TWENTY
HANAAN FIRST KNEW for a fact that something was wrong after the Zukriti job.
Not that anything had been wrong with his plans. Flawless as always, they had focused upon manipulating the emotional weakness of a Tucharan administrator, to destabilize a treaty he was in charge of. The preparatory work had been perfect. One hint, whispered in his ear, that his third wife had cheated on him . . . one clue, left in the proper place, that another wife had let slip a precious secret to a rival . . . one suggestion that his rivals were discreetly deriding his twelfth marriage, and wondering if his sixteenth under-heir was really his own child . . . it stood to reason with such a man that his self-control might snap, and that any plan put in motion by one of his wives might become suspect. How unfortunate for peace that his primary wife had served as key counselor in his troubles with the Holding. How unfortunate that her advice had been a key factor in establishing the temporary truce under which his planet was now prospering. . . .
No, that had all gone off perfectly. Hanaan’s operatives had observed the man’s increasing agitation as his nascent paranoia was unleashed (that facet of his persona having been the jewel of Hanaan’s reconnaissance), and it took little work to direct the emotion where he wanted it to go. A truce with the Braxins was never a sure thing anyway, since they regularly broke treaties, and once his paranoia was triggered the administrator was likely to make ready for war, “just in case.” Which of course the Braxins would notice. Which of course would inspire them to move first, preemptively. . . .
At least that had been the plan. Hanaan didn’t know why the Organization wanted this particular treaty broken, but that didn’t matter. Maybe they had secretly moved some monstrous vehicle of war into position and were ready to take out the Braxins, provided the enemy attacked first. Perhaps it was something more subtle, in keeping with the twisted politics that ruled Zukriti’s segment of the War Border. It made little difference to Hanaan. His orders came—in this case simply, Braxin must break the truce with Zukriti—and they were fulfilled. That simple.
Except this time it hadn’t been.
Hanaan looked over the last report yet again. Usually in a project as neatly managed as this one mistakes would jump off the page at him, but not this time. Oh, all his reconnaissance had been perfect, he’d confirmed that. His psyche files on the administrator were second to none. And the initial reaction vectors had unerringly pointed to success. He’d all but filed this one away in advance, so sure was he of the results.
But there was no war.
The Tucharan administrator had fumed, as predicted. His wives had reacted to his mood exactly as anticipated, helping to push him further over the edge. Every piece was in place, every psychological adjustment perfect . . . but the whole of it failed to result in what was required.
Hanaan had failed.
It had been years since he had failed in anything.
He couldn’t accept it.
Was it possible that there was some reason Braxi hadn’t responded as anticipated? He checked the data again and shook his head in frustration. No. Braxin habits were too well known, and this played right into them. Hanaan checked for the hundredth time to make sure the local Braxin commander had been aware of Zukriti’s covert preparations (damn well should, since Hanaan’s own operatives had leaked the information) and when that came up positive again he sat back in his formchair and let it whir in frustration as its best efforts failed to massage any tension out of his body.
It had all been planned perfectly. Executed perfectly. It should have gone off perfectly, in the end.
But it didn’t.
Failure didn’t bode well for him, at the position he was now in. Every cell he was in charge of consisted of half a dozen operatives who would happily tear him to bits to get his job. Just like he had done on the way up. If they caught wind of this they’d have a field day.
What would his superiors think, when word of this failure reached them? Would they wonder if they had done the right thing in his last promotion? Would they consider giving another man his desk?
Questions would be asked. He’d better have the answers.
With a growl of frustration he set the database to search for similar cases. Anything dealing with the Braxins, where they had not responded as anticipated. It was a long shot, but maybe somewhere in that data he’d find some clue as to what had gone wrong.
He left the office, triple-sealing it behind him, and went to get a fresh cup of chas. Thank Hasha no one had access to his computer by any other means. It was a rare luxury in this modern world to lock a portal and have it actually mean something.
He returned a few minutes later, expecting to find at best a case or two which had been rooted out for his perusal. Certainly no more than that.
But there were more. Many more.
He sealed the portal from the inside, stood before the database display, and gazed at it in amazement. A full docket of cases had been listed for him, subcategorized under several headings. Had there been that many project failures? He’d seen the annual efficiency report and didn’t remember that many being noted.
He sat down and began to read. The files were long, of course; one could not manipulate the affairs of empires without recording every minute detail. But Hanaan had always functioned best on an intuitive level and so he skimmed the reports without attempting to analyze them, just pouring the raw data into his brain in the certainty that somehow his mind would find a pattern in it all.
And it did. Though it took many hours, and several stiff drinks before he could bring himself to believe it . . . it did.
All the major failures the Organization had suffered had been linked to Braxi somehow. It was the “somehow” which was the most unnerving. For only a few of the cases were obviously linked to Braxi. Some dealt with politics in regions where Braxi would not move in until a year later. Some dealt with economic issues that would only indirectly impact Braxin interests. Some had connections so tenuous, so utterly ephemeral, that not until time had passed and the full course of history was known would anyone have realized that Braxi would benefit.
But enough time had passed now, and the pattern was clear to him. In cases where Braxi was involved, the Organization was failing at ten times the rate of any other project category. Hanaan was sure he had never seen mention of that in any report. Was such a thing only discussed at higher levels, or was it possible no one had yet noticed the pattern?
As he gazed at the reports, letting his vision unfocus as his intuitive senses took over, he realized suddenly there was more to it. The annual statistical summary he’d seen recently should have listed all these project failures . . . but it hadn’t, he was sure of that. With a chill heart he brought up the summary again. He couldn’t access all underlying data for it—internal security didn’t allow that—but even within his own sector of authority he could see that the statistics had been altered. No one analyzing the annual report would catch hint of the bizarre pattern of failure he had just identified . . . the information had been neatly, efficiently removed.
He leaned back in his formchair and took in a deep breath.
No one of a lesser rank would be able to get whole cases exempted from that database. Even at his own rank such a thing would be difficult.
Which meant . . . this was big.
He shut down the display and for a moment just stared into the distance, struggling to absorb all the implications of his discovery. Was it possible a fellow officer had sabotaged the Organization’s efforts from within? It wouldn’t take much. In the case of Zukriti, a simple word of warning to the local Braxin forces would have been enough. So it would have been in all the cases where Braxins were directly involved. The others . . . they would have required a different kind of channel, but little more effort.
We have a leak.
The thought was chilling.
Whoever was responsible had a Security rating at least as high as Hanaan’s own. To go any further in this investigation he would need an ally in high places.
Clearly, he had to tell someone about this.
But who?
He knew the name of his own direct superior and how to contact him, but that was it. The others of that rank were nameless, faceless presences to him. The rank beyond that was something he inferred from reports but had never dealt with directly, a level at which every officer’s security clearance was said to be approved by the Emperor himself. Only in such company would he be safe revealing what he had discovered. But how did one determine which channels were safe to use and which were not, in reaching out to such an authority?
He could submit a report on the matter in the prescribed manner . . . but that would only work if his direct superior wasn’t involved in the sabotage. And even if the man wasn’t involved in this himself . . . if he passed on the information just as Hanaan had given it to him . . . then it would be his name on the report, and his reputation garnering credit for uncovering what well might be not only a threat to the Organization, but to the Empire it served.
This kind of discovery could get a man promoted. Maybe even into those shadowy ranks where the Emperor’s whim determined the fate of nations.
Or it could get a man killed.
Alone in his office, Hanaan asked himself, What matters more to you? Getting this information out and saving the Organization, or reaping the rewards that will come to the one responsible?
It wasn’t really a question that really needed asking, was it?
He dreamed:
The figure is misty, a form comprised of shadows and secrets, as befits one at the highest levels of Azea’s covert authority. It is a man’s form, dressed neatly but in nondescript garb, as befits one who needs no medals to indicate his rank. Through the mists one can see that his skin is the deep and perfect golden color the Azeans have claimed as their own, and his long white hair is caught back in a neat queue at the base of his neck. Authority glows about him in a dull aura, combined with all the natural qualities of his race: a moderate temperament, unquestioned intelligence, and a loyalty to the people that made him what he is.
He sits at his desk and calls up the day’s workload. Skimming through some documents, reading carefully through others, he comes at last to one that seems to shimmer in the air before him as the computer manifests it. He reads. He reads more. The white brow furrows in concern as he orders the computer to magnify a particular portion. Then he calls up another copy of the report, from another department.
The two do not match.
He sits back in his formchair, contemplating the disparity and its meaning. That there is an error in the report sent to him is unusual enough; the Organization is fanatical in its perfectionism at all levels. That it is a large error, easily noticed, seems meaningful. That it is not present at all in the second copy is . . . intriguing.
He checks the routing of each copy. The first had been sent directly to him, an unusual move. The second had gone through the normal chain of command.
It is a message meant for him, he muses. Which he was meant to discover. The routing is part of it.
A secret, even in this place of secrets.
Who sent this thing? Some headstrong young upstart who meant to test his limits? Or a trusted operative who might have reason, if only in his own mind, for circumventing protocol?
He looks at the document’s origins and notes the name of zi Ekroz. Yes. A capable officer. Not one to stir the waters lightly.
The message of the routing is clear. Ranks between us are not to be trusted. Such a man would know the magnitude of such an implication. He would not make that statement without good cause.
He leaned over the desk and dictated orders to those who waited, beyond the shadows, to serve him.
“Bring zi Ekroz to me.”
Hanaan would have said he could work through anything. That was before he had sent out the doubled report with its imbedded secrets to the pinnacle of authority, in defiance of all protocol. Now it was hard to think about anything else.
The dream which had inspired him had been so neat, so simple. Life was rarely that perfect. Would the unnamed officer who received his report pay enough attention to note the error he had chosen? Would he put in the analysis required to decipher its meaning? Would he respect the request that was being made, or simply note a black mark against Hanaan’s record for 1) writing sloppy reports, and 2) bothering him with them?
It was hard to work on anything with such thoughts running through his head. Even the latest report on the fleeing twin gained little more than half his attention. She was lost now, but his intelligence suggested that was because she had found what she was searching for. Good. When Hanaan could concentrate fully again he would be able to define a target sector for search, and would extend his influence into the space surrounding it. If she had found the hidden psychic community, the Organization would soon know where to look for it. If not . . . then he would wait until she surfaced again, as any traveler must, and pick up the trail anew.
Patience. That was the key to any successful mission. Patience and attention to detail.
Pacing helped also, sometimes.
He was rounding the corner of his desk with a nervous stride when the portal chimed. He waited the second it took for his security apparatus to verify the identity of the visitor and then commanded it, “Open.”
It was a man he did not know. In uniform.
“Hanaan zi Ekroz?”
He stood with his hands behind his back, hoping that as he squeezed all the blood from his fists it was enough to leave the rest of him looking calm. “Yes?”
“Communication with you is required, regarding errors of data that have come from your office.” The man nodded toward his desk. “You will please bring with you all records regarding such.”
He bit his tongue, wanting to ask questions, knowing they would not be answered. If his direct superior had found out about Hanaan’s breaching protocol he was not going to give fair warning of his intentions. Even if the message had gone where intended, there was no telling from this man’s demeanor if Hanaan was to be granted the audience he sought, or taken to task for fouling up a report.
He had prepared a data chip for just such a moment. He had also prepared duplicates, and in the event of his disappearance they would be delivered to higher offices. He had not worked in the Organization as long as he had to be careless now, not when the security of the Empire might be at stake.
They took the tube a long way, to a section of the station Hanaan was not familiar with. From there they passed through numerous checkpoints, some automated, some manned. There were no signs or landmarks anywhere to indicate how far he had come, or where he was. Hanaan prided himself on his sense of direction, and his ability to retrace his steps anywhere, anytime; the realization that he could not do so in this case was unnerving.
As it was meant to be.
At last they came to the portal of what appeared to be a conference room. The guard—for surely the man was that—offered up his own DNA for identification, and the portal shimmered and faded. Then he stepped aside. “Please enter.”
Hanaan did so.
The room was dark, shadowy, not unlike his dream. There was a conference table at one end and a formal desk at the other. Behind the second was a figure whose hair gleamed whitely in the dim lighting. It nodded—she nodded—as he approached, and the portal sealed itself silently.
“Hanaan zi Ekroz,” she said. Her voice was even and clear, with the natural authority of one who can rule worlds with a whisper. “You have taken great liberties with protocol to get here. And great risk to your own reputation.”
He bowed his head in formal acknowledgment of her words and her station. “I am aware of that, Officer . . .” He let the sentence trail off suggestively, waiting for her to provide a name or title by which he might address her. But she did not.
“Your news is worth it.”
“I think so.”
“We shall see.”
She came around the desk and held out her hand. He put the chip into it. She was tall, even for an Azean, and moved with a strange and silent grace. What little lighting there was had been angled so that he could not see her face. Of course. He noted white hair plaited into a crown of twisted braids, an expensive designer jumpsuit, and a crescent moon necklace that glittered at the hollow of her throat when her movements caught the light. All else was shrouded in shadow.
“Tell me all,” she commanded.
So he did. Not hesitantly. Hasha knew he’d rehearsed this speech often enough that he could give it in his sleep, and after a hundred repetitions his faith in his work was unshakable.
His discovery. His investigation. His conclusions.
Afterward there was silence. She fed the chip to her own computer and reviewed his data. It took a long time, but she offered him no seat to wait in, nor even a nod of encouragement.
He waited.
At last she looked up at him. The light flickered briefly across her eyes as she moved, but not long enough for him to see their color.
“You are saying . . .” she said it slowly, as if tasting each word, “we have a traitor in our midst.”
His heart pounding, he nodded.
“You understand the implications of this.”
Again he nodded.
“All those at the level you speak of are Azean. Bred for loyalty. As you and I were.”
“Yes.”
“To say that an Azean would betray his people is to say that those programs failed. It is to make a lie of thousands of years of genetic science, and everything that we understand about the human brain.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I know that.”
She gazed at the file again. Her face was like a statue, etched in planes of darkness.
“How many have seen this?” she asked finally.
“You mean the raw data? Or my own work?”
“Your work.”
“No one, until now. I didn’t know who to trust.” He edged sideways a bit as if to point out some key point in the display, but his angle was insufficient to read it. “The raw data’s there for anyone to find, of course, but it took an analytic leap to connect all the cases into a coherent pattern. In their natural format they are just . . . failures.”
“But together—?”
He drew in a deep breath. “Every one of them benefited Braxi in the Great War. Every failure this Organization has had, which it has accepted as failure, has had that effect. Sometimes not for years to come. But every single one, eventually.” He could not help his voice trembling slightly as he spoke, if only from excitement. The scope of the treachery was enormous . . . as was the scope of the effort required to uncover it.
“You are suggesting,” she said quietly, “that one of our race—an Azean—would sell out his own people to the enemy.”
“I regret that. But yes. I am.”
She stood, behind the desk, and stroked her chin with one hand. Long nails glittered in the dim lighting. “And that he has planned well.”
“Oh yes. Oh yes. The planning . . . meticulous. No one looking for something like this would ever find it.”
“And you would do what is necessary to help . . . clean this up.”
“If I’m needed.” He spoke with what he hoped was suitable humility.
Her other hand dropped to her belt. “I’m glad to hear that. Azea needs its loyal servants.”
She raised her hand and faced him. He found that he was staring into the working end of a weapon. It took a moment for it to register. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out.
“Azeans,” she said quietly, “do not betray their Empire.”
“But . . . but . . . the files. . . .”
“No one will find them again. Thanks to your hard work. You’ve saved us much trouble by providing this analysis, zi Ekroz. A window of data that we now know how to close.” She smiled faintly; it was a cold and predatory expression. “Of course you will help us with the rest of it, won’t you? We’ll need to know who you shared this with, where there are other copies that must be excised . . . but I’m sure your brain will part with those facts for us, once we shut down the cognitive centers. We’re rather good at interrogation, yes?”
He struggled for words. The longer ones escaped him. At last he forced out the only one he could mouth. “Why?”
She shook her head ever so slightly. The crescent pendant at her throat glittered. “Only in entertainment vids does one get an explanation before one dies, zi Ekroz. I’m sorry, but this being real life . . . I haven’t the time.”
The stun was quick and efficient. The body only twitched once while falling.
“I do thank you for your help though,” she noted.
My home will not be a nation, for nations have failed me.
My home will not be a planet, for planets are too fragile to endure.
My home will not be any place that men can find, for what men find they can too easily destroy.
Rather my home will be among those who share not only my strength but my weakness, not only my dreams but my nightmares, not only my purpose but my pain.
They are my family in spirit, if not in blood, and where they gather, I shall call that home.
—Anzha lyu Mitethe
