on battle strategy, I would have laughed. I’d have stood there with blood running past my boots and laughed, because I’d spent so much time worrying about how we could beat this invincible foe and it was so easy. All we had to do was break the bond that holds us to civilization.”
“Temporarily,” Lanaril said.
“Yes, but it’s not something you can ever put back again, is it? Not entirely. None of us who did that will ever forget it.”
“I would worry if you could forget it.”
“Hm.” Andira tilted her head as the bell tolled again. “Hard to forget any of it tonight.”
Lanaril made a noise of agreement and sipped her drink.
“The problem is that we’re remembering in different ways,” Andira said. “I remember and want to do everything I can to make sure this never happens to us again. Most of the scholars remember and wish they didn’t have to. And a few have made sure they never remember again.”
“May Fahla grant them what they seek,” Lanaril murmured. They hadn’t had many suicides, but every one of them broke her heart.
“The veterans who joined those Whitemoon smugglers remembered and decided that mental manipulation was far too easy to give up. They’d been in trouble before, but it was all minor until now. They broke the covenant because we asked them to, and then they couldn’t find the boundary again.”
Lanaril sighed. “There were bound to be some. A battle doesn’t end with the defeat of the enemy.”
“You know it’s only a matter of time before we end up with a veteran who turns to empathic rape or murder.”
“Yes, but I also know that in most cases, they would have done it on their own anyway. The kind of mind that enjoys inflicting harm doesn’t suddenly discover the attraction. It’s built in. We dug the Pit a long time ago. Empathic criminals aren’t new.”
Andira nodded, staring at her drink as she swirled the liquid in the glass. “I met a veteran at the grand opening of the Whitesun Builder Caste House. She was so…not a warrior. Soft voice and gentle manners and a librarian at a children’s school, for Fahla’s sake. And we threw her into a soul-destroying battle because we had no other choice. She asked if I thought she should join the program and meet the Voloth she turned.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I said it helped me realize that neither of us were monsters. She said she already knew the Voloth weren’t monsters, because monsters don’t love.”
Lanaril paused. “Great Mother. She’s right. I should have thought of that argument back when we were debating the amnesty.”
“I asked if she was sure she wasn’t a templar.”
“She should be.”
“I know. And that’s the kind of heart I worry about. She knows the Voloth soldiers aren’t monsters, but she still thinks she is. I’m not worried about the few that can’t find the boundary again. I’m worried about the majority. All those high empath scholars and the untrained warriors…all the people I asked to do the unthinkable. I once thought I’d have to pay the highest price for Alsea, but in the end I paid the lowest. I’m one of the least affected. And I don’t understand why I feel guilty about killing for mercy when I don’t feel guilty for anything I did in that battle. Not one single thing. Not the empathic force, not using the Voloth to kill their own people, not even the fatal covert projection. It was war and it was easy. Live or die. Save Alsea or die trying. There wasn’t any mercy involved.”
“Of course there was.”
Andira looked up. “What?”
“Why didn’t you destroy your Voloth the same way the untrained high empaths did? Wouldn’t it have been easier just to break them, rather than leave them intact? I’ve met Rax twice now; he seems entirely whole.”
“Because I take pride in my skill.”
Lanaril picked up her drink and waited.
After a long moment of silence, Andira sighed. “Because I didn’t have to. It wasn’t necessary. And…I didn’t want to live with that.”
Leaning forward, Lanaril said, “Let me see if I understand. You were in a pitched battle the likes of which Alsea has never seen, with an enemy that we already knew was bent on our utter destruction and enslavement. If there was ever a time when I could understand hatred and revenge, that would be it. You could have destroyed them—taken away everything that made them who they are. But you didn’t. Do you know what that sounds like to me? It sounds like mercy.”
Andira stared at her.
“Or maybe it was just pride.” Lanaril saluted her with her glass and sipped it.
“I’m beginning to understand how you made Lead Templar,” Andira said.
“And I’m relieved you made Lancer. Because you did save Alsea.”
“We all did. You were ready to do your part as well. You would have been the very first to break Fahla’s covenant. Did I ever tell you how shekking impressed I was with that? With your courage?”
Lanaril shook her head, startled by the compliment.
“I was. It’s part of the reason we’re friends. So I was hoping we could listen to that bel
l together, without any fronts, because tonight I want to relax and be with someone who understands what it is we’ve just done. And maybe you can explain to me why it so often feels wrong to do the right thing.”
Instead of answering with words, Lanaril dropped her front.
A smile spread across Andira’s face, and a moment later Lanaril received the gift of full access to her emotions. There was no greater proof of friendship.
“I’m honored,” Lanaril said. “Both by your trust and by the fact that you chose to come here this evening. Besides, I wasn’t looking forward to spending two hanticks alone, listening to that bell and thinking far too much.” She lifted her glass. “So this will help us not think, right?”
“Eventually. If we drink enough of it.”
“Did you bring enough?”
“If I didn’t, there are Guards right outside your door who would be delighted to bring us a fresh bottle.”
“There are definite advantages to your position,” Lanaril said, and tossed down the rest of her drink. This time it didn’t burn.
CHAPTER 25
A new delegate
After the Voloth euthanasia, Tal was swept up into a whirlwind of meetings and appearances. The demand for her time was unending, most of it still centered around matter printer issues. There were days when she wondered what in Fahla’s name she had been thinking when she negotiated that particular part of the Gaian treaty. Today was one of those days.
She hurried through the State House, already late for a meeting with the producer delegation. She did not tolerate tardiness in others, and knowing that she was guilty of it put her in a poor temper.
So it was with considerable embarrassment and displeasure that she entered the meeting room to hear a delegate saying, “How can we trust the Lancer to control the effects of this technology when she can’t even track her calendar?”
“I assure you I am perfectly capable of tracking my calendar,” Tal said, taking her seat at the head of the long table. The delegation went silent and every member sat down in unison. Tal glared down the length of the table at the speaker, a tall, dark-haired woman who stared back at her with a distinct lack of respect. “You’re not an original delegate. Why are you here?”
The woman answered immediately and in a clear voice. “Delegate Norsen is ill today and asked me to attend in his stead.”
“I see.” Tal hadn’t been notified of the substitution, but then she hadn’t had time to read Aldirk’s morning report either. She hated being caught off stride, and her mood deteriorated further. “What is your name?”
“Salomen Opah. My family has owned a holding near Granelle for twelve generations.”
“Well, Raiz Opah,” Tal said, using the formal address for a producer, “as a substitute, you may be unaware of delegation protocol. I will not waste the time of your fellows explaining it, but one aspect you should know is that you will be expected to limit your opinions to the issue at hand. Speculation on my leadership, or even my calendar-tracking capability, is not considered to be the purview of this delegation.”
The mood of the room shifted into one of sharp-edged caution as the delegates registered Tal’s ire. She felt it easily; these people were untrained and did not front their emotions well. It had made the meetings rather interesting in the past, but today it just annoyed her. What annoyed her most, however, was that the one person who should have been most cautious remained stubbornly immune.
She called the meeting to order and moved to the agenda, wanting nothing more than to get this over with and retreat to her quarters for a little quiet time.
Discussion was subdued at first, but Opah quickly established herself as the most active member, speaking with great conviction whenever an agenda item was opened to comment. As the hantick wore on, Tal found herself grudgingly admiring her obvious intelligence and ability to articulate concerns and issues. Indeed, Opah was a far better contributor to discussion than Norsen had ever been. By the end of the meeting, Tal’s earlier ire had evaporated and she found herself looking forward to what was sure to be an interesting interaction.
With considerable though well-fronted relief, she dismissed the group at the end of the hantick, thanking them for their attendance and contributions. As the room filled with the sounds of scraping chairs and rustling fabric, Tal raised her voice to add, “Raiz Opah, please stay a moment.”
There was a slight pause before the bustle resumed, and Opah sat down as the delegates finished collecting their belongings and filed out. Tal could easily feel their concern, along with a few gleeful thoughts. Apparently, Opah was not universally loved among her peers.
The last delegate closed the door behind him. Still Tal waited, feeling Opah’s nervousness increase. She certainly had presence; by her face and posture no one would know she felt anything but complete self-assurance. Nevertheless, she did not like being alone in the room with the Lancer.
At last Tal said quietly, “Please inform Delegate Norsen that if he does not wish to attend these meetings, there are other and far more advisable methods for resolving that issue than sending in a substitute to lie for him.”
Opah’s eyes widened as her nervousness turned sharp. “Lancer Tal, I assure you that he was truly unable to attend today. He—”
“Do not compound one lie with another,” Tal interrupted. “The first I can excuse, because you lied not for yourself but for a friend. The second I will not, because I don’t appreciate being taken for a fool.”
There was a heavy silence as they stared at each other, but Opah’s trepidation was swiftly overtaken by curiosity.
“I don’t think anyone could take you for a fool,” she said. “How did you know?”
“You don’t front your emotions well.”
“I front my emotions very well,” Opah said indignantly, then paused. “Oh…I’d heard you were a powerful empath.”
Tal nodded. “It takes empathic strength to fill this role. Without it I’d be easily hoodwinked by well-meaning delegates.”
Opah smiled, but it soon slipped from her face. “Is Norsen in trouble?”
“Yes.”
She leaned forward in alarm. “Please, Lancer Tal, can’t you possibly just…overlook it? He means well, and he did his best, but he’s just not comfortable with these proceedings. His bondmate put his name in the system without his knowledge, and when he was selected, he felt he should do his duty. But he told me he’s not making a contribution and wished my name had been drawn instead. So I told him I’d go in his place.”
Tal wanted to laugh but kept a straight face and a rigid emotional front. “I see,” she said calmly. “That does change things. Instead of one lawbreaker I must deal with two.”
Opah sat back, stunned. But before she could become truly afraid, Tal continued, “Then the punishment is this: Raiz Norsen is hereby removed from the delegation permanently, and you will take his place. You’re about to become very familiar with the State House, Delegate Opah.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it again. “You’re making me a delegate?”
Never one to repeat herself, Tal simply waited.
“But…I had the distinct impression that you didn’t appreciate my input today. You argued me down at least four times. I would have expected you to prefer someone who was…easier to work with.”
A chuckle escaped. “You’ve never attended a Council session, have you?”
Opah shook her head.
“Come to the public gallery some time, and you’ll see that relative to what I’m forced to deal with in that chamber, you’re easy to work with. But you don’t have that reputation among your peers, do you?”
Mutely, she shook her head again, and Tal felt a tiny bit of sympathy for her.
“I don’t favor sycophants,” she said. “I prefer intelligent, thoughtful individuals who have something to say, are not afraid to say it, and ar
e motivated by what’s best for Alsea rather than themselves. You qualify.” She rose, and as Opah followed suit, she added, “However, I’d advise against lying to me again. I appreciate forthrightness, even if it’s not necessarily something I want to hear. But I don’t appreciate deception in any form.”
“I understand. It won’t happen.”
Tal nodded and opened the door. “Until next time, then.”
Opah hesitated, plainly uncertain about preceding the Lancer. When Tal waved her through, she stopped on the other side and turned. “Thank you,” she said. “For looking past my, er, excuse—and for that backhanded compliment. I’ll do my best to be a good delegate.”
“I have a feeling you’d do your best regardless of the situation. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who does anything with less than a full heart.”
“Can you tell that from skimming me?”
“No. I could tell that from arguing with you.”
Opah raised an eyebrow. “Change your policies and you’ll hear a lot less of that from me.”
“Well, there’s a novel form of political blackmail. But not an effective one, I’m afraid.”
“It was worth a try. Until next time, Lancer Tal.”
Tal watched her walk down the corridor, noting that her confident stride matched her attitude.
The producer delegate meetings had just gotten more interesting.
CHAPTER 26
Quantum com call
Tal nearly jumped out of her chair when the pad chimed, announcing a quantum com call being routed in from the Caphenon. She was expecting it, but a thrill of anticipation still charged down her spine as she set her book on the side table. She crossed the room to the waist-high bookcase beneath the wall of windows and picked up the pad from its stand next to her Filessian orchid. It was active, showing the Protectorate Fleet symbol and the name Captain Ekatya Serrado.