"This man"-Admiral L'Guan beamed, draping an affectionate arm about D'Trelna's broad shoulders-"once led me such a wild chase through an uncharted asteroid belt that I marvel to be alive." Chuckling, he slipped his arm away to hook a drink from a passing steward.
The K'Ronarin fleet had shown up eight days after the S'Cotar's destruction. Standing well off Terra, its senior officers had flitted down-via POCSYM-to a series of meetings with the heads of all but one of Earth's most powerful nations. Although ignoring its invitation, the Soviet Union had sent a freshly debriefed Andreyev Bakunin to the conference as an observer, a continuing status he now shared aboard Vigilant with the two Americans and the Israeli, also just returned from home.
The meetings, held on a secluded ranch in the high desert of New Mexico, had been cordial, reinforcing the existing groundwork of mutual trust. The K'Ronarin Ambassador, once he arrived, would find the Terrans receptive to a mutual aid pact.
L'Guan was every inch the professional soldier-diplomat: tall, handsome, with silver-streaked hair and aquiline features, he stood resplendent in a bemedaled, jet-black dress uniform, a gracious, charming host to the Terrans and K'Ronarins thronging Vigilant's spacious reception hall.
"You really couldn't catch me?" asked Implacable's skipper disbelievingly. "I thought you were toying with me!" Both burst into laughter.
"Maneuvers?" asked John, sipping his drink.
"Maneuvers? This old pirate? Ha!" the Admiral laughed. "He was a smuggler, running-what was it that time, J'Quel, null-grav spices?"
"No, sir. Surface-to-space missile parts for the colonists on Q'Tul Seven. As you'll recall, Admiral, our myopic policy was to close our eyes and pretend that the S'Cotar would just-"
"As you can see," interrupted L'Guan good-humoredly, "we've had our differences. When the entire Confederation finally came around to J'Quel's way of thinking, he came in one day and offered his services. It was because of his… ah… unusual background and subsequent record that I chose him to lead this expedition.
"You signed up when, Captain, six years ago?" he asked, draining his glass. A crewman whisked it away.
"Yes, sir. Just after the debacle of U'Tria Nine. And a difficult six years it's been, Admiral," continued D’Trelna. He reminded Zahava of a pugnacious bulldog that had once hung around her apartment building, terrifying the neighborhood kids.
"Oh, I think we have them now, Captain-' said the senior officer, exuding a quiet confidence. "Or rather, they no longer have us, thanks to all of you.'' His gaze swept the circle of his listeners: John, Zahava, Montanoya, Sutherland and Bakunin, the last of whom wore the dress uniform of a KGB colonel. "Our forces are already reoccupying the sectors they've pulled out of.''
Sutherland, dressed in the Outfit's uniform-two-piece designer suit, hand-finished white shirt, silk tie and Swiss cordovans-raised his glass, saluting L'Guan. "I'd like to thank you, sir, for a grand reception, and for my being the first Terran to enjoy a manhattan in Earth orbit."
The Admiral gave a slight bow, then added mischievously, "Actually, someone from your country's diplomatic corps claimed that record over an hour ago." He glanced about the room. "Hmm. He seems to have gone off with one of the women of my bridge crew. Busy setting another new record, no doubt."
Zahava, earlier unrecognized by Bill in a lavender Dior gown, turned to Montanoya. "How did you convince all these people to come, Jose?" she asked. Her long-stemmed crystal wineglass swept over the gathering.
The hall thronged with military and civilians, K'Ronarin and Terran, all in after-dinner attire and wearing translators. The U.S. Marine Corps chamber orchestra, smartly set off in mess whites, was playing Bach. The Earth hung seemingly just beyond the transparent far wall, a green, brown and blue orb broken by swirling mists of white.
"I wish I could say it was my diplomatic skill," replied Montanoya, his own eyes taking in the reception. "Credit where it's due, though. The recent ground, air and space actions lit up battleboards around the planet like a Christmas tree.
"They probably didn't tell you, Admiral, but several idiots wanted to start lobbing nukes at both K'Ronarin and S'Cotar fleets. But when the morons saw the numbers and weaponry involved, cooler heads were able to prevail. Fortunately, one of those heads belonged to our then-Vice President, Pete Martin."
He stopped to light a cigar, first delicately biting the tip off and swallowing it.
"You've stunned the world into at least a temporary peace," he continued, exhaling a great wreath of smoke. "Hostilities of any sort have ceased in most areas of the globe. It's as if the world were holding its collective breath, waiting to see if you're going to conquer us, lend technical aid or ask for colonization rights."
He smiled at L'Guan's startled expression. "My summation of yesterday's Situation Report from our State Department."
"Surely the masses know nothing of this?" asked Bakunin with a tinge of alarm.
"The 'masses,'" said Montanoya, slowly hissing the s's, "know nothing, Colonel. You can rest assured-for now."
The Russian's bourbon and spring water stopped halfway to his lips. "Surely sir, you-the United States-don't intend to unilaterally reveal all of this to an unprepared world!"
"Maybe your half aren't prepared, Colonel"-the National Security Advisor smiled thinly-"but ours is. So are the Chinese. And with a neo-populist instead of a plutocrat in the White House, look for that announcement to come soon-and forcefully.
"You may have to give up the Black Sea dacha, Colonel.
"Actually, Zahava," he said, turning back to the Israeli, "I had to turn people away from this reception to cull down to the hundred or so Vigilant could accommodate. You'd think more people would have sense enough not to let a computer scatter their atoms across space." More smoke billowed toward the transparent bubble that was the ceiling.
"Good evening, Admiral, Captain, everyone," spoke an assured voice.
They turned to greet L'Wrona. A black-clad commando officer, about L'Wrona's age but taller, was with him. Both wore duty uniforms with sidearms.
"Subcommander N'Tal V'Arta, Fleet Commando," said L'Wrona, introducing him. "My second cousin."
L'Guan nodded at V'Arta, then turned to L'Wrona. "How stands the Fleet, Commander My Lord Captain L'Wrona?" he asked cheerfully of the Watch Officer.
"All quiet, sir. Nice party." He nodded, listening for a moment to the strings. "Different music, but very, very nice.
"We just looked in on our patient," he continued, referring to McShane. "He's quite chipper. Fleet Surgeon says he can rejoin us tomorrow."
"Just as well," said John. "He was threatening to break out of there."
"You don't have to tell us," said Implacable's XO with a smile. "We caught him prowling the reaction force ready room on Six Deck. Had to haul him back to sick bay.
"We'd best get back to the bridge. Good evening all, Admiral, Captain."
L'Wrona and V'Arta melted into the crowd.
"And I musn't neglect my other guests," said L'Guan. "You'll excuse me?"
He wasn't gone more than a few seconds before Harrison turned to D'Trelna. "'Commander My-Lord-Captain L'Wrona'?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"Ah, yes." The Captain sighed. "The Admiral is an Imperial. Ancient titles are important to that faction. They'd like more of them."
He flagged down a steward-they were less attentive with the Admiral gone-relieving the man of an entire platter of luscious-looking meat canapes. "My First Officer is heir to a great tradition," he said between munches. " 'Lord-Captain of the Imperial Guard, Defender of the Outer Marches, Margrave of U'Tria.'
"The titles are mostly courtesy. The last Imperial Guardsmen fell millennia ago, the Outer Marches haven't been heard from since POCSYM bid his creators farewell and the attack on U'Tria Nine-L'Wrona's home-precipitated this war.
"Care for a canape?" he offered, passing the plate toward his friends.
"You ate them all," said Bakunin bluntly, thrusting it back.
"Oh."
D'Trelna put the platter on a table. "The titles convey the right to lead the Fleet Commando, if it ever should fight as a unit again. The Commando traces its origins back to T'Nil's Task Force Forty-Seven Marines-the unit that seized Imperial Communications and later formed the core of his own guard.
"But the war's just about over. I doubt L'Wrona will get to exercise his birthright."
Admiral L'Guan reappeared. Slipping up to D'Trelna, he whispered urgently in the other's ear, walking quickly away even as the Captain nodded.
"Duty calls." D'Trelna sighed, putting down his glass and stepping toward the arched entrance way.
"Seems to be calling others, too," said John. They all followed his gaze. A steady trickle of K'Ronarin officers were exiting as unobtrusively as possible, their departure sparked by a hurried whisper from L'Guan.
"Captain, we're almost family," John said with a hurt look. "Level with us."
"Really. I can't." He looked embarrassed.
"Afraid you'll frighten the natives, J'Quel?" asked Sutherland, smiling sympathetically.
"All right. Come with me. I'll explain outside." They passed a mixed group of European and Asian diplomats listening attentively to a crimson-uniformed Survey officer.
Gaining the corridor, D'Trelna broke into a brisk trot. Startled, the others ran after him.
"Revenge's watch crew just signaled 'Intruder Alert,'" he explained hurriedly. "We're assembling a force on the Hangar Deck. POCSYM will transport."
In five minutes they were on the Hangar Deck. Some of the hastily gathered commandos were still fastening their warsuits when L'Guan ordered POCSYM to "Transport!"
The Terrans never knew if they'd been included because of design or haste. Regardless, they faced Revenge's surprised bridge crew with two dozen Vigilant commandos.
"Not here, Captain!" K'Raoda called urgently from the command tier. "The mindslave area!"
D'Trelna cursed. "How many S'Cotar?" he demanded.
"I don't know, sir. Fleet hasn't installed S'Cotar detectors yet. We just sealed the bridge and called for help."
"POCSYM," the Captain snarled into his communicator. "Think you can get us to the right coordinates this time?"
They were in the corridor outside the now-sealed door of the mindslave room. Only D'Trelna had been there before.
"No time to burn our way in," he grumbled. "They're probably after the brainpods. Kill the mindslaves and this ship's just so much scrap metal.
"Pass me a blastpack."
Motioning everyone back, the Captain placed the charge. Setting the timer, he ran to join them behind the corridor's sheltering curve.
"Temperature in brainpods rising into critical," reported K'Raoda, worriedly eyeing a bridge monitor. "They must be using a semi."
The explosion preempted any response.
D'Trelna charged through the still-glowing doorway, pistol at the ready. He froze at the railing, looking down into the room, stunned. The commandos halted behind him.
"Are you crazy, man?" he shouted, bounding down the stairs and knocking a big semiportable blaster from McShane's hands. The weapon had gouged a hole deep into the nearly seamless access hatch set in the rear bulkhead.
The older man stood mute, staring at the wall. John and Zahava made their way through the commandos to his side.
"Bob," said John softly, laying a gentle hand on his mentor's shoulder.
"I gave my word." McShane finally looked at them. "My only regret, Captain, is that I failed." His eyes bored into D'Trelna's own. "It's wrong and you know it."
The Captain averted his eyes. "Look…"
"Don't tell me you need this ship, J'Quel," said McShane. "You've wiped out the main S'Cotar force-your own Intelligence says so. Once you find their home world, you can mop up with your regular forces."
"Bob, I-"
"How do we differ from the S'Cotar, J'Quel?"
Caught off guard, the K'Ronarin stumbled. "Well… why, why we're human, of course."
"Isn't it rather the attributes of our humanity-love, compassion, mercy-which distinguish us from other intelligences, Captain?"
"Professor, I must insist that you-"
"How then, Captain," pressed McShane coldly, "how then are we human if we enshrine hatred, eschew compassion and remain merciless in the face of such unmitigated suffering as is here?" He jerked a thumb at the brainpod area. "Tell me, J'Quel," he asked quietly. "I'm listening."
"Magnificent," breathed Sutherland, high atop the stairs.
"POCSYM," said D'Trelna, "transport Mr. McShane back to Vigilant's sick bay. Me as well. Return the rest of our force to Vigilant's Hangar Deck."
A few hours later, while McShane was under close guard, someone who knew how to use a blastpack-L'Guan was never able to find out who-finished the job, commuting the mindslaves' sentence of eternal torment to one of sweet oblivion.
John and Zahava had a suspect, though. Confronted with his name months later, McShane would only smile inscrutably and say, ' 'The triumph of decency over duty is a rare and glorious thing."
Stephen Ames Berry
The Biofab War