Reclamation (Book One of the Art of War Trilogy), page 15
‘Fuck!’ she screamed, balling her hands into fists and pounding the bed with them. ‘Fuck!’
She broke down into great, heaving sobs, waiting for her UNIS training to kick in, her psychological conditioning to compartmentalise her grief. She waited for the impartial, observer-like part of her mind to take over, to tell her to have her ten minutes of crying and then get back to work. Except this time, it didn’t happen. A pervading sense of isolation and loss filled her to her core, so deep and terrifying that she found herself wishing that she had just died.
So encompassing was her sorrow that she did not notice the small, almost imperceptible flashing in the bottom right-hand corner of her vision. It was like a pinprick of light, a distant star, slowly pulsing like a heartbeat.
She stopped crying, her grief quickly succumbing to the much more powerful sense of intrigue. She hastily wiped her eyes and made a point of looking around various areas of the room to make sure that the graphic was embedded in her vision and not some glitch of the VR sync. The little, twinkling light faithfully followed her gaze, like something stuck to her pupil.
‘What the…’ she whispered, her brow creasing. Slightly reticently, she accessed her IHD to find it was a tiny file, only a few bytes of data, military in origin, and astronomically heavily encrypted.
She swallowed and had her IHD begin to decode it. She had known of very dangerous IHD viruses communicated in this way, usually in professional hits, but the thought did not bother her anywhere near as much as it should have done.
It took her IHD almost twenty minutes to work through the million layers of encryption. Once it had done so, the text flashed up on a translucent blue frame in the centre of her vision:
You may be in danger. I will contact you when I can.
GONVARION
‘Diplomacy is the preserve of the weak.’
Closing remarks of Executor Algour son’Cai, at the short-lived Third Summit of Tassis
The Blue Bolt had a small atmospheric shuttle which carried Yano down to the surface of Gonvarion. Lieutenant Sykes accompanied him as a close protection officer, though they spent the short journey in silence, Yano electing to concentrate on United Information and his endless diplomatic cables. Among the very last pieces of information he was acquainting himself with were the UNDM profiles on his own people, a team of Exigency Corps diplomats, xeno affairs politicians, press attachés and general movers and shakers who made up the UN’s diplomatic offering to the summit. They would disseminate into the throngs of aliens, each authorised by the UNDM to offer, ask for, or threaten certain things, each with their own particular list of goals and a virtually unlimited line of credit. Some, undoubtedly, would also be UNIS plants, there to gather intelligence, spread disinformation and provide counterespionage oversight.
His second and Deputy Head of Mission was a man called Bal Codey, a member of the Xeno Division Old Guard whom Yano had once seconded for during the Merisgard war crimes tribunal. Codey was middle-aged, portly, utterly loyal and fiercely competent, a deeply charismatic man who was almost universally loved – senior UNDM personnel being the main exception. The qualities which made the man so charismatic were the same qualities which would have made him fail the UNDC Character Map if he were forced to retake it, and his presence alone put Yano in a much better mood than he had been in thus far.
The others on his team, save the politicians he knew by name, were unfamiliar. The Secretary of State for Xeno Affairs, Andrea Constance, would be an irritation, since politicians tended to want special treatment, and Yano would not afford her any. Her own small team of people – the undersecretary, Erik Graydon, and a pair of communications officers, Bennett Yuh and Tanja Henrikson – all looked young and annoying. Well, they could go off and communicate, or try to, since none of them had anything like the level of technical diplomatic capability he had. There were also four attachés he didn’t know: a trio of shabby men who had UNIS written all over them and Charlotte Asha, their Press Officer who would liaise directly with United Information and put a UN-friendly spin on proceedings.
The shuttle bucked as it hit the convection currents swirling up from the surface of Gonvarion, the name of both the only populated landmass and the planet itself. Lush, green and swelteringly hot in the current summer season, Gonvarion consisted of thousands of square kilometres of temperate grassland and wildflower prairie, and was ensconced by a ring of coastal mountain ranges after which the continent had been named – literally ‘grey eye’ in Old Zhahassi. Historically a meeting place for the numerous solar tribes of the Commonwealth, modern Gonvarion existed almost solely as an intragalactic hub of Tier-Three diplomacy, and as such the continent contained only a small handful of cities, many of which were at less than half-capacity. The largest, Vhalyssia, lay exactly fifty kilometres due west of the Memorial Tower where the summit proper would take place, and it was in this small city that Yano and his team would be stationed for the duration of the talks.
The shuttle came to a controlled stop in Vhalyssia’s largest spaceport, formed of a collection of raised circular platforms and dome-shaped control towers and punctuated with hundreds of metres of needle-like antennae. He grabbed his holdall and bade the insectoid Lieutenant Sykes a perfunctory farewell before stepping out into the hot, mildly clammy air of Gonvarion. He took in a deep breath, waiting for a few seconds as his IHD completed its synchronisation with the local public net. It was early afternoon on Gonvarion, and though a few wisps of white cloud were forming against the mauve sky, it was largely unmarred. It was strange, then, that the atmosphere felt so leaden. Part of it could undoubtedly be attributed to the difference in gravitational pull – slightly more than most UN Veigis-Class worlds – though he suspected that it was nothing more than his own nerves getting the better of him.
He watched as the Blue Bolt’s shuttle careened into the air on twin jets of white-hot plasma and traced its steep parabola with his eyes until it disappeared from his unaided view. Then he turned and headed for the nearest building, boots rapping loudly against the hard surface of the landing platform. His arrival had already been logged by both the Vhalyssian Port Authority and his zhahassi liaison. Thankfully it was the latter who intercepted Yano as he approached the arrivals terminal, flowing gracefully from the arched entrance in a whirl of airy white and crimson robes.
‘Special Envoy Zavian Yano,’ the ambassador spoke in heavily accented Terran. Zhahassi physiology meant that they were one of the few races in the galaxy able to successfully enunciate human words, though the high-pitched, breathy voice prompted Yano’s IHD to confirm that the highly androgynous alien was in fact male.
‘Ambassador Kiridi Velsze,’ Yano smiled in return, bowing. His heavy, midnight-blue cloak slid over his shoulders so that it enveloped him. He kept his head low and counted out three seconds in his head before rising and clasping the proffered hand of Velsze. The hand was cold, despite the pervasive warmth of Gonvarion.
‘It’s remarkably quiet,’ Yano observed, noting that, far from being mobbed by the galaxy’s media and their infuriating little pressbots, the port was practically empty. On Merisgard it had been nearly impossible to move for the crush of press and protestors.
‘Yes,’ Velsze said, a little lateral wobble of his neck indicating pride. ‘The spaceport is a sterile environment. We were not prepared to compromise its security at this time of heightened tensions.’
Yano nodded sagely, noting privately that the ambassador had had to consult his IHD for the word ‘heightened’.
‘The press are still here, however,’ Velsze went on. ‘Exit the terminal and that fact will become quite obvious.’ The alien’s mouth did an impression of a human smile, and Yano found the effect quite disarming.
Yano offered a smile of his own and another nod. ‘Shall we continue?’ he asked, inflecting his voice in a way the zhahassi would recognise as polite and respectful.
‘Yes,’ Velsze said and made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. ‘Please, join me inside. Your Mr Codey is waiting for you.’ Before Yano could reply, Velsze’s long, double-jointed left arm, sheathed in near-translucent skin, was draped over his shoulder, steering him gently towards the arrivals terminal.
‘Have any of our learned friends arrived yet?’ Yano asked, as the ambassador loped in a more ungainly fashion beside him. As he spoke, he studied the side of the zhahassi’s face, which was milk-white and faintly tattooed. His IHD deciphered the markings as diplomatic in nature, though their use was too idiomatic to make out a more specific meaning.
‘Yes, they have indeed,’ Velsze replied and gestured to another platform away to their right. A squat, gunmetal shuttle bearing the scarlet markings of the Golgron Alliance could be seen refuelling, though Yano couldn’t be bothered to enhance his optics to see which one of the composite nations it was. Beyond was another shuttle, unmistakeably human, though non-UN. Likely Kansubashi, but he was ushered through the archway of the terminal before he could check.
‘Mr Codey has insisted he himself lead you to your quarters in Vhalyssia, though I have explained to him that such a move is highly unorthodox,’ Velsze said as they walked through the wide, largely featureless atrium of the terminal. Like many zhahassi buildings, this one was controlled and maintained almost entirely by VIs.
‘Oh,’ Yano said, suppressing a smile. The zhahassi were easy to offend, especially over matters of trivial protocol and courtesy. Their carefully nurtured reputation as the galaxy’s patrician peacekeepers was, to be fair to the aliens, largely deserved, but the fact that it was a self-assumed reputation meant that they often took it far too seriously.
‘Well, I’m sure Mr Codey simply didn’t want to be a burden,’ Yano lied, searching the atrium for any other signs of life. He was finding the emptiness thoroughly disconcerting.
‘Yes, that is the conclusion I reached,’ Velsze said, ‘and with that in mind, I have assigned you a personal escort anyway. A ZEN, demilitarised, naturally, will accompany you to your quarters and furnish you with answers to any questions you may have.’
Yano nodded. ‘Thank you, Ambassador. That was very prudent.’
They crossed the empty atrium and made for the row of arches opposite. It was only now that Yano could hear anything through the leaden atmosphere: a dull roar like a distant hypersled arena, the volume of it ebbing and flowing with the occasional breeze. Its provenance soon became clear as they approached the terminal exit: a hundred-metre deep scrum of reporters and pressbots, channelled via carbon steel barriers and surrounded by armed ZENs, all clamouring for attention with various reporting accoutrements. Members of every Tier-Three race were present – even a few dishevelled-looking provar, who no doubt risked official censure simply by being offworld. There were a few foreign dignitaries loitering here too, doubtless from the Golgron Alliance and Old Colonies vessels he’d seen docked in the spaceport. As soon as they spotted Yano, however, the crowd reached fever pitch, and for a moment he thought they would scale the barriers and try their luck against the ZEN railguns.
‘We are expecting fifty thousand sanctioned political activists to arrive in the next thirty hours,’ Velsze said as they approached the wall of screaming reporters before thankfully turning left down a concourse that took them parallel to the exit end of the terminal. They ducked through a low arch, traversed a short, unmarked corridor, and a few moments later emerged into the humid air, heading down a roofless passageway with DIPLOMATIC PERSONNEL ONLY written along the walls in all six Tier-Three languages.
‘I’m surprised there weren’t more,’ Yano remarked, his IHD informing him that he was being monitored by concealed scanners.
‘As I say, sanctioned activists,’ Velsze said, leading him through an archway and out into an enclosed parking bay. A diplomatic cruiser – sleek, black, with tinted windows and bearing two miniature UN flags on the bonnet – sat alone in the rough centre of the park. The moment he appeared, the rear passenger door opened and Balthazar Codey stepped out, sweating in the heat.
‘Yano!’ he shouted in his flamboyant way, a grin thick with pearl-white teeth splitting his face. Like all members of the Exigency Corps, the man was absurdly handsome, though visibly older and stouter than Yano, with carefully modelled salt-and-pepper stubble and a thick, stylish mop of silver hair. Yano knew the man well despite a paucity of opportunities to work together, and had always found the man’s brand of diplomacy very appealing. His loud, pragmatic and sometimes borderline aggressive negotiating skills would complement Yano’s own, which were calm, rational and with a slight air of aloofness. It was no accident that the character techs back in UNDM had paired them.
‘Bal!’ Yano said, smiling broadly and proffering a hand. Codey pointedly ignored the hand and grabbed him into a bear hug, crushing Yano’s arm awkwardly between them. In the afternoon heat of Gonvarion, the embrace was decidedly unwelcome. ‘How the devil have you been?’
‘Good!’ Yano wheezed, slapping his old friend on the back. Codey released him and straightened his cloak out. The older man was wearing the same dark blue Exigency Corps uniform as Yano: navy-blue jacket, cream breeches and stock-collared shirt with a white silk cravat, with the Xeno Division brooch pinned to his left lapel. Yano often lamented the heat-retention capabilities of the ensemble. ‘How are you?’
Codey winked. ‘Better than ever.’ He gripped the cruiser door and gestured for Yano to enter. ‘No time to waste – your briefing is in twenty minutes. The rest of the team is waiting in the Voscmark, usual suite.’
Yano winced, both at the breakneck change in conversational tack and the fact that Codey hadn’t offered Velsze any kind of greeting. As a consequence, he hovered for a few seconds, unnervingly unsure what to do, until Velsze swooped gracefully between them as if reading his thoughts.
‘If I may interject,’ the ambassador said, ‘I have spoken with Special Envoy Yano privately and he has agreed to your being escorted.’ The zhahassi manipulated something on the gorget he wore under his robes, and a demilitarised ZEN dutifully jogged across the parking space. ‘I really do think it is for the best in all the circumstances.’
Yano caught Codey’s eye. A brief look of irritation passed across his second’s face before the usual warmth returned. Yano could understand the man’s frustration. For all their talk, the zhahassi were just as partial to diplomatic espionage as the next race, and the demilitarised ZENs – seemingly impassive VI retainers with no visible armaments – were undoubtedly the perfect red herring with which to accomplish extensive intelligence gathering. But then Yano had not wanted to offend their zhahassi liaison, and if the price was ten minutes of journey spent in the company of an eavesdropping robot, then so be it. They would need Velsze on side, and there was always the weather to talk about.
‘That’s fine,’ Codey said eventually, smiling lamely. ‘It was good to see you again, Ambassador.’
Velsze looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment at the diplomatic slight before bowing. ‘It was a pleasure, Special Envoy Codey.’
Yano ducked into the back of the cruiser. Inside was a wide ring of black leather couches encircling a holo projector, and at the head of the vehicle, a seat for an optional pilot in front of a bank of controls. They glowed dully while the cruiser was dormant. He shifted round and dumped his holdall on the seat to his right while Codey climbed in after him. He sighed loudly as the ZEN decided to occupy the pilot’s seat, though Yano assumed that the journey would be automated by the cruiser’s own on-board computer.
‘Voscmark Hotel,’ Codey said, pulling the door closed behind him. The cruiser chimed in acknowledgement and smoothly levitated to a hundred metres before accelerating through the vast white domes of Vhalyssia City. The ZEN sat unmoving in the cockpit.
‘What was all that about?’ Yano asked when they were well out of range of the pressbots’ audioscanners. The cruiser was deadzoned, naturally, but it never hurt to be cautious.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Codey replied, running a hand over his stubble. ‘The ambassador and I have... something of a history.’ He made a slightly embarrassed look.
‘Go on,’ Yano said, not dissuaded by his second’s coyness.
Codey rolled his eyes. ‘You remember the business on New Carthage?’
‘Of course,’ Yano replied.
‘Well, I was posted to Gonvarion with Xeno Division in the usual way. Ambassador Velsze was something of a diplomatic nobody back then. To cut a very long story very short, I ended up punching him. And that’s why we don’t really talk.’
Yano’s eyes widened in genuine incredulity. ‘And you weren’t kicked out?’
Codey shook his head. ‘No. I was working with Special Envoy Dask at the time. He considered the incident...’ The man searched for the word. ‘… amusing.’
Yano laughed a good, deep belly laugh. ‘Christ, I’ve missed you, Codey.’
‘Aye,’ Codey said in faux-weariness. ‘Anyway,’ he said, making a blasé gesture with his hand, ‘are you ready for this?’
Yano nodded. His self-confidence was fairly unshakeable, though he would admit to himself that the prospect of leading this particular summit was daunting. ‘I’m ready.’
‘You’ve been reading the news?’
‘Yes. United Information, IG News, SKTS, the xeno outlets that aren’t impenetrable.’
‘Pirate channels?’
‘Of course.’ In the age of unlimited information – and almost universal access to it – there were many pirate news channels which showed raw, unedited and usually colourfully commented-on footage of galactic events. Often they were more informative than the official outlets. United Information, for example, the official news network of the UN, was widely known to be UN-biased. Ascendancy news outlets, where they could be deciphered, were nothing more than propaganda. It was no coincidence that both UNDM and UNIS had entire teams dedicated to scrubbing millions of exabytes of data from pirate feeds and packaging them into diplomatic cables.
