Victory Conditions (24 page)

“You think they have their own?”

Ky nodded. “It would have been reasonable for Turek to give each of his main contacts in different systems one of the small ansibles, even though most of their communication may well have been through the commercial ones. No one suspected they existed; there was little risk until I captured Osman’s ship. And if they’re using the same model I found, anything as big as an ordinary desk might conceal one.”

“Security’s on it.” Pitt entered, her uniform marked with a single suggestive spot on the upper right arm. “Admiral, I’d like permission to contact Mackensee HQ about this.”

Major Douglas, still in a sealed medical unit, should have been the one. The medical center had done its best but made it clear they did not expect him to live. Only three other intact suits had been found; all the people in them were dead.

“I’d prefer not to let anyone out of this system know I’m alive,” Ky said. “Too many chances of leakage.”

Pitt’s expression said she didn’t think Mackensee communications channels would leak, but she merely said, “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

Ky stared into the darkness. She had not slept well since the battle, and worse after the assassination attempt. Though she’d instructed her implant to put her to sleep, once more she’d wakened early, exhausted, her bed soaked with sweat. Once more the faces of her dead had loomed over her as she slept, once more their sad or accusing expressions had melded with remembered sounds, smells, sights.

A soft noise from the far side of the room brought her upright, heart pounding. She flicked on the bedside light. The top sheet of a stack of plasfilms, its edge waving in the air current from the air vent, flicked not-quite-rhythmically against the handle of a mug.

She lay back against the pillow, trying to slow her heartbeat, but her thoughts raced down one mental corridor after another, banging into walls and closed doors, whirling and racing another way. Her father—she hadn’t told him—she hadn’t confided—what would he think? Her mother—her father’s view of her dead mother’s face in the swimming pool, his reaction to it, all still lay embedded in the implant’s synthetic memory. She had considered deleting those cells, but how could she destroy the last memory, the last sight?

And now the others crowded in…Gary Tobai, who had died to save her. The enemy spy murdered by his masters right in front of her…and now all those on
Vanguard.
She had a list of the names; she had made a list of the names, and now her implant fed them to her, one by one. Those who had been with her from the beginning, like Lee and Mehar. Those who had joined later…and later still…she named them all. Even Teddy Ransome, that Romantic fool…

Why was she still alive? Who was she to still be alive, when so many good people were dead, because of her? It felt as if a whole universe of virtuous dead were crushing her into their scorn, their anger. They had been brave; they had been steadfast; they had been loyal. She…she had led them to their deaths, and yet…she lived.

Once, she might have taken refuge in her faith, her family’s legacy of belief in the harmony of the universe, the sweet cycle of color and sound that she had been taught from childhood would sustain her in any trouble, calm her. But she had lost that faith some time back, when she could not visualize the cycle of colors that had always worked before. Was it because she had killed? Because she had enjoyed killing? Because she had enjoyed killing a Vatta, Stella’s birth-father?

Do not judge,
her mother had told her.
We are Saphiric Cyclans; we do not judge; we do not create disharmony.
Which was silly…her mother judged all the time—she judged people by their clothes, their education, their professional qualifications. But that was different. She’d been told it was different.

We are not exactly pacifists; we agree that self-defense may be necessary,
her mother’s remembered voice went on.
But we take no pleasure in violence.
One of many lectures she and her brothers had received, after someone came home with cuts or bruises from mock battles in the tik plantation. Ky and San had privately agreed that grown-ups must be very different indeed…neither of them could imagine not enjoying a clod fight.

But now she, Ky, had taken such pleasure in violence, as an adult. She had killed, up close. She had blown up ships—ships like the one she had lost. She didn’t even know how many people had died because of her…and that some of them were bad people, who had spent their lives hurting others, didn’t make much difference this dark night. She shivered.

Rafe might understand. But was understanding what she wanted? If it was wrong—and everything in her background told her it was wrong, that her parents, if alive, would be appalled and ashamed—then she should not be coddled, comforted by agreement that it had all been necessary.

The alarm chimed, breaking her concentration. She rose, showered, dressed without looking in the mirror—she was the last person she wanted to see—and went directly to the staff room set up for her. She had no desire for food.

Pitt was there, laying out folders with the steady concentrated expression characteristic of her. Ky felt her shoulders tighten. Pitt’s senior officer was another death to be piled on the stack of Ky’s guilt. He had been a good officer, as steady as Pitt; he had been the sort she’d gladly follow. And he’d chosen to observe the battle from
Vanguard
’s bridge, while she had taken refuge in the CCC. He had been recovered, barely alive…he had died two days after arrival at Tobados Yards.

Pitt glanced up, having placed the last folder. “You’re early, ma’am.”

Ky muttered, “Morning, Master Sergeant.”

Pitt took a step toward her; Ky struggled not to flinch. “You look like hell,” Pitt said after a moment. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“Wasn’t hungry,” Ky said. She opened the folder at her place. Why did every meeting have to start with the same boring, useless trivia?

“Supper?” Pitt said.

Ky shrugged. “I don’t remember. Something.” List of attendees and their positions. Report of the previous meeting by someone—a Moray officer, she forced herself to notice. Agenda.

Pitt came closer; startled, Ky whipped around, hand reaching for her weapon. Pitt stopped short; her eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed. “Admiral,” she said, in a voice softer than her usual. “You need something for breakfast. I’ll order—”

“No!” Ky was shocked at the tone of her own voice. She sounded angry and frantic both. “I don’t need—”

“You need food and sleep,” Pitt said. “With all due respect, ma’am, I do know what’s eating you and what you need—”

“You don’t—” Ky said. Her eyes burned—not tears, she was not about to cry, she was just so tired, not sleeping.

“It’s over an hour to the meeting. You have time for food—and you’re not doing anyone good the way you are—”

“You think I don’t know that?” Ky glared at Pitt, but Pitt didn’t budge. “I have to be—”

“Fed,” Pitt said. “Sit down, now.”

As if someone had hit her behind the knees, Ky half fell into the chair.

“I’m going to bring you food. No one will come in; I’ll secure the room.”

It was entirely too much like Master Sergeant MacRobert and the day she’d been kicked out of Spaceforce. Ky fought back a giggle she knew was half hysterical. Her head hurt; her eyes hurt; every muscle and bone…she leaned forward, holding her head in her hands, pushing into them until she couldn’t feel them tremble. She squeezed her eyes closed.

“Start with this,” Pitt said. Under Ky’s nose she put a tray full of food: eggs, potatoes. For one moment it smelled delicious—then suddenly nauseating.

“I can’t eat all that,” Ky said.

“Give your stomach a chance,” Pitt said. “You’ve skipped too many meals. And don’t hurry.”

Ky took a cautious bite. From inside her mouth, the taste and smell went straight to her brain, it seemed. She didn’t realize she’d eaten it all until it was gone.

“A start,” Pitt said. “Drink your juice.” Ky hadn’t noticed the juice; when she tasted it, it was tart and refreshing.

“What time—?” Ky began; Pitt held up her hand.

“Don’t worry about that. I put the meeting back an hour. Said you had something you had to do.”

“But—”

“And you do. Now, this is not the way I usually operate, you understand. But you and I, we have an odd situation here. You outrank me, but I’m not in your chain of command. And yet you’re the only commander I have on scene. And yet, again, I’m older than you are and I’ve seen a few more wars than you have. Not nastier, but more.”

Ky pulled her scattered wits together. “So?”

“So, with all due respect, and that’s a lot, because like I told my people way back when, you are a remarkable young officer…with all due respect, you have dug yourself into a hole and we need to get you out so you can go on doing what you do best.” She cocked her head; when Ky didn’t answer she gave it a quick shake. “What you do best, ma’am, is command in combat. You are a natural, and you have enough training to add skill to natural instinct.”

“I thought I just got my friends killed,” Ky said.

“Ah. And that, you see, is the hole you’ve dug yourself into.” As Ky shifted uneasily, Pitt held up her hand again. “Everyone does it. All the decent people, anyway. Nobody gets out of combat without scars. You, me, all my friends, everybody you know. Nobody. Most of us—well, lots of us, anyway—were brought up to be good, decent citizens of wherever we grew up. Religious, some of us. We had all sorts of social rules for how to behave, among them not killing other people, and not letting friends get hurt if we could help it. You had that kind of raisin’, didn’t you?”

“I guess so…”

“And now you kill people for a living.”

Said that way, as stark as that, it hit like a blow to the belly. Ky sucked in a breath, stiffened. Pitt went on.

“But the thing is, if you didn’t, the people who do nothin’
but
kill for a living would win. If you hadn’t come in to Boxtop and shot up some enemy ships, I’d be dead, for one. So would a lot of my friends.”

“I…can’t…”

“Can’t think of it that way? That’s the hole you dug. You can undig it, but you need some help.”

“You’re a therapist?” Ky said, her voice rough.

“Not me, ma’am. But you need one, right enough.”

“I don’t have
time,
” Ky said. Her fists had clenched without her noticing.

“We—and I’m talking everyone here and everyone waitin’ back at Nexus for you to show up—don’t have time for you to go crazy on your own and do something stupid and maybe not live over it.”

Ky’s head came up; she glared at Pitt. “What do you think—”

“I know. I know what someone like you—an honorable person who’s been through eight kinds of hell since you left home—is likely to think and, worse, do if you don’t get the help you need.”

“And you think Turek will wait while I take a rest cure?” Ky said.

“No. An’ I’m not suggestin’ a rest cure. You don’t need that; you need five days of appropriate military-based mental health intervention, followed by a period of appropriate medication—no, I don’t mean drugging you into not caring. I mean what clears your head enough to think straight, which right now, ma’am, you are not doing. The way you tore into that poor guy in yesterday’s meeting…”

Ky could barely remember that. She had been angry, that’s all…but the food had cleared her head just enough.

“I’m not sleeping well,” she said. It was not an excuse, she knew that, but it was in part the reason.

“I figured,” Pitt said.

“I tried the implant setting—it used to work—”

“Your stress hormones are up about five notches,” Pitt said. “It’s set for normal brains.” She paused, then leaned forward a little. “Have you ever cleaned out the stuff your father left when he died?”

“How’d you know about that?”

“Martin told me. And I’ll tell you what they told me: archive it all in external storage, as many copies as you want, but get it the hell out of your head.”

“It’s my
mother
…”

“It’s not. It’s someone else’s memory of a horror involving your mother, I’m assuming your father’s memory. And then he died. I don’t care what your religion says, carrying around that kind of memory is like sleeping with a rotting corpse—”

Anger flared; Ky fought it down. “What
they
told you?”

“Personal, ma’am, the details. But I had something in my implant as toxic as what you have in yours. Thing about implants, they told me, is it’s worse than traumatic memories in the brain itself…the implant can’t forget and can’t remodel the memories to something tolerable. You can treat the trauma in the brain, but if you don’t get it out of the implant…it always comes back.”

“I don’t know…,” Ky said. Her stomach rumbled.

“External storage preserves it, if you need it, but you shouldn’t access it for half a standard year, minimum. I kept mine five years, then dumped it. Knew I didn’t need it, wouldn’t want it. The wet-ware memory was enough to deal with, and I had dealt with it. I’ll be back…” Pitt left the room again.