Above, the air was devoid of all but the most perfunctory military traffic. Behind her, Carrington loomed like a mausoleum. Steam curled from something parked on the back lawn. She guessed it was the Vulture’s space plane, its heat shields sweating in the cold air of Vargonroth.

  She started walking. Her footsteps echoed off the empty road. Not a soul stirred; she guessed that most people would be glued to their home holos, subsisting on a drip of information as news of the Imperial invasion—and of the UN’s retreat—took hold and bedded in. She thought of Pitt, and felt another stab of agonising guilt course through her bloodstream.

  Above it all, she was calm, certainly the calmest she had been in a long time. She had risked everything and lost, played her hand to its fullest extent, and failed. She had done and authorised terrible, unforgivable things, things that they would have executed foreign heads of state for. The hypocrisy of the UN was a well-trodden path, but that made it no less staggering, no less astonishing. She had acted counter to every value the Terran Hegemony espoused. Pitt was right: there was nothing left to do but face the end with honour.

  But first, the people she was sworn to serve were due an update.

  She reached the Assembly Building after an hour of walking and silent introspection. Telmun Square was lined with military personnel holding back crowds of angry civilians, in much the same way they had done at the signing of the peace accords at the conclusion of the Ascendancy War, and she had to summon a body guard to get her from the Rue de les Diplomates to the Assembly Building itself. Her head of security was furious, reviewing the IHD logs once they were free from the grip of Vulture’s electronic warfare disinformation, that she’d made the journey from Carrington to the Assembly Building alone, but she didn’t mind. No harm done, she’d told him. The man had scowled, his face as thunderous as Vargonroth’s atmosphere.

  The screaming of thousands of furious citizens intensified as she was spotted walking up the steps to the building with a ten-strong retinue of armed guards. The screams of fury turned to screams of terror as VMPD shock batons put dozens of men and women on the floor, leaking blood and urine and spasming like fish against the cold pavement.

  Inside the Assembly Building, the atmosphere was no less tense. Human and alien legations packed the corridors and mezzanines. They no longer bothered with the mandatory audio damper protocol, and the air was thick with the white noise of background conversation.

  They turned and stared as she walked in. She could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on her, tracking her every step across the plush carpeting. It would have been a serious breach of etiquette for them to crowd her, but a few looked like they were ready to make a break for it.

  A sour feeling gnawed at her guts. In fact, she wished they would crowd her and beg for an update. From the expressions she could read—namely, those of the humans—they seemed uncomfortable and anxious, and not entirely because of the invasion.

  The feeling of unease persisted as she made her way through the Cabinet briefing rooms and to her private office overlooking the Chamber. She dismissed her security detail and sat inside the silent office, alone. A few legations hovered in the Chamber itself, using it as a private meeting space, and she studied them through the one-way glass.

  After a few minutes, she opened a link to Halo Arch and asked for Fleet Marshal Ellisburg.

  ‘He’s not here, Ma’am,’ the answering officer replied without missing a beat.

  ‘What do you mean, he’s not there?’ Constance snapped.

  ‘He’s not here, Ma’am President. He resigned.’ The man looked briefly troubled. ‘I assumed he had told you.’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t,’ Constance replied, not even vaguely surprised. ‘Who is in charge there?’

  ‘Admiral Verma,’ the man said. ‘Would you like to speak with her?’

  Constance nodded. She had never heard of Admiral Verma. She was probably some fourth-string two-star. The operations room behind the officer looked worryingly empty.

  ‘Ma’am President,’ Admiral Verma said, replacing the office on the holo. She was a severe-looking woman of Indian heritage, her hair pulled back tightly under a peaked cap.

  ‘Admiral, what’s going on over there?’ Constance asked. She had to fight to keep her voice from faltering.

  ‘What do you mean, Ma’am?’

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Constance asked with a patience that was not forthcoming.

  Verma cleared her throat. ‘Well, Ma’am, we pulled back the last surviving ships from Operation Atlas an hour ago,’ she said, referring to the codename for UN operations around Folhourt. ‘With the Imperial forces now unopposed, and with no-one able to reach you for some time, we took the decision to purge the servers and wind down our operational presence here.’

  Constance took a few moments to digest this. ‘You’re… You’ve stopped? It’s all over?’

  Verma nodded once. ‘Yes, Ma’am. It’s an emergency procedure. Fleet Marshal Ellisburg gave the executive authorisation as the ranking officer after you, being the commander in chief. Our estimates put the leading elements of the Imperial Fleet of Reclamation within ten hours of Vargonroth. Given the failures of containment at Folhourt and in the Omadan Sprint, and with no Coalition support, we estimated the chances of military success at close to zero. Key operational staff have been shipping off-world for over an hour now, including members of the Cabinet and Administration.’

  Constance dug her nails into her palms. ‘Why didn’t I know any of this?’ she demanded.

  ‘Have you checked your messages?’ Verma shot back without a trace of irony.

  Of course she hadn’t. Constance had cut herself off from all missives since she’d left Halo Arch. What else were they supposed to do, sit on their hands and wait for her? She could imagine them now, purging servers, corridors scattered with hard copy, incinerators roaring to full power, personnel running about, jumping on Manticores and heading for far-flung bunkers on distant UNIS blackworlds. That was the thing about humanity. Even in the face of overwhelming odds, they wouldn’t give up.

  ‘What about SOC?’ she asked.

  ‘SOC has an identical procedure,’ Verma replied. ‘Pump and dump.’

  Constance winced. The military apparatus of Vargonroth was being dismantled quickly and methodically. Soon there would be nothing left, just her and a sharp stick. Why hadn’t she provided for more contingency?

  I should have done more—why didn’t I do more?!

  Constance took a deep breath. ‘I want you to stand the fleet down in orbit and deactivate the minefield. Any Imperial ships entering our voidspace are not to be fired upon. These will be my last orders as President of the United Nations. Do you understand?’

  If Verma was surprised by this, she hid it well. They had probably reached the same conclusion long before. In fact, they’d probably not expected to see her again at all. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  There was a short, awkward pause. Constance cleared her throat. ‘Well. Thank you, Admiral. You’ve been most helpful. And good luck.’

  ‘And to you, Ma’am,’ Verma replied, and the feed terminated.

  Constance sat in the office for a long, quiet few minutes. An antique clock ticked on the wall. She contemplated opening the messages in her IHD inbox, but there were over ten thousand now. What was the point? The war, if it had ever been a war, was over. God only knew what Lyra and Yano were doing. But even if they succeeded, she would not be around to experience the benefits.

  She opened the holo again. Kurt Rankin, her very surprised chief communications officer, answered within seconds.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he blurted out unthinkingly. ‘Have you any idea what’s happening out here?’

  ‘I’m going to address the Assembly,’ she said, ignoring him. ‘Fill the Chamber. You have thirty minutes.’

  ‘Christ, do you even know what’s—’

  ‘Just do it. Then you can go. You’re done. Thank you for your service.’ She terminated the feed midway through his gape.

  The fleet over Vargonroth, thirty ships under the command of Vice Admiral Yasar, immediately and disgustedly absconded to Ellisburg’s new blackworld HQ in the Trillian Veil. Constance, far from angered, had nothing but respect for the man. She could imagine him now, Scarcroftian, an old man in twenty years’ time still harrying Imperial convoys with his pirate fleet, a legend among soldiers and civilians alike.

  The minefield, too, had been deactivated, and the MDPs around Vargonroth stood down. As far as she—and, it seemed, her generals and admirals—was concerned, they were just prolonging the inevitable, pumping electricity into a corpse that would simply not reanimate. They could not communicate with the Empire, who were still very much an unknown quantity; all they could hope for was that a unilateral ceasefire would hold them off long enough to kick-start meaningful peace talks.

  It was with these thoughts swirling around her mind that she once again stepped forward into the Assembly Chamber. It would be her last address as President of the United Nations. The Chamber was less than half full, as legations and foreign dignitaries scrambled for friendlier borders, but that still amounted to hundreds of humans and aliens. Instead of the mad clamouring of her last disastrous address, this audience sat in tense silence. The Federal Socialists did not clap. The Human Democrats, now leaderless, thanks to her, were largely absent. Old friends and colleagues, Representatives with whom she’d worked for years, viewed her with cold, unfriendly eyes, as mechanical as the pressbots swirling around like a cloud of flies.

  ‘Friends and allies,’ she said from behind the large mahogany lectern. There was no response. She almost would have preferred their jeers. She took a deep breath. ‘It is with the deepest sadness and regret that I inform you that we have not been successful.’ Christ, what a mouthful. There were some stirrings now. ‘Our operations around Folhourt and in the Ascendancy have failed. Containment has failed. We had hoped that with enough ships, enough concentrated firepower, we could stymie the Empire before it reached our shores.’ She gripped the lectern to stop her hands trembling. ‘We could not.

  ‘I have failed you all. The responsibility for this defeat is mine and mine alone. Against the advice of my closest military advisors, I pursued a course of action which has seen our Fleet strength all but depleted. Even as I speak, Imperial ships are heading for Vargonroth. They will not find guns and soldiers here, but a respectful, defeated adversary.’

  The Chamber had lapsed back into shocked silence. There were rumours, of course. It was the UN: information simply didn’t stay secret, even high-level government information. But there were rumours and unconfirmed data, and then there was the gospel of an official presidential address.

  ‘I know some of you will want to fight to the bitter end. That is your prerogative. If that is the case, then I counsel you to leave now and make any preparations you believe necessary. Here, on Vargonroth, I have done what I believe will save the highest number of civilian lives. I hope that the Kaygryn Empire accepts our invitation to lay down their arms and pursue meaningful peace negotiations. I do not see a reason why we cannot coexist peacefully under the banner of human rights, democracy and the rule of law.

  ‘I thank each and every one of you for being here now. Your dedication to public service does you and your respective species credit. It is with the sincerest of apologies that I wish you all the very best of luck in the coming hours and days. I am reminded of the old adage that the darkest hour is that before dawn; I hope that the light comes sooner rather than later. Thank you.’

  There were armed kaygryn waiting for her outside the Chamber. Not Imperials, but Tier Three kaygryn. They wore armour and wielded arms that were far beyond their capability to manufacture, and bore Imperial devices that Constance did not recognise.

  Behind them was a delegation of Xeno Division diplomats headed by Langdon Keita. There was no sign of forced entry, no sign of a struggle. The kaygryn had been allowed in.

  No. Invited.

  Constance felt her legs go numb and threaten to buckle. A feeling of vertigo washed over her. The feeling of unease had been well placed. Now the looks she had garnered from the politicians and diplomatic legations in the Assembly Building made a lot more sense.

  Keita looked wretched. ‘Please, do not struggle, Andrea. They have guaranteed not to harm you if you go quietly.’

  Constance felt sick. Her vision faded. She collapsed to the floor to the sound of shouts. The last thing she remembered was the wincing, tearful face of Keita as he moved to try and catch her before she hit the ground.

  The cell she awoke in was comfortable and well appointed, but very much a cell nonetheless. They had sedated her and strapped an IHD neutraliser to her head. She could see her telemetry scrolling across a holo outside through the clear plastic wall, monitored by a VI. A bored-looking kaygryn sat outside watching an old hypersled broadcast. It was a countdown of the greatest races from the Galactic Super League.

  She watched as the hypersleds rocketed around the corkscrewing, looping tracks while talking heads gave their opinions on the races and the racers, the teams and the sleds themselves. She had never really watched the sport except when political form dictated that she took an interest to win votes or maintain the illusion of the common touch. She could still remember watching the UN’s team in the quarter-finals of the Tier Three Cup on Bospen, while acid rain pounded the shield above and the air was so thick with smog she felt as though she were drowning. Someone had died, too; it seemed someone always died in every race.

  Someone coughed next to her. She nearly jumped out of her skin. Her heart raced as she madly clambered back over the bed, her arms spastically propelling her towards the wall.

  The cough turned into a rasping laugh.

  The Vulture.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked breathlessly, terrified that the man, with his preternatural abilities, had somehow broken in to the prison to kill her.

  ‘Same thing you are, I expect,’ he said.

  Constance looked closer. The Vulture was bleeding. Bruises marred his eyes and cheeks, and dried blood crusted the corners of his mouth. He was sitting on the floor at the far end of the cell, his back propped up against the wall. He was no longer wearing Mantix, just a prison smock and trousers. An IHD damper was strapped to his head.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Constance asked, her head thick with fog. Flashes of thoughts came back to her: her last address in the Assembly Building, the kaygryn coming to take her away, Langdon Keita’s face, wincing at her betrayal, as she collapsed.

  ‘Are they here? The Empire?’ she asked. The Vulture said nothing. ‘Answer me!’ she shouted.

  The Vulture laughed again. It was like two stone wheels grating against one another. ‘They’re here. They’re in orbit. You stood the fleet down. Turned off the mines. What did you think would happen?’

  Constance tried to stop herself from panicking. She gripped the bed sheets with sweating hands as another wave of vertigo crashed through her system. ‘What’s going to happen? Why are you here?’

  The Vulture coughed again and held his ribs with one hand as he did so. He couldn’t stop himself from wincing in pain. ‘The kaygryn came to Carrington. They destroyed my space plane. Overpowered me and my men.’ He shrugged. By the look on his face, he wished he hadn’t. ‘They captured me.’

  He practically spat the last few words. Constance knew the Vulture well enough to know that, for him, captivity was a fate very much worse than death. Constance wondered whether he’d tried to kill himself before being taken.

  ‘Where are we? Where are the Imperials? Is Vargonroth under attack?’ Constance asked. The questions were coming thick and fast now, despite the Vulture’s sneer of derision.

  ‘No, Vargonroth is not under attack,’ he said. ‘Your capitulation succeeded nicely. The Imperials are landing in Arrengate as we speak. Keita is leading a delegation of Xeno Division and kaygryn to meet them.’

  Each sentence was causing the Vulture untold pain. His eyes were screwed closed, and his hands were clamped over his temples. He looked like he was suffering from the almightiest of migraines.

  Constance’s mind ticked over, trying to work out what all of this meant for her. The kaygryn had arrested her and led her away. No-one had fought with or tried to stop them. Perhaps Pitt would get his last wish after all: she would face a tribunal for alleged war crimes and be executed. Even with Halo Arch and UNSOC purging every last byte of data from their servers, there would be incontrovertible evidence of her complicity in the genocide of the kaygryn.

  ‘Has there been any word?’ she asked suddenly. The Vulture looked up at her. ‘Has there been any word from Andromeda? Of the mission?’

  The Vulture’s lips peeled back to reveal a nightmarish grimace. ‘So you did send a mission across the Barrier,’ he said. ‘My men picked it up from the EFFECT net. I wondered if those pickled corpses in the Zecad would prove too tempting.’

  ‘You’ve heard? Tell me you’ve heard something?’ Constance asked, desperate.

  The Vulture shrugged. ‘I’ve not heard anything,’ he said. ‘How could I have?’

  Constance sagged, deflated. She had allowed herself to hope that perhaps Lyra and Yano had succeeded, that perhaps they had done something, anything, to tip the balance back in their favour. All they needed was half a year, enough time to rebuild the fleet, to research personal force shields, enough time to make them the equal of the Imperials. She had done everything she could to make the UN a bitter pill. But it had all come to nothing.

  The Vulture snorted. Constance looked over to him. ‘What’s funny?’ she asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘Can you smell burning?’ he asked.

  Perplexion wrote itself across her face. ‘No,’ she said.

  The Vulture fell to coughing again. ‘Good. It’s happening,’ he said after a violent bout of hacking.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Constance asked.

 

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