Юн Ли - Revenant Gun

“Keep going,” Jedao said at last, because he owed it to the fallen woman. What he wanted to do was run to the toilet and throw up, except even his nausea was abstract, as though it belonged to someone far in the distance. How many dead bodies have I seen?

Even through his revulsion, Jedao was impressed by his older self. He hadn’t known real people could be that good with firearms. No fancy choreographed scenes, just messy, businesslike killing. He tried to keep count of the victims, measuring his monstrosity, but the numbers flew out of his head like burning birds.

At last he reached the part where Jedao-then shot several Nirai technicians in the back when they tried to run. He couldn’t take it any more. “Stop,” he said hoarsely. “Make it stop.”

The grid blanked the slate. It couldn’t do anything for the images in his head.

Jedao waited until his breathing had slowed. Then he said, in a spirit of self-flagellation, “I want to see my execution.” He wasn’t sure he deserved to feel better, exactly, but it seemed fitting.

The grid could only provide him with one record. For some reason they hadn’t given him a public execution. His death had been overseen by two people. One was a Nirai seconded to the Kel. He had wavy hair and was unusually pretty, but given his lack of rank insignia, Jedao assumed he was just a technician, no one important. The syringe in his hand was full.

The other was a thin, gray-haired woman with sad eyes, a Kel high general in full formal. She was contemplating the older Jedao, who was in an open black casket under sedation lock. The general looked as though he was sleeping, except for the terrible residual tension around his eyes. The high general stroked his hand gently and murmured something.

Jedao wanted to smash her face in. Didn’t she know what he had done to his Kel? How could she have any sympathy for him?

The video stopped there. Which was fine, because Jedao couldn’t endure any more of the Kel general’s misdirected sentiment. He looked down and found that his hands were clenched. His palms hurt where his fingernails had been digging into them.

Now he understood why the Kel disliked him so, and he still didn’t remember any of it. But he didn’t think it was a hoax, either. He couldn’t undo any of the past. All he could do was act honorably moving forward, knowing all the while that no penance would suffice.

BREZAN WAS DUE to meet his opposite number in one hour, give or take a few minutes depending on whose calendar dominated. All he could think about was how the three tiered necklaces he was wearing weighted his neck down like nooses. According to his protocol adviser, the heraldry carved into each cabochon pendant—Ashhawk Skyward Falling, Ashhawk Vigilant, and Ashhawk in Glory, to be precise—would reassure all right-thinking Kel, including his expected guest, of his trustworthiness.

Brezan’s objection to this had been threefold. First, as the most notorious living crashhawk, unless you counted Cheris, no amount of jewelry, however ponderous, would change people’s perception of him. Second, it wasn’t as if anyone could discern the specific ashhawk symbols except by grabbing his neck and peering real closely at each cabochon. While Brezan had been a staffer and not infantry Kel, his default reaction to people getting handsy was still, “Fuck you, how do you enjoy getting hit?” Third, he doubted that Protector-General Kel Inesser cared about trifling bits of personal ornamentation.

Everything about the room they’d installed him in made him itch. After nine years, you’d think he’d have gotten accustomed to pointless luxuries, even on a starbase the size of Isteia Prime. Intellectually, he accepted that his job as head of state was standing around looking impressive while the elected premier did the real work. “You’re the glue holding our Kel together,” was how Mikodez had put it. Brezan had bitten back his retorts on the grounds that it was impossible to offend a man known for backstabbing the other hexarchs. But the heavy glittering tapestries and amber-paned lanterns and ashhawk sculptures made him itch. He would have happily sold the lot in exchange for some dimly lit office in someone else’s command.

Mikodez had offered to handle the negotiations for him. Brezan wasn’t so proud that he couldn’t admit that the Shuos hexarch was vastly more experienced, not to say ruthless, at this sort of thing. However, Inesser flat-out refused to talk to Mikodez. By now Brezan’s alliance with the Shuos was no secret. The more practical of his Kel accepted that, without Shuos aid, coordinating their military would have been an impossible task. But a great many people remained suspicious of Mikodez. He’d already been notorious after assassinating two of his own cadets years back; assassinating the hexarchs had only cemented his reputation. It worked against them as often as it worked for them.

“Sir,” said the protocol advisor, Oya Fiamonor, her voice neutral, “you’re picking at your nails again. Through your gloves. Don’t do that.”

“At least I’m not picking my nose,” Brezan retorted.

“Don’t do that either.”

Brezan stifled a sigh. Mikodez had convinced him that an Andan-trained aide was a brilliant idea. The Compact didn’t have so many Kel that they could dedicate one to protocol. And if Fiamonor excelled at anything, it was protocol. She also made Brezan feel like a fidgety six-year-old.

For nine years Protector-General Inesser had refused all diplomatic contact with the Compact. And now she wanted to meet. Brezan had misgivings, but Premier Dzuro had wanted him to go, so here he was.

“Because I’m expendable?” Brezan had said the last time he saw her.

Dzuro had patted his arm. Brezan hated that, but by now he was better at controlling his reactions. “You’re better at reading body language. When you’re not picking fights with people. Find out what Inesser is up to.”

Isteia System was the subject of dispute between his Compact and Inesser’s Protectorate. Brezan hated thinking of the Compact as “his.” He’d merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. In particular, he’d never wanted a career in politics. General Khiruev and General Ragath handled military affairs. And Cheris was still missing, which was too bad, because he would have liked to shove “Jedao” in Inesser’s face.

Protector-General Inesser had made a great concession in agreeing to meet in Compact territory. Brezan suspected her of being up to something devious, but what? Even Mikodez, who specialized in being up to devious things, had approved the location. But then, Mikodez would back anything that promised an afternoon’s divertissement, no matter how much it annoyed everyone else. At least Brezan didn’t fear that Inesser would assassinate him. (He did wonder about Mikodez, but face it, if Mikodez decided to off him, he was fucked anyway.) Inesser cared so much about her reputation as the universe’s most honest Kel that if anyone threatened him, she’d eliminate the attacker herself.

The grid alerted him of a call from Operations, which Brezan accepted while he was adjusting his black gloves for the dozenth time: “The forward defense swarm has reported a sighting of 219 bannermoths and one cindermoth traveling in formation River Snake.”

Brezan recognized the voice. It belonged to Nirai Hanzo, a man who liked to improvise jewelry from cast-off mothdrive components. He had given Brezan a surprisingly handsome bracelet “in case you ever want to impress someone.” More likely Hanzo was hoping Brezan would show it around and serve as free advertisement. The smart thing would have been to pass it off to one of the courtesans he visited from time to time. Instead, Brezan occasionally caught himself wondering if Tseya would have liked it—but the chances that he would ever see Tseya again were close to zero.