Without a Front (13 page)

CHAPTER 19
Investigation

 

Two days after the grand
opening in Whitesun, the High Council came together for its regular meeting. They spent nearly two hanticks working through the agenda, and Tal was more than ready to call it a day when she opened the floor to the other members.

“Is there any other issue that we need to consider?” she asked, as she did every moon.

“Yes, there is,” said Prime Scholar Yaserka. “Over the past moon I've been investigating an extremely serious issue, and I'm now convinced that it requires the full support of the High Council.”

“You've been investigating?” Prime Warrior Shantu asked. “Why wouldn't you involve the warriors in something like that?”

“Not that kind of investigation. Perhaps I should have said ‘gathering information.' About the shattered Voloth.” He shot a triumphant glance at Tal, who schooled her expression into one of polite interest.

“What about them?” she asked.

As it turned out, Yaserka surpassed her expectations. He had actually gone to Blacksun Base, where one of the barracks had been converted into a holding facility for sedated Voloth prisoners. There he spoke with a number of healer assistants, who were first shocked and then relieved to the point of tears to know that someone at his level was aware of their situation. More than that, he lowered his blocks and subjected himself to the broadcast horrors that were traumatizing the healers. Tal's respect for him climbed several notches as he described his experience.

“This cannot be allowed to continue,” he finished. “I know that some of us think this is an impossibly thorny moral issue, but my personal experience proves that it is not. There
is
a right answer.”

“Great Fahla.” Prime Producer Arabisar's horror was as clear on her face as it was in her emotions. “You think we should kill them.”

“Oh, no,” said Bylwytin, the Prime Crafter. “I can't support that. You can't ask us to play Fahla. We already broke her covenant and look where that got us: traumatized high empaths and hundreds of prisoners so shattered that even you can't handle their emotions.”

Voices rose as the High Council members talked over each other, apparently believing that the louder their opinions were expressed, the more correct they had to be. Tal let it go on for several ticks before calling the meeting to order. When they had settled down, she looked at Yaserka. “I admit that when this situation first came to my attention, I discounted its seriousness. But your investigation puts it in a different light.”

He nodded, a pleased smile crossing his face, and she glanced around the table. “It seems to me that we cannot make a decision when we don't all hold the same information. Rather than debating it here on the fourteenth floor of the State House, I propose that we follow our Prime Scholar's example. The High Council should visit Blacksun Base and see—no,
feel
the situation for ourselves.”

In the furor that her suggestion inspired, she caught Yaserka's eye and found him offering her a genuine smile of respect. She smiled back, enjoying the moment. Her strategy had paid off, Lanaril was getting exactly what she wanted, and Yaserka might even be an ally.

At least for the moment.

CHAPTER 20
Whitemoon raid

 

First Pilot Thornlan's skills were
put to frequent use over the next two moons as Tal ranged all over Alsea, dealing with various matters that hadn't received enough attention while she had been tied up with Gaian, Voloth, and technology-related crises. One of those matters came to Tal's attention through the new Anti-Corruption Task Force, which had created a network of merchant informers and a unit of warriors who investigated and responded to the merchants' tips.

In the short time since Tal had ordered Prime Merchant Parser to deal with the corruption in his caste, the task force had already shut down several merchants operating illegally and had even uncovered a ring of smugglers based in Port Calerna. But it wasn't until a second smuggling ring was found in Whitemoon that Tal became personally involved.

Besides being one of the biggest ports in Pallea, Whitemoon was home to the Sensoral Institute, Alsea's premier training facility for gifted empaths. A well-organized smuggling ring and a population of young, partially trained high empaths were a bad combination: the Institute had become a fertile recruiting ground. The smugglers somehow procured the names of students who had been reprimanded for behavioral violations and were actively targeting them for induction into the ring. For young students confident in their abilities and chafing at the discipline imposed by the Institute, a promise of freedom from that discipline—along with easy income—was too tempting.

But they were breaking Fahla's covenant.

The Battle of Alsea had been a one-time exemption. Empathic violation was a level-five state crime carrying a harsh mandatory sentence. Once an Alsean crossed the line into illegal emotional probes and behavioral manipulation, the only means of ensuring that society would be safe from such predation was by isolating the criminal from all potential contact.

The High Security Detention Facility had been built for this reason. It was the worst place on Alsea, a wholly underground prison, and a terrible fate for young high empaths who had simply been too greedy, too arrogant, or too stupid. But time and experience had proven that aboveground facilities were insecure, allowing prisoners to make contact with susceptible Alseans. Now empathic violators were literally buried. The idea of such a fate was so abhorrent that no one called the High Security Detention Facility by its full name. They called it the Pit.

The smugglers might have operated indefinitely had they kept to their illegal port activities and left the students alone, but targeting the cream of Alsean empaths brought them to the attention of the task force. When Tal read the report, it took her half a hantick to calm herself. She insisted on being there when the smugglers were shut down.

Once the investigative work had been completed and a raid planned, Tal flew to Whitemoon to take part. Of course, Micah insisted that she go in disguise. She had to laugh when he handed her the colorizer eyedrops and spray.

It was a short and effective operation, made possible by an anonymous tip that the group would be gathered in a waterfront warehouse for a midmeal meeting that day. Half of the task force warriors covered the exits, while Tal and the other half entered the warehouse from three different directions. Tal was delighted when one of the smugglers targeted her as the easiest person to run over on his way out the door—she did so love it when people underestimated her because of her height. She waited until he was nearly on top of her and then used his own speed and size to launch him straight into the wall behind her. He bounced off in a rage, but when she broke his nose, he crumpled. She was sorry he folded so easily.

But her righteous anger evaporated when she realized just what they had rounded up. Yes, they had wiped out the ring, apprehending six of the high-level smugglers as well a number of low-level workers. But they had also captured five Institute students—and two Battle of Alsea veterans.

She watched as the high empaths were led to the detention transport, so terrified that none of them could keep up their fronts. They seemed unable to believe this had happened to them; the students because they were young and thought themselves invincible, and the veterans because their battle experience had given them an inflated belief in their power.

On the transport home, Micah sat in the opposite seat and looked at her in sympathy. “Your front does you no good today. Your feelings are written on your face.”

“We just sent five young people to the Pit. And the veterans…” Tal sighed. “They fought for Alsea, and now they'll be put underground.”

“They earned their incarceration.”

“The students are hardly past their Rite of Ascension. How can anyone earn a lifetime sentence when they're barely done with childhood stupidities?”

“Why would you think they'll get a lifetime sentence? Their empathic offenses were relatively light.”

“Because they were stupid enough to commit those offenses after I broke Fahla's covenant. And would the older two have done this if they hadn't fought in the battle? If they hadn't learned firsthand just how easy it is to manipulate those who are weaker?”

“Ah,” he said, the realization coloring his emotions. “You're right. The court will make an example out of them.”

“They'll have to. And the media will cover every piptick of it.”

“You could petition for leniency,” he said carefully.

“Certainly, and give the war criminal fringe a gigantic platform while I'm at it. That might be all it would take to push the fringe into the mainstream. Do you want to see Shantu or Yaserka in the State Chair?”

He propped his chin on his fist, looking out the window. “What a mess.”

“True words. They dug their own way into the Pit, and I can't help them out of it. So I'm trying to remind myself that my focus shouldn't be on them. I have an obligation to all of the less gifted Alseans who have no protection from them. It had to be done. It was the right thing. And I hate it.”

“If doing the right thing was always fun, there'd be no need for our caste. Alsea will always need us to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

Tal thought about that while watching the coastline of Pallea pass beneath them. “Father said that a Lancer was not the greatest warrior in the land, but rather the greatest protector.”

“Your father was a wise man and a good friend.”

“At times like this I really wish he were here.”

“He is.” Micah touched her shoulder. “He lives in your heart, along with your mother. You know that.”

She covered his hand with her own. “I know. Sometimes it's just not enough.”

He squeezed her shoulder, and she opened her senses to the reassuring warmth of his friendship. The familiar, almost physical comfort was a sensation she had known from her earliest memories. Micah had always been there. He and her father had been the best of friends, and now he watched over her with more love and loyalty than she could possibly have earned. Sometimes she wondered if her father had extracted a promise from Micah to look after her, but she never asked. The answer would change nothing, but the asking would. It was enough that he was there.

CHAPTER 21
Clearing the way

 

When the coded message appeared
on his reader card, Spinner excused himself from the meeting and went into the corridor to read it. He input the decryption key and watched the letters resolve themselves into the news he was waiting for.

Whitemoon is yours. The task force rounded up every person except Hallwell. He's already back in place and ready. You can send in your own people now.

Best part: Lancer Tal showed up personally.

He laughed out loud. Of course she did. When she had left Blacksun that morning, he was fairly certain he knew where she was going. She couldn't resist where high empaths were involved.

Someday, when he could tell her exactly how this game had been played, he would enjoy seeing the look on her face when she realized what she had done: removed his competition and left the field open for him.

The funding from Whitemoon's black market would enable him to set a few more tiles in place. The end game was a little closer today than it had been yesterday. And somewhere, sometime soon, Lancer Tal would make a mistake and give him the last tiles he needed.

This was the best part of the game, he thought—the part that Challenger would never understand nor appreciate. The end game was important, yes, but the game itself was half the joy of it.

And Lancer Tal didn't even know she was playing.

CHAPTER 22
Debate

 

“…and with us today we
have Lanaril Satran, Blacksun's Lead Templar, and the Lead Templar of Whitesun, Khasar Circassinor.” The host of the government broadcast station turned to Lanaril and Khasar, sitting on opposite sides of the table. “Lead Templar Circassinor, as the leading voice of the opposition, what are your thoughts regarding the High Council's decision today?”

Khasar crossed his hands on the table and leaned forward. “First of all, I think we're framing this discussion badly. It is
not
euthanasia. It's murder, plain and simple. Premeditated, state-sanctioned murder. And that is not something I ever envisioned my people taking part in.”

“Did you ever envision your people fighting off an alien invasion?” Lanaril asked mildly.

Khasar shot her an exasperated look. “That is beside the point.”

“I think it's very much the point. We are in deep waters we've never navigated before. There are no precedents. We can't rely on past law or texts. We can only rely on what our hearts tell us is right. My heart tells me we cannot let the Voloth suffer, nor can we ask our healers to suffer with them.”

“You have a good heart, Lanaril, but I don't believe we should be murdering two hundred and forty-four sentient beings based on what it says. In the interest of ending one form of suffering, you would introduce another—and one that goes against Fahla's teachings.”

First-name usage in a public debate? He was going for the kindly minister approach.

“I can't think which teachings you're referring to,” she said. “Fahla never addressed the situation we're facing.”

“Well, we could start with the principle that life is sacred—”

“
Quality
of life is sacred. The Book of Stewardship tells us that if we come upon an injured animal and that animal is too badly hurt to be saved, it is better to end its life than to let it suffer.”

“The Book of Stewardship is a set of instructions for producers! It's about animal husbandry, not the souls of sentients.”

“It is about
life.
Who are we to say we accept responsibility for this kind of life but not for that one? Fahla gave us the responsibility to care for Alsea and all the life upon it. In that sense, we are all stewards.”

“We should not be arguing semantics over the issue of murder when there are other alternatives we haven't explored.”

“What alternatives are those?” asked the host.

“The Protectorate is at the top of the list,” Khasar said. “Why are we even being held responsible for these prisoners? They brought the Voloth to us; they should take them off our hands.”

Lanaril stifled a sigh. This debate had been raging amongst the templars for almost nine moons; she had already heard everything Khasar was going to say. The difference today was that they were revisiting these arguments in front of a worldwide audience—and the High Council had voted in favor of euthanasia. Now it had become a matter for the full Council to decide, and suddenly the stakes were far higher than a discussion of moral philosophy.

“I agree with you,” she said. “And our government has asked for exactly that. But the answer has consistently been no. Ambassador Solvassen reiterated that just today: the Protectorate will not take our prisoners. To continue stomping our feet and whining ‘but you should' is not only counterproductive but also makes us look like a junior partner in this treaty. We need to accept that answer, as unsatisfying as it is, and move on from there.”

“Ambassador Solvassen did convey the Protectorate's regrets,” the host interjected.

“Well, that makes it better.” Khasar gave a practiced snort of disgust.

Lanaril privately agreed with that, too, but she wasn't about to do so on a live broadcast. “Regardless, we are faced with a situation that must be remedied somehow. Our healers are suffering, and the Voloth are suffering. We cannot allow this to continue.”

“The healers needn't suffer,” Khasar said. “The technical expertise required to maintain sedation is not significant. We could train low empaths to be caretakers. For that matter, why not train the Voloth themselves? The ones we are allowing to stay here? Let them contribute to their new society by dealing with this problem they brought with them.”

“In both situations, more highly trained healers would still need to be on site, managing the caretakers. We cannot train unskilled people in one medical task and then leave them to it and hope nothing goes wrong. Though your strategy would reduce the numbers of healers being affected, it would not remove them altogether.”

“The few necessary healers could be high empaths. They're capable of blocking the Voloth broadcasts.”

“Then we are asking extensively trained high empath healers to waste their talents on a low-skill job that has no possibility of advancement and no end. We already have a shortage of those healers. I don't believe it serves Alsea to direct any of them to this duty. And,” she continued when he would have interrupted, “none of those solutions solve the other half of the issue. The Voloth are suffering.”

“That is a matter of subjective interpretation,” he said.

“I know it makes you feel better to think so. But it is not at all. Ask any healer currently serving—”

“I've spoken with the manager of the Whitemoon clinic—”

“Who is a high empath!”

“But that does not—”

“Excuse me,” the host said, raising his hands.

They stopped arguing and faced him.

“Thank you,” he said. “I have another guest who may be able to illuminate this side of the discussion. May I introduce Rax Sestak, spokesperson for New Haven, the Voloth community near Blacksun Base.”

A chill ran down Lanaril's spine as Rax walked out from the side of the broadcast set, three hovering vidcams recording his movements from all angles. As he leaned over the table to offer palm touches, the vidcams joined the others already airing the debate.

“Lead Templar Satran,” he said as their hands touched. “Well met.”

“Well met, Rax.” At least her voice didn't reflect her disquiet, and fortunately, he couldn't sense it. “This is…unexpected.”

“It turns out that being a spokesperson isn't a job you get to quit,” he said wryly.

Khasar's shock was written all over his face when Rax turned to him. He had never seen a walking, talking Voloth in person until this moment, and Lanaril suspected their host was quite enjoying the moment he had engineered. Certainly this would be all over the news tomorrow.

When greetings had been exchanged and Rax was seated, the host wasted no time getting to the big question.

“As you may have heard before coming on, there is some debate as to whether your compatriots are suffering even though they're sedated. Rax, what is your opinion?”

“I believe they're suffering,” Rax said. “Look, we're all soldiers. We always knew we could end up dead or disabled. But this…” He hesitated. “I saw some of them, you know. That day. We were all being brought to the same place before getting sorted out, and I saw people I knew, but they weren't who I knew anymore. None of them recognized us. They didn't even know where they were. They were just…in torment.”

“Which is why we sedated them,” Khasar said. “They're no longer aware of the memories. They just sleep.”

Rax met his eyes. “Ever had nightmares?”

Khasar was visibly taken aback. “I do not think this is the same thing. Their level of sleep is too deep—”

“Dokshin,” Rax said, and Lanaril nearly cracked a highly inappropriate smile. “If their level of sleep is as deep as you say, they wouldn't be putting out such horrible emotions that your healers can't handle it. They would just be…blank. Wouldn't they?”

“Yes, they would,” Lanaril said. “That was what we believed would happen. But we've never dealt with this precise medical situation before, and the actual results did not match the healers' expectations.”

The host cut in. “If your compatriots are indeed in torment, what do you think they would want for themselves? If they were here to speak, what would they say?”

“They'd say ‘let us go.'” Rax spoke without hesitation. “They'd say ‘put us out of this misery.' You sedated them as an act of mercy, but that was before you knew it wasn't. Now that you know, you can't just keep them there. Or at least, we don't think you should.”

“We?” the host repeated. “Are you speaking in your official role?”

Rax nodded. “We voted. The majority of us believe that your mercy, as well-intentioned as it was, is really torture.”

“What would your compatriots say if there was a chance they could recover?” Khasar asked.

Rax went still. “Is there? Nobody mentioned that.”

“Because it's highly unlikely,” Lanaril began, but Khasar spoke over her.

“Our medicine is more advanced than yours. And now we have a treaty with the Protectorate, which means we have access to any advances they make. Who knows what will happen one, two, three cycles from now? Fahla gives us life, and only Fahla can decide when that life is over. She has decided that your compatriots have not yet finished their journeys. How would you feel if we murdered them all now, and two cycles from now we learn how we could have saved them?”

“But is that a real possibility?” Rax asked. His tentative hope was so bright and clear that Lanaril winced.

“Yes,” said Khasar.

“No,” said Lanaril at the same time.

Rax looked back and forth between them. “Which of you are we supposed to believe?”

“It is an extremely remote possibility—”

“But it
is
a possibility!” Khasar interrupted. “Who are we to play the role of the Goddess when we do not have her knowledge?”

This was always the sticking point. Lanaril had lost count of the number of times a templar discussion on the topic ended right here, because there was no definitive answer and each camp was firmly entrenched.

When she received the invitation to take part in this broadcast, she had thought long and hard about how she could change that dynamic and had come up with something she thought might be powerful enough. But she hadn't known she would be doing it in front of Rax.

She reached into the satchel sitting on the floor by her feet and took out a large, overripe panfruit. “Rax, I apologize in advance for what you're about to see. But you have asked the same question many, many Alseans have asked. You want to know if it's a real possibility that your fellow soldiers might be healed. It is not. Those who say it is are speaking in terms of faith, not in terms of medical science.”

“Faith is all we—”

“If I might finish,” Lanaril said firmly.

Khasar subsided, a suspicious look on his face as he glanced from her to the panfruit.

“Thank you.” She set the panfruit in the middle of the table. “The medical facts are these: The Voloth have had their entire neural capacity burned out. They are no longer capable of coherent thought. They cannot function at even the most basic level, and they are irretrievably broken. Everything that made them who they were is gone. Forever.”

She reached into the satchel again, stood up, and smashed a heavy mallet onto the panfruit.

It exploded, splattering bright red pulp and seeds in all directions. Half the table was covered, and a few seeds stuck to her jacket. In her peripheral vision she saw two of the vidcams zoom directly overhead to get a top-down image of the red, glistening mess.

“That is what has happened to the Voloth,” she said. “Now tell me, Khasar: Do you believe that in one, two, or three cycles, we will be able to put that panfruit back the way it was?”