The High Cruel Years

Part Three

By Brantley and Shadar

Chapter Eighteen

Vivi Bergstrom should have expected this.

She should have known that there was no escape from the madness, least of all for her.

The only thing that should have surprised her was that her captors were not Aryans, but Jellutong. They blamed her father for the murder of Sayid Nazillah. They might be right; it wouldn’t be the first time that he had eliminated a political rival.

They had barricaded the entrances to the building, using tables, desks and chairs -- anything they could find. They now took turns manning the barricades, while others watched her and the rest of the hostages. Still others spread prayer rugs and chanted appeals to Tuhan.

Vivi felt sorry for herself, but even sorrier for the others, whose lives were in danger through no fault of their own.

They looked at her now, her fellow pre-med majors, some of them her lab-mates. She returned their looks only furtively, trying and failing to gauge the thoughts and feelings behind them.

The militants had turned on the classroom TV monitors, tuned them to the newsnets, but left the sound so low that it was almost impossible to make out what the talking heads on screen were saying. The Jellutong themselves had headphones; presumably they were keeping up to speed on whatever was happening. That might be a good thing or a bad thing.

Vivi needed to pee, but there was no chance of getting a pass to the women’s room. She could already smell the urine in the classroom where she was being held, although it wasn’t coming from those nearest her. At least the militants had dragged off the body of her last security man; at least there wouldn’t be the stench of death -- assuming they had dragged him and the other casualties far enough away.

Between the talking heads, the screen was filled with images of the building -- from the front, from the sides, from the rear, from the air.

She hadn’t seen her father on screen. That was only to be expected. Nor had she seen Vozeh or any of the other ministers. That too was only to be expected. She recognized some of the low-level functionaries. They were doubtless saying nothing of any real substance.

The pressure in her bladder was growing. Finally, she gave in to it. Pissing herself was a small thing compared to what the Jellutong might have in store for her -- and the others.

She prayed. For herself. For the others. Even for their captors.

***

When Molly returned to the altar with And’rea, nobody noticed the absence of Anya. Not at first. They were too excited about the capture and imminent execution of the Betan.

But Martin Spengler had not forgotten the blood sacrifice, the rite of the blot.

"The Gods have truly favored us," he declared, after signaling the throng for silence. "We can honor them with a double sacrifice."

Only then did he realize that the other victim was missing.

"Where is the Diaboli?" he asked Molly. "Where is Anya?"

"I don't know," Molly said weakly, as if she knew no more than him. "I was busy with the Betan."

It might have worked, or at least might have worked longer, if And'rea hadn't spoken up.

"I'm not the only double agent here," she hissed. "Are you such fools as to believe Velorians would be working with the likes of you?"

Zar'ya was finally coming around.

"Of course I'm working with you," she said dreamily. "I'm here to liberate you."

"Do you know where Anya is?" Spengler barked.

It was a stupid question, and drew a stupid answer.

"Anya? Who is Anya?"

"We came before you," Molly said. "To defend the chosen people."

"But… they said the Velorians were attacking the Keeps."

"We fought the machines. Ask anybody."

"And they killed most of you anyway," And'rea broke in. "It was all part of the plan. I was there with Nazillah. These Velorians were part of it, from the very beginning."

"She's lying," Molly protested. "She wants to bring you down -- she's as much as admitted it. She wants to bring everyone down. She wants to destroy this planet. That's what Arions do."

She realized then that she had misspoken. She shouldn't have said she had any concern for the world as a whole. Let alone mentioned the Arions of the Empire.

Kommandant Null chose this moment to intervene.

"What do others matter to us? Why should they matter to you? Does that filthy Diaboli matter to you? Is that why you've made off with him?"

"I haven't. Don't listen to that Betan."

"Find Anya, then. Bring her back."

And to Zar'ya:

"Follow her. See that she does. If one or both of you fails to return, we shall know the meaning of it."

Molly took off, followed by Zar'ya.

I've gained some time, Molly thought. But is it enough?

***

“Siemsen Vozeh urgently wants to speak with us,” Ambassador Vern’danan told Terri.

“They send us an interim minister? What about Bergstrom?”

“Bergstrom is… incapacitated.”

Major Raul’lan knew she was expected to show sympathy, but it was hard for her to summon any.

"Incapacitated -- how?"

"Nervous breakdown, I suppose. Vozeh would know. But what he wants is to help us about the siege."

“So we fly over to the Justice Ministry? Or just trot over.”

“He’s here. Now.”

That startled the major, but it didn't intimidate her.

“I need to get James back.”

“What can he possibly do? That Cher’ee can’t?”

“He has military training. He may be useful.”

“Where is he now?”

“In the field. Pursuing leads about the bomber.”

“Well, get him back here. But for Skietra’s sake, don’t let him say a word to Vozeh about that rogue.”

Vern’danan stalled long enough for Terri to send a coded signal to Lt. Kim’Vallara, and to call in Cher’ee from her quarters, then ushered Vozeh into the conference room.

"In answer to your question, President Bergstrom decided he could spare me," the acting Justice minister said.

"Not exactly a glowing recommendation," Vern'danan quipped.

"That depends on how well you know the president."

The ambassador wasn't quite sure what to make of that, so he made small talk instead, awaiting the arrival of Cher'ee and James. The latter came rather heatedly, given the laws of friction, and an aide had to discreetly ratchet up the air conditioning. Vozeh paid no attention to this, and was patient with the formalities of diplomatic protocol that had to be endured.

It was Vern'danan whose patience was being tried, even though he should have been impressed that the minister was missing a cabinet meeting on account of the delay.

"A trifling matter," Vozeh assured him. "Nothing of importance is on the agenda."

If only he had known…

To his credit, Vozeh knew what he was doing. He came armed with a data cube that displayed complete plans of the Microbiology building -- every room, every door, every HVAC duct, every electrical conduit.

“You’ve got to realize that this isn’t anything like in the videos,” Cher’ee said. “I can’t just march in there and let them shoot at me. They’re too smart for that; they’ll be shooting at the hostages instead. And even if they shot at me, the ricochets would take out a lot of them.”

“Why do you think I brought the plans?”

This guy’s smart, Cher’ee realized. He may be smart about other things.

"Is there any way we can deal with them, any way to appeal to their better nature," she asked now.

"Jellutong, we name ourselves, after the wood of rubber trees back on Earth. Soft, easily carved, easily shaped. We believe that Tuhan means to shape us, making us His ornaments with His divine lathe, to His greater glory. To impose our own shapes is pantang larang, forbidden."

She had almost forgotten that Vozeh was Jellutong.

"The people holding the university don't seem to agree," the ambassador commented.

"The Aryans and -- dare I say? -- the president appear to agree even less."

"I'm sure Sandal would not be pleased to hear that."

There was an oddly ironic tone in Vozeh's voice. Something to do with political one-upsmanship, she supposed. That's what it was all coming down to now in Senegal.

"And he'd better not hear it from anyone in this room," Terri warned. "But we have to be frank here. We have a problem with Bergstrom. You know it, and I know it. We should be thankful that Sri Vozeh isn't there with the hostage takers, or organizing a coup."

"We've had one coup already, and see where it's gotten us," the minister said bitterly. "As we are being frank, I'm the first to want to see Bergstrom gone. He should be on trial. But the fanatics aren't going to help."

"It seems to me that we have two alternatives here," said Terri. "Find a way to get in there somehow and disarm the militants without touching off a massacre, or find a way to negotiate."

"It's easy enough to pinpoint the locations of the hostage takers and their weapons," Cher'ee observed. "Tachyon surveillance is part of our training. I could easily mark all the targets on Sri Vozeh’s cyber-chart. But that isn't the same as taking them out safely. Obviously."

James looked at the building plans, alternate approaches and strategies running through his head. Blast grenades. Gas. Cutting off the power and moving in by night. He'd studied such things on Atlantea, but this wasn't a classroom. This wasn't a theoretical exercise.

"Is Bergstrom willing to make any concessions?" he finally asked.

"Hasn't it gotten through to you yet?" Terri interjected. "The only concession they want from him is his head."

"Why do you suppose I'm the one here?" Vozeh asked. "And in answer to your next question, I'm not empowered to make any commitments."

"Which leaves the military option," Vern'danan surmised.

"Which means we’d been doing Bergstrom's dirty work for him and still lose all or most of the hostages," Terri complained. "I, for one, am tired of him making us play his game."

"The Senate," the ambassador reminded her.

"The Ministry of Enlightenment Affairs,” she corrected him. “I don't recall the Senate ever having voted to bend the Prime Directive. Certainly the High Council never countenanced it."

Chapter Nineteen

Molly was afraid there was no way she could delay Zar’ya. But luck was with her. The rogue Protector herself slowed at each side passage or side chamber, apparently thinking that Anya might be hiding in some crevice blocked to tachyon vision.

She was not. Molly knew it. But Zar’ya didn’t. That worked in Anya’s favor. Yet Anya dared not fly at full speed, Molly also knew, out of concern for the Diaboli. Perhaps he could cast some sort of protective spell; she had heard token of such things. But he might be too weak from his ordeal to accomplish such a thing, and Anya might not know enough to ask.

Of a sudden, Molly saw a small patch of daylight ahead: the narrow egress from the Keep. But there was a dark spot against it: Anya, it could only be Anya. And Zar’ya had seen her too, put on extra speed.

Molly tried to match her and, for a few moments, succeeded -- at the cost of a pain known only to B-Class Vels who exceeded their ordinary limits. Even so, Zar’ya was sure to reach the fugitives first.

“Stop!” Molly suddenly yelled, because she couldn't think of anything else to do.

Amazingly, Zar’ya hesitated for a moment. Just enough for Molly to catch up, to fly abreast of the Protector.

“You mustn’t do this,” she pleaded. “They were going to sacrifice him, only because he was a Diaboli. Anya agreed to take him home to Arcady. That’s all she’s doing.”

“A Diaboli? A mind-raper? How dare she succor such as him, against those I have pledged to Protect? How dare you defend her treachery?”

Molly felt a chill of despair, and the cold certainty of defeat. Zar’ya must have heard the worst stories of Diaboli on Velor -- in the Academy or on the training moons or elsewhere, it didn’t matter.

“They’re not like that,” Molly insisted.

“They are spies, sent by the oppressors of my people.”

Her people? How could she be so deluded? But then, Harry and Vance had thought the Diaboli might be working for the Aryans. In any case, there was no reasoning with Zar’ya. There was only….

Molly grappled her, using all her flight power to try to force her to the ground near the Keep exit, and to place herself in front of the Protector.

“Get out of my way!” Zar’ya screamed. “I am on a mission, and I declare Top Emergency!”

The protocol seemed incongruous here, and Molly ignored it, managed somehow to cling to the rogue for a few moments as they went tumbling through the air, coming down hard on the rocky terrain. The shock was enough to make her lose her grip, which Zar’ya would have soon broken in any case.

Zar’ya hovered to get her bearings, to draw a bead on the fugitives. In desperation, Molly began throwing rocks at the Protector and attacking her with heat vision -- not in any hope of harming her, but only to get her attention. Only to save Anya and her charge.

There was no hope of saving herself.

***

Anya knew that Zar'ya couldn’t be far behind. She dared not look back, but Alex -- that was his name -- had come around. He was keeping her posted.

He couldn’t raise his voice above the roar of the slipstream, but he didn't need to.

They've come out of the Keep, he thought at her.

A moment later:

They’re fighting, but she's…. we’ve got to slow down.

Slow down?

I've got to concentrate. Cast a screening spell.

She knew what that meant.

She also knew that Zar'ya might be closing in on them in minutes.

But can you? she thought back.

A small one, I think. Over there.

“Over there” was one of the greenhouses. What had been one of the greenhouses. All that was left was kloms of smashed panels and twisted metal. The crops exposed to the frigid air were already dead. There was no sign of human life.

Anya set down next to a tumbled mass of structural supports. She and Alex crawled under it -- she judged it safe, that it collapsed as much as it was going to. She held Alex close, to protect him from the cold, and let him do the rest. To the casual eye, they were to be no more than a pile of frozen vegetables.

In the distance, there was a sound. Not quite like thunder. Not quite like artillery. Anya knew what it must be, and tried not to think of it. But when the sound faded, she began to cry.

***

The end came quickly for And'rea Cuppers, but she was defiant to the end.

"You may kill me, but I have conquered you!" she screamed on her way to the altar, bound in gold hand and foot. "Everything you do here serves the Empire, even as everything they do in Senegal serves the Empire."

"Think not to frighten us with your blasphemies," the high priest intoned. "Ours is the master race, not yours. We have proof of that in the advent of Zar'ya."

"The more fool she. But it's so delicious. My only regret is that I shall miss out on the spectacle of Velorian fighting Velorian, for that is surely what it will come to."

"Zar'ya shall prevail," the priest responded. "The elder gods will sustain her, as they sustain their chosen people."

"Oh ye of blind faith," And'rea taunted them.

The priest glared at her.

"And little brains," she added. "If it weren't for that mind reader, you'd never have found out about me."

Her mention of the Diaboli enraged the priest and his acolytes beyond any reckoning. Those holding And'rea beat her unmercifully, or tried to, while screaming curses and imprecations not unlike those the menschenjagers had directed at them. That they should owe anything to, worse that they should have been outwitted by a despised man of a despised race was undeniable, and unbearable.

"In das feuer!" screamed the priest, cutting short the elaborate blots he had planned -- first for both his sacrificial victim, and then only for the Betan.

So it came to pass. And'rea screamed, but not for long -- the fiery furnace had been set at maximum for Zar'ya, and nobody had thought to turn it down to prolong the Betan's suffering.

***

Zar’ya felt only pity for the woman who lay smashed and dead on the jagged rocks below her. She felt only hatred for those who had sent her into the Keeps to do their will.

Molly, her name was. She remembered it now.

Such an ordinary name, probably not the one she was born with. Not a Velorian name, surely. And only B-Class. What had she been doing on this world? How had she come here, and how had she become involved in this war?

Involved she had certainly been, to the point of madness, and she had fought madly. Zar’ya had tried to brush her off at first, but she had kept attacking -- first with rocks and heat vision, then with her bare hands -- trying again and again to get a grip on her, to turn her from her path.

Time and again, Zar’ya had thrown her to the ground. Time and again, Molly had returned to the attack, bruised and bleeding as she was. The Protector had tried to show mercy, tried to restrain herself, but her adversary was having nothing of it.

It was time to take her down, permanently. Zar’ya did so with calm efficiency. She could spare only a moment to reflect on what might have driven Molly to sacrifice herself.

For a mind-raping Diaboli.

Was that it? Had the Diaboli taken over her mind?

The Diaboli? Where was he? Where was Anya?

Zar’ya soared a mile over the Keep portal, then hovered, scanned in all directions.

Nothing. Only bare and broken mountains. Below them, a valley that sheltered one of the greenhouses. Had sheltered it. There must have been a bombing here while she was in the Keep. She had lost track of time -- finding her way here, the welcome, the altar….

She circled the area, still seeing nothing. They could be anywhere, she realized.

Her pity for Molly turned to rage -- at her and the Diaboli and Anya for having thwarted her.

Retribution would not be denied. Justice would not be denied. But she must have a plan. She must return to the Keep, she must seek further counsel there.

Chapter Twenty

When the government soldiers challenged Anya, she knew she didn’t have a chance of persuading them.

She had been advancing down the long valley fitfully, just above ground level, paralleling the greenhouses, never far from cover. Alex was sure Zar’ya was nowhere near, but Anya didn’t want to take any chances. She had to get back to the capital somehow, tell what she knew, let Alex do the same.

Settle accounts, too. Especially with Harry. Molly had talked her into coming on this fool’s errand, but it was Harry who’d talked her into it -- she’d saved his life, and how had he repaid her?

She had cried herself into numbness when she knew Molly must be gone, then raged at herself that she dared not even look for her sister’s body. But she could not rage at herself forever. Rage must have a proper object, and she knew now what that proper object was. Who it was.

They had scavenged clothing from what was left of an agritechs dormitory, ignoring the smashed bodies that lay there. Alex needed the clothes for warmth, but she needed them to look -- other than what she was. It was an extra measure of protection; Alex was weary from having maintained the screening spell as long as he had. It might be some time before he could manage it again.

He was still sleeping when the patrol found them; otherwise he might have given warning. She had been watching him, inattentive to what was going on outside their improvised shelter. The rustling sounds could have been scavenging animals for all she knew.

They were not.

“Out!” shouted the leader of the patrol. “Hands behind your heads.”

Anya knew what was happening. She just didn’t know the why. The why was that government patrols were targets for irregulars -- guerrillas who’d taken to hiding out in small shelters like this one. That made the soldiers nervous. Very nervous.

Alex had been awakened by the noise.

“Soldiers,” she told him. “Don’t make any trouble.”

He must be reading them already. He got to his feet rather clumsily, hands behind his head as instructed.

“We’re on your side,” she told the soldiers as she did likewise.

That wasn’t exactly true. Not any more. But it would have to do.

Only it didn’t.

“Where are the rest of you?” asked the leader, who later turned out to be a sergeant named Bilinco.

“There aren’t any—“

Bilinco smashed his rifle butt into Anya’s head.

The rifle butt got the worst of it. That convinced him she wasn’t an Aryan guerrilla.

“You’re…” he stammered, his rifle stock broken, his arms in pain.

“My name is Anya. My companion and I must reach Senegal as soon as possible.”

Consternation gave way to confusion on Bilinco’s part. His troops seemed equally confused.

“But can’t you just…“ Bilinco stammered.

Fly was what he meant.

Anya was about to tell them about Zar’ya, then realized that would be a mistake. But what could she…

Of course… She'd have to improvise.

“I’m with the Velorian Security Service,” she said. “I was sent here to investigate reports of possible Arion infiltration. Those reports turned out to be more than well-founded. I barely escaped with my life from an Arion Prime -- a new breed, with flight capability.”

Bilinco was aghast.

“A Prime? But how?”

“How did she get here? The same way Protectors do, obviously. Our blockade is effective only against ships. How did the Empire create her? I have no idea. But we’d better find out.”

“What’s he got to do with it?” Bilinco asked, gesturing towards Alex.

“My companion also has knowledge of her. He was held prisoner by the Aryans.”

The first true thing she’d said!

“We will require a Velorian military escort back to the capital. I can speak to Major Terri Raul’lan, if you can provide a secure channel.”

Bilinco knew who Raul’lan was. Any soldier did.

“Come with us,” he invited her.

***

Terri, Cher’ee and James were in the war room at the Embassy when Anya’s call was routed to them. It was Day Two of the hostage standoff, and they didn’t have any solution yet.

Vern’danan had been leaning on them. That didn’t help. There’d been no word from Bergstrom. That didn’t help, either. They were dealing with a man named Wilson, who’d been the President’s chief of staff and was now calling himself Minister of Defense. Wilson had been cooperative, but not helpful.

"Perhaps we could introduce gas into the air conditioning system," Wilson had said just as the call came in.

"That option has already been considered and rejected,” said Terri, wishing it were Vozeh here again instead of Wilson. “They'd feel it coming. They'd still have time to--"

When her wristcom chimed, she was at first of a mind to ignore it, thinking it was probably Vern'danan, wanting a progress report. But then she saw that the caller ID was Reigellian military. And when she learned who was on the other end…

"You'll have to excuse us for a few minutes," she told Wilson. "A Velorian matter."

Wilson knew enough to withdraw without making a fuss.

"Molly's dead. Zar'ya killed her," Anya said, after being assured the call was scrambled.

"Zar'ya?" Terri asked.

"They’ve got a Protector on their side."

"Impossible!"

"I saw her. I flew with her. But she's crazy. She's got all kinds of crazy ideas. If she finds me, she'll kill me too. And Alex."

"Alex?"

Anya explained about him, about the Betan and Sayid, told the whole story -- as much as she knew, as much as she could believe. She cursed Zar'ya, she cursed the Aryans, but she also cursed the government.

"They're killing everybody here," she said. "First the monsters in the Keeps -- I don't care about the Betan, they were going to use them anyway. And now the greenhouses. You've got to stop it."

It took some time to calm her down, to make arrangements for a pickup.

Cher'ee, at the mention of Zar'ya, had been consulting the data base on her PersComp.

"There's a Zar'ya Rhea-ling," she read. "She was just assigned to Nova Iberia. She was supposed to report in here on her way, but there's been no sign of her."

"Skietra!" Terri said.

"Good thing Anya decided to report directly to you. If she'd gone through Vern’danan’s staff, there could have been hell to pay."

"There still might be."

***

Payment was long overdue, Kommandant Null told Zar'ya.

"You must strike at the root and not at the branch," he said. "Forget about Anya and that mind-raping Diaboli. Forget about the greenhouses. That's not where it's happening. It's happening in the capital."

Of course, she realized. I can kill them all.

"I can kill them all," she repeated aloud.

"Only if they refuse to cooperate," the Aryan leader advised her. "Only if they refuse our just demands. But when they see that the gods themselves have sent you to succor us, they will believe. Yea, then they will bow down and beg for mercy. You may even lift the scales from the eyes of the others of Velor: those who have forsaken the true faith, who humble themselves before lesser races and even alien beasts out of false compassion."

It occurred to Zar'ya, not for the first time, that Kommandant Null was seriously deluded. And yet his cause was just, his people's cause was just. She had seen the work of the menschenjagers, even if she had been too late to do battle with them. She had seen the devastated greenhouses, starving Aryans in the node towns.

She had vowed to wreak vengeance. But…

"They will not refuse," she said now.

"Before we terminated the odious And'rea, she informed us as to the location of the presidential bunker."

Zar'ya didn't want to dwell on what "termination" had involved, much as it had been deserved.

"The gods have favored us at this moment, for those of you who have forsaken the true faith are distracted by that business of the Jellutong, even as the half-breed president and his retainers are distracted. We can fire you in one of our remaining missiles, having removed the gold for safekeeping. Perhaps they will shoot it down; if not, you can make your exit when it comes nearest the bunker."

Zar'ya examined the map, then swore by Skietra to carry out her mission.

When she had left, Kommandant Null turned to other matters. Such as the biotoxins engineered to single out the Diaboli of Arcady province, to leave none who might challenge the right of the Aryans to rule all of Southy.

She was young, still new to the faith. She might not understand the necessity of such things.

Chapter Twenty-one

Anya was quiet after telling her story to Cher'ee.

She was still remembering what she had seen as, flanked by James and Terri, she had flown here at near ground level with Alex. More death and destruction.

They said it hadn't reached yet into the heart of Southy; that the first phase of the bombings had been to create a cordon sanitaire between the occupied territory near the sea and rebel-held nodes and greenhouses further south.

She saw nothing "sanitary" in the smashed greenhouses, the lost crops, the dead and dying Aryans in the nodes. Insanitary, she thought. Or plain insane.

It was an insanity that went on for klom after klom, and she saw it all, for they flew slowly and cautiously, always on the lookout for Zar'ya, fearing her appearance -- the three of them together would be sufficient to take her on, they thought, but they wished they had Cher'ee.

Only Cher'ee was restricted to the capital, unable to provide the Embassy a good reason for leaving the scene of the hostage crisis. Vern'danan and his staff still didn't know about Zar'ya, and Terri and the others didn't want them to know. Not yet.

Occupied territory, at last. Working greenhouses, populated nodes. The Aryans here might not be happy, but at least they were alive. For now. Anya suspected their agritechs might be driven out, even done away with -- if the North had anyone trained to replace them.

At last she saw the seacoast. Huge barges docked to load food. Perhaps the very same barges had unloaded the menschenjagers -- there were warehouses large enough to have hidden them. It must have been a massive undertaking, and a senseless one -- surely more conventional weapons would have sufficed. But then nothing on Reigel 5 made any sense.

The sea, and beyond the sea…. It was only when Senegal came into view that she remembered Harry. Strange not to have thought of him all this time. And as she thought of him now, she hated him. It was a hatred that must have been simmering in her subconscious, and had finally come to the surface with a vengeance.

Molly saved him, she thought. Molly would have loved him. I would have loved him. And yet he spurned our love, preyed on our sympathy -- all head and no heart, all calculating, calculating how he could use us. The perfect soldier, knowing just what to say, just what to do, to command obedience. Using us as his tools.

She couldn’t do anything about the Aryans, or the government. But she could do something about Harry. Somebody had to pay.

***

The bunker where the cabinet now assembled was well-shielded and well-guarded.

That meant nothing to a Velorian.

The President and the ministers all carried their own sidearms now.

That meant even less.

The tunnel that provided the only access to the bunker was heavily-guarded, by soldiers and by weapons of gold, prepared in expectations of an Arion attack that had never come.

That was bypassed.

Their only warning was a rumbling, like that of a subway train.

The wall behind the conference table burst open, with a shower of debris.

The President and the ministers froze in their seats when they saw Zar’ya emerge from her own tunnel, when they knew what they were facing. First from surprise and then from terror.

Bergstrom had been frozen in his seat all along, but was roused from his torpor now -- just enough to make a pathetic attempt to save himself.

"It wasn't me," he croaked. "It was Nazillah. I took care of him for you."

As if!

The other ministers present -- Vozeh being absent -- couldn't even manage that.

Save for Interior minister Basil Sims, he who rarely said anything of substance. He took out his gun, aimed it…

“Are you that big a fool?” Zar’ya taunted.

Sims was not a fool. But he was desperate. He surmised that they all had seconds to live unless he could make an impression on this madwoman.

He shifted his aim. His gun barked. President Bergstrom fell dead in his seat.

Just like that.

The others instantly moved to react -- but almost as instantly thought better of it.

“You’re catching on fast,” Zar’ya told Sims.

Sims only nodded.

"You've just been elected President," she added.

Even Parliament couldn't do that. Reigel 5 had a presidential system, unlike that on Velor where the Senate chose the Prime Minister. Zar'ya probably didn't know this. But nobody was going to argue the point.

Still, there were matters of practicality.

“Things will go more smoothly if the world believes our late President is alive and well,” Sims suggested. “As acting Minister of Defense, Mr. Wilson will naturally be presumed to be acting under his authority.”

The unelected president glanced knowingly at Chan.

Under other circumstances, Chan would have been a problem. Under the present circumstances, he would not. The look on his face told it all.

“All military operations against Southy must cease immediately,” said Zar’ya, ignoring the byplay.

“We’ll call it a truce,” said Sims. “That way, it is less likely to arouse suspicion or resentment.”

“Why should that matter?” she wondered,

“We must still answer to the electorate. Eventually.”

“That is no concern of mine.”

“There are other Velorians on this planet,” he reminded her. “Including the Protector. You cannot engage all of them.”

“We are the righteous who shall not be moved,” Zar’ya said, contempt in her voice. “Right is on our side. And my people have other weapons. Even gold, and they know how to use it, against those of Velor who betray their true purpose.”

That brought Sims up short. He was still pondering the matter when Wilson spoke up.

“You are correct, of course,” he said soothingly. “But I don’t believe that will be necessary. And I think it would be unwise. Velor can bring reinforcements. You cannot. We are prepared to deal. They will not. Let us handle the matter. Let us present them with a fait accompli. You and the Aryans will not be disappointed.”

“You’re just trying to save your own skins,” Zar’ya snorted.

“But we can freely grant you everything you would otherwise fight for,” said Sims, taking Wilson’s cue. “The Embassy doesn’t have to know about your role in any of this. You can count on our discretion precisely because it is a matter of self-preservation. None of us could win another election if the truth were told.”

“You agree to Southy’s independence, then?”

“Of course," Sims said. "But we shall explain that it’s simply a matter of economics, that we can’t afford the war any longer. That will sit well with our northern constituencies.”

“Do you really suppose that I trust you?”

“You don’t have to. You found us once, you can find us again.”

Sims turned to Wilson.

“I suggest that you draft the order for an immediate cease fire, and take it up to the surface for execution and broadcast. I further suggest that if you should fail in this, I’ll find you even before this lady does.”

It was a ploy: the only way Sims could make himself look tough. Wilson ignored it, seeking only a bit of clarification.

“And if they ask about Bergstrom?”

“We've already given out that he’s been suffering from nervous exhaustion over the fate of his daughter. Dead to the world. Only now it's literally instead of figuratively.”

Sims turned to Zar’ya.

“Thankfully for you, and for ourselves, this chamber is soundproof. Nobody outside is aware that anything has gone amiss. It will serve you and your people best if you leave the same way you came.”

“I won’t tolerate any delay,” Zar’ya warned.

But she left through her own tunnel.

Everyone looked at Sims.

"Are you out of your mind?" shouted Charlene Ohrenschall, who had kept silent until now.

"I was the only one in my mind just now," Sims retorted. "And if she'd known your part in all this, you'd be a smear on the floor right this minute."

“Are we really going to do this,” asked Tofflan.

“What about the greenhouses?” asked Ohrenschall. "We'll starve without them."

Sims looked at them,

“Do you really think we have any choice? Be thankful that she didn’t murder the lot of us. Well just have to work out the best deal with can with whoever ends up running Southy.”

***

"I've dealt with a hostage situation before," admitted Cher'ee. "It didn't come out well. What's worse, it involved a favorite nephew of the President. He blamed me for that, and he'll blame me for this if I fail again."

Everybody at the Embassy knew the story of Randik and Jecel. But it was new to Anya and Alex La'Reu, who had been brought in to brief the others.

"And now there's Zar’ya Rhea-El," Cher'ee added. "Do you have any idea where she is or what she's planning?"

"Skietra only knows," said Anya. "But she's convinced she's on the right side. She'll fight for it -- that's what Protectors do."

"But will she come after me, or wait for me to come after her?"

"It's your own fault. Violating the Prime Directive. Siding with a corrupt and brutal government."

Cher'ee fumed inwardly, but said only: "Not my call."

You don't have any idea how things work. But why should you?

"I take it you can't gauge her intentions," the Protector added.

"What do you want of me? I've told you everything I know."

And she had, Cher'ee realized. Thanks to Anya, they knew the full extent of the devastation of the Keeps. The Aryans might still have a lot of fight left in them, but they had few resources. Except for Zar'ya.

That's what it will come down to, she knew. Me and Zar'ya. To the death. As if she were a Prime.

Nothing in her training, nothing in her experience, had prepared her emotionally for this.

And they couldn’t pass this decision on to Vern’danan, or to the government, which amounted to the same thing. Terri was firm on that. Worse, they couldn’t trust Anya, not in the long run. She’d played fair with them, but they couldn’t play fair with her. She couldn’t remain on Reigel 5 after this was over. No way.

And when I have to tell her that….

Meanwhile…

“I’m sorry,” Cher’ee said now. “We’ve got one crisis already, and you bring us another. Even a Protector can feel overwhelmed at times.”

Anya looked skeptical, but said nothing.

“I think I can help,” Alex broke in.

“With Zar’ya?”

“With the Jellutong. "I think I can get through to them."

“Even Vozeh can’t get through to them, and he’s Jellutong himself.”

“I could act as a relay. Just as I did in the Keep. But to a better end.”

“If he’s willing,” Terri cautioned.

“Yes, if he’s willing… I can't do it otherwise. I’ll need him to focus his thoughts, you see. Relaying random thoughts, his stream of consciousness, wouldn’t serve. And sooner or later he'd feel me, and panic. It would be futile as well as unethical.”

***

When the bomb failed to go off, the Diaboli thought at first that it had been a dud. It was mindless; they couldn’t gauge its nature or read its intentions. And those who sent it were beyond reach.

Not that there was any doubt about the bomb’s origins. They had cleared the entire area, just as a precaution, and reported the incident to headquarters of the Thirteen, which reported it in turn to Senegal -- a lot of good that would do.

But when some of the hikers who’d found the bomb came down with an ebola-like infection and started bleeding out, the Thirteen realized that the bomb hadn’t been a dud, after all. The survivors were warned not to approach any settlement, and because their thoughts could lawfully be monitored in such an emergency, they had no choice but to comply.

An alert was sent to Senegal, but was not acknowledged; if the Diaboli had known why, they would have been even more worried. The Thirteen ordered an air strike on the vicinity of the bomb with fuel oil explosives -- which, unlike more conventional weapons, could be hastily assembled, and be more effective in any case. Deux Labs was assigned to produce a vaccine against every known variation of ebola, but it was already too late for those in the quarantine zone -- they were doomed.

Jim Jones worked at Deux now, still a widower although he had his eye on a lab tech named Amy Funtang. She was descended from one of the oldest bloodlines of the Diaboli, dating back the ancient abductions in Southeast Asia on Old Earth. And she was definitely interested; she'd shot him an image of herself in a hot tub with an X-rated invitation to join her there.

But the germ warfare attack had put a damper on their hormones, and they were soon too tired from their labors on the vaccines for amorous activities.

Not too tired, however, either of them, to dream of revenge…

Chapter Twenty-two

Siemsen Vozeh was at evening prayer when the message came. He had set his com to mute, but the blinking light was a reminder.