“Yes. I’m afraid he is.”
“What’s happening now?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean… nothing? They just killed—”
“The Spindle is revoking the Executor’s visa.”
I tried to sit up, and everything hurt, and water spilled from the cup in my hand all over my lap, cold and annoying. “They what?”
“We have arrested the Corpsec who killed the Lordat, but there was no verbal command given, no physical order. We cannot say that the Executor ordered the death of Ulannad, and even if hé did… do you want us to arrest the Executor of the Shine? Hé has a battleship on system’s edge.”
“So call for help, call for—”
“There is going to be a war, Maw.” It was Cuxil who spoke, her voice in that distant place where the feelings of the Consensus perhaps washed through her, tempering the individual with the warmth of the many. Perhaps Cuxil’s heart beat fast; perhaps there was adrenaline rushing through her system, cortisol pounding in her veins. But the Consensus breathed with her, through her, for her, and so soft and gentle she mused: “It is all but certain. Rather than attempt to save the worlds they have in the blast zone, the Shine are going to invade those that are not. Nitashi will be their first target, everyone knows it. A weak planet, outside the Accord – it’s perfect. They didn’t come here to negotiate. They came here to show their strength. To show that they can do what they want, when they want, and no one will stop them. And no one will. Not while the blackships are pointed at our planets.”
“The interface, Valans…”
“The interface is destroyed, and Valans is dead, or will be very soon. Whatever deal he struck with Ulannad, I doubt the Executor will be pleased with hís subordinate’s initiative.”
Meanings of the scars etched into the flesh of those who live under the Shine:
Three straight lines cut across the back of the hand: a technician specialising in high-voltage work, things that go fizz-pop in the dark.
One teardrop cut beneath the left eye: undertaker, keeper of thedead, who preserves a lock of hair of every corpse before the bodies are given over to the fertilisers.
A single cut at the base of the spine: one whose time is done, who can no longer labour fruitfully, and who now is merely waiting to die.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“It is over. We are going to leave. The Spindle does not hold you accountable for what happened – your presence appears circumstantial – but they are concerned that they could not protect you should retribution come your way. Embarrassing if your body was found.”
“They would not find a body,” I grunted.
“Perhaps not; and that could present a different kind of problem, no?”
I pressed my hands to my face, covering my eyes. There was still a hot afterburn from the grenade, a brightness I wanted to claw out, a chemical glow. Then, a hand on my knee. I stared down at it in surprise, at the shock of a physical touch, looked up into Cuxil’s quiet, concerned eyes. Consensus are always blithe when it comes to physical contact; I wondered when someone’s skin had last brushed mine willingly.
“Maw,” she murmured. “We have to go.”
I looked at her, that compassionate gaze that seemed to see straight into every soul and find only beauty. “You lied to me,” I breathed. “Hulder. You. You lied.”
“Maw,” she cut in, a little harder now, pressing her hand into my knee. “There are things here I do not fully comprehend myself. In time I will find understanding, but for now I need to know: are you curious? Are you safe?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”
“Then do you understand why I say that we need to go?”
The Consensus love all who dwell within it, but even she thinks I am a monster. I click my agreement, just once, too tired to do anything more. She clicks in reply, stands, helps me to my shakingfeet. “Good,” she says. And then, an important afterthought, a thing that has to be said: “You are a good man.”
She doesn’t believe it, but she is trying.
Agran sticks me and Cuxil on the back of a bike and steers us towards the landing bay.
When we get there, Spindle security are waiting for us, faces serious, hands folded politely, eyes down. I think for a moment I’m going to be arrested for murder, and cannot fully fathom why.
One steps forward, and I do not know the language they speak to Agran, only that it is fast, clipped, anxious. Cuxil seems to understand, however, for her expression darkens as they talk and her hand grips my arm, though she makes no effort to translate. Then Agran with a face like melting snow turns to me and says:
