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“I’m starting to think,” Abraham said as the aircar headed towards the Assembly, “that emergency sessions and recalls are growing disturbingly common.”
Rachel made a show of considering it. “Prior to the war, there were only two emergency sessions and there were over a hundred years between them,” she said. “Now, there have been three within seven years, but only two in quick succession.”
“This one and my one,” Abraham said. “How many would we need to call before it became a trend?”
“It depends,” Rachel said. “How many disasters do you want to face?”
Abraham nodded, curtly. The first emergency session within his lifetime had been called when the Second Lupine War had broken out. The second had been the one he’d called himself. And now, a third ... called by the Viceroy. He felt a cold hand clench his heart and squeeze. There had been no reply to his demands, no acquiescence or casual dismissal. He felt as if the walls were closing in on him, even though nothing had happened. He felt like a criminal who feared his guilt was written all over his face.
Which is stupid, he told himself, sharply. You’ve done nothing wrong.
His heart started to pound as the aircar landed neatly on the pad. The Viceroy had vast powers. If he wanted, he could arrest Abraham and the entire Humanity League and sentence them to exile - or death - without hope of appeal. He could charge them with treason and deny them the right to a trial - or put them in front of an emergency court, with the conviction and sentence planned well in advance. He could ... Abraham forced himself to remain calm as he passed through the security checkpoint and walked down to the hall. The Viceroy knew the planet was on the verge of chaos, perhaps even open rebellion. He wouldn’t turn off the antimatter containment chamber without good cause.
He schooled his face into immobility as he passed the guards and took his seat in the hall itself. The government had never been so weak. The Empire Loyalists were fracturing, on the brink of splitting into two separate parties. Abraham himself stood to gain hugely, if he survived the next few days. And yet, there were rumours of everything from a lockdown to outright military intervention. Troopships were supposed to be on their way, bringing a small army to keep the planet under control. The EDF would be disarmed and ... who knew? The planet hadn’t been so unstable since the invasion itself.
The hall filled slowly. A number of loyalist assemblymen seemed to have decided to stay away, he noted; they’d probably passed proxy voting powers to their fellows. They were feeling the heat from their voters, he thought; they knew they couldn’t be seen to be taking a stand without paying a severe price when the election rolled around. His lips curved into a cruel smile. Whatever those assemblymen did, they’d piss off at least half the voters. It was unlikely their careers would survive. Cowards they might be, but he had to admit they were also quite practical. They probably told themselves they could take a stand when it became clear which side was going to win.
He stood, with the other assemblymen, as the Viceroy entered the chamber and made his way to his seat. The alien looked tired and worn, although it wasn’t easy to be sure. Abraham had spent years studying Earth’s alien masters, only to discover there were aspects of their psychology that were seemingly beyond human understanding. Their behaviour wasn’t easy to predict. They could move from being extremely generous and compassionate to oppressive and spiteful at the drop of a hat. And it was hard to say who was calling the shots. The Viceroy had spent long enough on Earth to adapt, in some ways, to humanity. His superiors might never have left their homeworld. They might not even have met a human.
The Viceroy reached his chair and turned to face the assemblymen. Abraham tensed, inwardly. It was something important, then. Normally, the Viceroy sat and watched his human servants - and the loyal opposition - do their business. It was rare for the Viceroy to take the lead ... he reminded himself, again, that the current situation was unprecedented. Anything could happen, and he was at Ground Zero. The Alphans would have no trouble seizing him and the others if they wished ...
He braced himself as the Viceroy started to speak. This was it. Whatever was going to happen, it was about to happen. And whatever happened, he promised himself, he was going to be ready.
***
Yasuke took a moment to run through his speech, then contemplate the latest report on human political developments, before he opened his mouth. The Empire Loyalists were on the brink of coming apart at the seams, even formerly loyal assemblymen demanding accountability and the murderer’s head - they never referred to Colonel Tallinn by name - on a platter. It was possible, as some of his superiors had argued, that the humans would forget Colonel Tallinn ... in time. Yasuke didn’t believe it. There was no way to stop word from spreading. The mere fact they’d tried had given credence to the claim Colonel Tallinn had killed millions with his bare hands.
Anyone who bothers to think rationally would know that couldn’t possibly be true, he told himself, as the chamber quieted. But no one is thinking very rationally at the moment.
He felt an odd little pang as he prepared to speak. It felt as if he were admitting defeat, as if he were betraying humans - and aliens - who’d placed their trust in his government. Things were going to change, things were going to careen out of control ... he wanted to sit, to hold back the speech, to wait and see in the desperate hope things would get better. But he knew, all too well, that they wouldn’t. Chaos would come, despite his best efforts. And the whole edifice would crumble into ruin. The Empire itself might be doomed.
Be blunt, he thought. His speechwriters had worked for hours, trying to put together a speech that would satisfy everyone. They’d failed. Let them know, for once, that you think of them as equals.
“Hundreds of years ago, my people found a divided world, a world and a people warring against themselves,” he said, quietly. “We took the world, as was our right as a superior species; we took the people and uplifted them into civilisation. It was, perhaps, inevitable that those people would eventually demand their rights as citizens of the galactic community. It was, perhaps, inevitable that they would clash with their teachers ... and that, eventually, something would happen that would tear the relationship apart.
“My government deeply regrets Colonel Tallinn’s actions. My superiors have condemned him in the strongest possible terms. They have made it clear that the current situation is unsustainable, that things will have to change. We have spent the last three days deciding how we should proceed, then sorting out the details. We thank you for your patience.”
He kept his face impassive with an effort. By human standards, they’d moved slowly; by theirs, they’d moved at breakneck pace. There hadn’t been any real contingency plans for anything beyond a minor uprising - and they hadn’t been updated since the war. The government had buried its collective head in the sand and pretended they wouldn’t be necessary. Yasuke cursed the idiots under his breath. If they’d spent even a few days considering other possibilities, they might have been better prepared for this day.
“It has been decided, at the very highest levels, that the Empire will grant you and your worlds the independence you crave,” he said. “An election will be held within two weeks, so a caretaker government can take office and handle the independence negotiations. Martial law will be declared, to ensure the election can be held safety and no one - of whatever faction - has a chance to put their thumb on the scale. After that, the majority of our forces will withdraw within a month. My role will switch, at that point, from viceroy to ambassador. We will continue to provide a certain degree of border security until you are ready to stand on your own two feet, but I must caution you that will not last.
“My staff has already devised a list of issues that will have to be discussed, once the caretaker government takes power. A number are relatively simple and can be dismissed within the day. Others, such as the legal status of non-humans on Earth, may take longer. My government has agreed to repatriate non-humans who wish to leave, but - as time goes on - that offer may be closed. We ask you to be careful, when you decide what you want to do with your non-human population. You will no longer have our protection if you decide to mistreat them.”
Yasuke paused, studying their faces. They seemed shocked, too shocked to hide it. The Empire Loyalists were astonished, no doubt considering he’d shoved them out of the shuttlecraft, but the Humanity League looked equally surprised. They were getting everything they wanted on a silver platter ... Yasuke concealed his amusement with an effort. Perhaps they should have followed their ancestors' warning about being careful what they wished for. Earth would stand alone, against a hostile universe. And the rest of the galaxy would know how dangerous the humans could be.
“This isn’t what any of us expected,” he concluded. “My office hoped there would be a steady transfer of powers, not an immediate withdrawal from your territory. We ask you - I ask you - to look to the future, to put the past in the past and think about the future of your people. You have - you have always had - remarkable potential. It is up to you, now, to decide if you will live up to it or not.”
He took one last look around the chamber, then turned and walked out. The silence was deafening. They were stunned beyond words, suddenly finding themselves standing at the brink of apotheosis or nemesis. Yasuke felt a hot flash of anger, cursing Colonel Tallinn - again - for his sheer stupidity. His superiors had refused to let him surrender the colonel to human justice, pointing out it would set a terrible precedent. They’d refused to listen to his argument that not handing him over would also set a terrible precedent. He was mildly surprised he hadn’t been ordered to put Colonel Tallinn on a ship and send him home. Perhaps his superiors wanted to keep their options open.
His datapad bleeped as he made his slow way back to his office. The media had broadcast the speech to the entire world. Reactions were already flooding in, some of them curiously muted. The world had just changed, turned upside down in the blink of an eye. Even the most xenophobic humans, the ones who lived in places devoid of non-human life, would have problems coming to terms with what had just happened. The planet hadn’t been changed so badly since the invasion itself, hundreds of years ago.
Yasuke felt another pang, of guilt and grief and sheer frustration. He’d grown to love the planet, and the human race, over the last few decades. The viceroyalty had been the culmination of his professional career. He wasn’t fool enough to think he could keep climbing the ladder, not when his enemies were already gathering. And even if he did ... it would take years, years he didn’t have, to reach a level where he could wield raw power again. On Earth, he was a big fish in a small pond. Back home ...
Not that it matters, he thought, coldly. The humans will already be looking to the future.
He sat, checking his datapad as yet more reports flooded in. His staff were still working on the list of matters that had to be discussed, drawing up working papers on everything from military collaboration to the distribution of economic assets. The big combines were already demanding huge payments or ... or what? He wanted to laugh. It wasn’t as if they could dismantle an asteroid mining station and ship it back home. Half the industrial nodes were owned by humans and nearly all of them were operated by humans. Who knew which way their operators would jump, if push came to shove? Who knew?
They’ll side with their fellow humans, he told himself. He was morbidly sure of it. Why would the operators accept being subordinate when they could be equals? And that will mean bad news for the combines.
He smiled, humourlessly. Right now, that was someone else’s problem.
***
“On your feet, Lieutenant.”
Tomas stood, feeling old. He’d been in the holding cell for days, but it felt like years. He’d always had a pretty good time sense - he’d grown up on a series of military bases - yet he’d started to lose his grip as time plodded onwards. It didn’t help that no one had so much as hinted he might be released, or charged with failing to prevent an atrocity or something. He’d had the nasty feeling, as hours turned into days and days turned into ... more days, that no one really knew what they were doing. They were just marking time, waiting for something to happen.
He scowled at the intelligence officer. They were all the same, weedy men who asked the same questions time and time again. Tomas was entirely sure that everything he’d said, time and time again, had been recorded and dissected by an entire team of intelligence officers, intent on finding something they could use to toss his career into the crapper. The psych tests hadn’t helped. He was morbidly certain they intended to blame him for everything. First, for failing to stop the atrocity; then for stopping it. Consistency had never been a priority when the shit was hitting the fan.
“What now?” His throat felt uncomfortably dry. “Have you reached the limits of what anal probing can teach you?”
The intelligence officer gave him a sharp look. “What are you talking about?”
Tomas snorted. “You’ve kept me here for days,” he said. He wasn’t going to admit he wasn’t sure just how long he’d been in the cell. “Aren’t you supposed to charge me with something? Or ...”
“There are no charges,” the intelligence officer said. “You’re being returned to barracks.”
“Oh.” Tomas felt his head swim. After everything ... they were just returning him to barracks? They were just ... letting him go? It made no sense. “And Colonel Tallinn?”
“Is no longer your concern,” the intelligence officer said, forbiddingly. “His fate won’t be decided here.”
“Oh,” Tomas repeated. A nasty thought occurred to him. “And what about my men?”
The intelligence officer turned and headed for the door, beckoning Tomas to follow him. “I believe the matter was discussed at the very highest levels,” he said. “A failure to follow orders would have been counted as mutiny, which - in a state of unrest - could have led to the death penalty. The government has decided to class them all as being personally blameless - you included. The whole affair is being swept under the rug.”
“Fuck,” Tomas said. He felt a surge of anger. He’d watched the slaughter time and time again, every time he closed his eyes. His dreams had been so bad he’d been tempted to beg for sleeping pills. “How many people died?”
“Around five hundred,” the intelligence officer said. He stopped and turned to face the younger man. “Did you watch the broadcast?”
Tomas laughed. “Where the fuck do you think I’ve been for the last few days?”
“The peacocks are pulling out,” the intelligence officer said. His voice was so flat there was no way to believe he was joking. “They’re picking up their crap and going back home. Right now, martial law has been declared and we need every last soldier on the streets. I suggest” - his voice hardened - “that you go back to the barracks, report for duty and try to forget what happened over the last few days. And be grateful the public doesn’t know your name. There’s a lot of anger out there.”
“And it will be worse, when it becomes clear that Colonel Tallinn’s gotten away with it,” Tomas said. He felt a chill settle in his heart. “And he has gotten away with it, hasn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” the intelligence officer said. “But you know what? It’s above your pay grade. Above mine too, for that matter. I dare say the provisional government will raise the issue soon enough, once the election cycle is completed and we start rushing towards independence. That’s their problem.”
Tomas said nothing as they reached the door and headed into the open air. He could see a plume of smoke rising from the other side of the city, suggesting ... suggesting what? A terrorist bomb? Or a bonfire? Or ... or what? He knew he should be relieved he hadn’t been blamed for the massacre, that he hadn’t been shoved in front of a court-martial or secret court and condemned to death to save Colonel Tallinn. And yet ... too many people knew the truth, too many to bribe or intimidate into silence. The secret couldn’t be kept. And trying would only make it worse.
“Thanks,” he said, sourly. The system was fucked. Independence couldn’t come soon enough. “And what do we do after independence?”
“Fucked if I know,” the intelligence officer said. He sounded a little more human, now they’d moved to a less politically unsafe topic. “Right now, everyone else is wondering the same thing. And some of them will make their move.”