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CHAPTER NINE

Uromachi System

Di Jun Sector

Tè Lā Lián Méng

November 20, 2552


“Well, everything seems normal enough,” Captain Su murmured from beside Than Qiang’s command chair while the continual loop of routine notices to shipping and traffic control transmissions murmured quietly in the background.

“Of course it does.” Than’s eyes were on the master display and the green icon of Jinan, otherwise known as Uromachi IV, gleaming before them as RHLNS Cai Shen and Li Shiji decelerated towards the G6 star’s 43.7 LM Powell Limit. “As far as anyone in Uromachi knows, everything is normal.”

They’d gone sublight 153.98 LM from the system primary seventy-two minutes ago, and their velocity had fallen to 220,743 KPS. They were still 48.7 LM from the Powell Limit, however, and Jinan—which lay 13 LM from the central star—was 30.7 LM inside the limit. That was far too long a distance for any sort of coherent conversation. Although they’d transmitted their transponder codes the instant they left wormhole space, those codes wouldn’t even reach the massive fleet base in Jinan orbit for another thirty-eight minutes. For that matter, even at their current prodigious velocity and deceleration rate, Than’s ships were still the next best thing to three hours out of Jinan orbit, and impatience simmered in his blood.

It simmered there, yet the truth was that despite his crawling sense of urgency, he would very much have preferred to stay far, far away from this star system. But he couldn’t, and if he had to report in, he would just as soon get it over with.

“I expect we’ll be hearing from them in about—” he glanced at the time display “—seventy minutes or so. At which point, they’re going to demand to know just what we’re doing here.” He grimaced. “I don’t think Governor Zheng will be very happy when she finds out.”

“I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t be, Sir,” Su said dryly, and Than snorted.

They were still much too far out for active sensors, but Cai Shen’s passive sensors had populated the main plot with a schematic of the inner system—or, at least, of the inner system as it had been just under an hour ago—and a dense spray of icons swarmed about the space immediately around Jinan. Navigation beacons, ships in orbit, inbound and outbound freighters, the blue diamonds that marked industrial platforms, the green stars of freight transfer points, the amber beads of power satellites…

The industrial and economic might that display represented was impressive. But only until Than thought about all that had been lost in Diyu.

Uromachi was the Di Jun Sector’s administrative center. It was also home to one of the Tè Lā Lián Méng’s major shipyard complexes, although the Jinan yards’ tempo had been hugely reduced for the last eight standard years. That had created a lot of resentment among Uromachi’s industrial magnates, who’d seen profits plunge as the demand for their orbital refineries’ and extraction platforms’ output plummeted. Unfortunately for them, the guǎtóu, the equivalent of the Federation’s Five Hundred, lacked the degree of control over government policy that their Federation counterparts enjoyed. They’d been forced to swallow that resentment more or less in silence—which they’d done only sullenly—because no one in the Eternal Forward-dominated Accord that governed the League had dared tell even their closest cronies about Diyu and the Dragon Fleet.

Well, they’ll find out about it soon enough, Than thought grimly. And no doubt Uromachi’s economy will take on a certain urgency now. The replacement ships will have to come from somewhere, after all!

His personal comm pinged, and he glanced down at the displayed text, then snorted, unbuckled, and pushed up out of his command chair.

“Cayha says lunch is about to be served and I’d better be there for it,” he said wryly. “I should have plenty of time for that before Jinan gets back to us.”

“Of course, Sir,” Su murmured, and watched the third admiral push off for the flag bridge hatch.

Somehow, the chief of staff doubted Than Cayha had just happened to summon her husband to lunch at this particular moment. She knew as well as Than how thin the thread from which all of them hung truly was. Which meant she also knew it was entirely possible this would be the last meal the third admiral would ever share with his family.

* * *

Than Qiang laid down his chopsticks with a sigh of pleasure. The char sui had been delicious, served with the white rice he preferred to noodles, and the xiaolongbao, filled with crab, were the perfect side.

“That was even better than usual,” he told his wife, smiling at her across the table.

“Well, one thing about being snatched away from home, your shipboard commissary is far better stocked than the arcology’s shops ever were,” she replied with an answering smile.

Than hid an internal wince as he saw the tension so imperfectly hidden behind that smile. The two of them had done their best to keep their son, Idrak, from realizing exactly why they’d been “snatched away from home,” but he suspected their efforts had failed. For that matter, he’d never shared everything that worried him even with Cayha, although after thirty standard years of marriage, she had to know what was really going on.

And then there was—

“What’s for dessert?” Kristina Moritz-Than asked, as if merely thinking of her had summoned the question.

“Yeah,” Than Rao, Than’s uncle seconded.

“Don’t be so impatient!” Cayha scolded.

“What’s not to be impatient about?” Kristina retorted. “You know we have to get dessert in quick, because Qiang’s going to run right out that door”—she pointed at the hatch to Than’s dining cabin—“and back to the bridge the instant Commander Vang pages him.” She snorted. “It’s what he does, Cayha.”

“True.” Cayha’s everything-is-normal tone wavered just a bit, and Than gave his sister a quelling glance. It rolled right off her like water.

“I could do with a little dessert, too,” Idrak put in. “Want me to go get it, Mom?”

“That would be good, actually,” Cayha said.

He pushed back his chair, got up, headed for what had been Than’s steward’s pantry until Cayha evicted him as soon as she came aboard, and Cayha’s smile followed him through the hatch.

“He’s a good kid,” she said quietly, looking back at her husband.

“Always has been,” Than replied with an even warmer smile of his own. “A few rough spots here and there that still need hammering down, of course. Can’t imagine where they came from.”

“Passed any mirrors lately?” Kristina asked.

“I don’t remember soliciting any smartass remarks,” Than said, and she snorted again.

“Hǔ fù wú quǎn zǐ,” she said sweetly, and it was Than’s turn to snort. The traditional axiom—a tiger father has no canine sons—should have sounded odd coming from someone as gwáipò as his sister, but she had a point. Idrak truly was a chip off the old block. He was a good kid…and also stubborn, hard-headed, and determined to learn every possible lesson the hard way, exactly like Than had been at his age.

And still am, really, he thought wryly. I suppose some things don’t change all that much just because we get older.

He smiled at the thought, but the smile faded quickly. Because Idrak was being none of those things at the moment. He was still the good kid, still the helpful son, but the stubborn determination to go his own way—and to suffer as visibly as possible in abject misery when he didn’t get it—had vanished. Which was the best possible proof that their efforts to shelter him from the truth had failed.

“I’m sure I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” he told Kristina, and she rolled her round, gray eyes at him. “He’s just—”

Than cut off as Idrak returned with a covered platter.

“I’m just what?” the boy asked.

“And what makes you so sure we’re talking about you?” Than asked.

“You said ‘he,’ but I’m pretty sure you weren’t talking about Captain Su, and you were talking to Shūshu Rao. Which”—he grinned—“just leaves me.”

“Boy children who’re too clever come to bad ends,” his father observed.

“So do boy children who’re too dim,” Idrak replied. “Or at least, that’s what you always tell me when you chew me out for doing something less than brilliant.”

“True,” Than acknowledged, and waved for Idrak to set the platter on the table. “And I was simply about to observe to Āyí Kristina that you never got your stubbornness from me, since all the universe knows what a reasonable and flexible soul I am.”

Kristina made a rude sound, and Idrak chuckled. But he also set the platter on the table, and Cayha reached out. She didn’t look down at the cover—her eyes were on Than’s face—and his heart tightened as she lifted it.

“Lou po beng!” Idrak said. “I love your lou po beng, Mom!”

“It’s one of your father’s favorites, too,” Cayha told him, still looking into her husband’s eyes.

“Yes.” Than had to pause, clear his throat. “Yes, it is. Thank you, Qīn’ài de.”

“I thought it was…appropriate,” she said, and he nodded. The legend behind lou po beng—flat, flaky cakes filled with winter melon and sesame seed—had traveled to the stars with the Tè Lā Lián Méng. Actually, there were several different legends about how they’d come to be, but he knew which one Cayha had grown up with. She’d told him her version of it the first time she’d baked them for him.

A couple in ancient China lived in a small village. They were very poor, but they loved one another dearly, and they were happy. Until the husband’s father fell ill with a disease no one could cure. They spent all they had on medicines and doctors, sold all they owned for it, but it wasn’t enough. Yet they had nothing left to sell, and so, without telling her husband, the wife sold herself into slavery for the money to save her father-in-law’s life.

When the husband discovered what she’d done, that he’d lost her forever, he baked the very first lou po beng, filled with candied winter melon, and dedicated it to her. He’d sold it on the street, telling her story to all he met, and it became so popular he was able to earn enough money to buy his wife back again.

“I don’t plan on selling myself into slavery, Xīn’ài,” she’d said to her new husband as they sat across the first dining table they’d been able to call their own in the married quarters assigned to a very junior Navy lieutenant, “but I know if we are ever separated that no power in the universe will keep you from finding me again and bringing me home. And no power in the universe will keep me from coming home to you, my love.”

“I remember the first time I made this for you,” she said now, softly, and he nodded.

“So do I,” he told her. “So do I.”

“Let’s eat!” Idrak said.

* * *

“That really was delicious,” Than Rao said after the table had been cleared and Idrak had reported—only a little rebelliously—to the tutor his parents had refused to allow him to escape.

“It was,” Than said, smiling warmly at Cayha.

“And you actually had time to eat it before Commander Vang came after you.” Kristina shook her head. “I’m surprised.”

“I’m not,” Cayha said, and Than raised an eyebrow at her.

“And why would that be?” he asked.

“Because I told Zhihao I’d hurt him if he interrupted for anything short of a dire emergency.”

“You did?” Than straightened in his chair, and she nodded serenely.

“Most of the time, I’m prepared to put up with what the Navy demands out of you. I knew when I married you that at best I’d be allowed to share you with your other mistress, Qiang. But there are times I won’t do that. And this is one of them.”

He looked at her for a moment, then sighed and nodded.

“I’ll have to have a word with him about exactly whose orders come first,” he said wryly. “On the other hand, Zhihao’s a smart fellow. So he’s probably a lot more scared of you than of a mere admiral.”

“And well he should be,” she said with a faint smile. The smile didn’t last long.

“Are you sure about all this?” she asked him after moment. “Really sure?”

“I am.” He met her gaze squarely. “We all know how badly this could go. I need you and Idrak—all of you—” he swept his eyes over his uncle and his sister “safely out of harm’s way if it does.”

“You know they’re going to scapegoat you, don’t you?” Kristina said harshly.

“I don’t know that’s how it will play out,” Than said firmly. “A lot will depend on how Governor Zheng decides to respond. I’m pretty sure Admiral Deng will authorize the troop lift to recover our people from Diyu. Looking at the take from our passive sensors, there’s probably enough FTL lift in the system to collect at least two thirds of them in a single operation, and I’m sure she can impress more. If she does that—if the Accord and, especially, Liu know all those people will be coming home again—they’ll have a lot less motive to sweep me under the rug, because shutting me up won’t keep the story from coming out. And if Zheng signs off on my report and my agreement with Murphy—if she gives her imprimatur to the operation to recover our personnel because they represent such a vital industrial resource—it’ll be harder for Liu and his cronies to lay Xing’s failures off on me.”

“And if pigs had wings they could fly,” Kristina said, and Than saw the worry—the fear—in her eyes.

“No doubt they could,” he replied. “But all I can do is the best I can do, Kristina. And this is it.”

“But if you send us—”

“Cayha, I love you. I even love Kristina!” Than rolled his eyes at his sister. “But I’m not discussing this. I can’t risk it—I won’t risk it.”

Kristina glowered at him, and he met those hot, angry eyes levelly while he remembered the day his father had brought home the three-year-old gwáimūi who’d just become his sister. He’d been thirteen standard years old, and he’d been horrified at the thought, but Than Jianhong had been a man of honor. A man Than Qiang had tried hard to be worthy of. It was one of Jianhong’s boarders who’d killed half the crew of the Federation freighter Jianhong’s raid on the Metaxa System had surprised in planetary orbit. And he’d done it after Jianhong had promised its captain his people’s lives would be spared.

The high political connections of the officer who’d defied him, violated his commanding officer’s sworn word, hadn’t protected him from Captain Than. He’d been tried, condemned, and executed—for disobedience to orders, not murder; even then, it would have been difficult to convict a League officer simply for slaughtering Feds—within a week. Which was why a man of Than Jianhong’s abilities had retired as a captain…and the reason his son had done his damnedest to completely eschew any political involvement.

But Jianhong had brought home the small, terrified orphan his officer had created, and despite the near universal disapproval of his decision, he and his wife, Xiuying, had legally adopted her and raised her—and loved her—as their own. The only stipulation Jianhong had made was that Kristina Moritz keep her birth name to commemorate her parents.

It hadn’t been easy for Kristina to grow up in the League. There were probably billions of baakgwai in the Tè Lā Lián Méng, but in a population the size of the League’s, they were a tiny percentage of the whole, and they tended to be concentrated in only a handful of star systems. And as the war’s bitterness had intensified, the prejudice against them had intensified right along with it. Which was ironic, since from Than’s observation, most of those “white people” were even more patriotic than their ethnically “pure” co-citizens.

Of course, he thought now, looking at Kristina, sometimes that wasn’t a good thing, since it was her patriotism, her devotion to the star nation and cause of the family who had given her a home and love, that had turned her into an investigative reporter. And it was the stories she’d filed—and, even more, the exposés her editors had spiked—that had ultimately gotten her deplatformed and left her unemployed.

“If there were, in fact, such a thing as justice—which, I know perfectly well, there isn’t,” she said now, “they’d give you the second Flying Dragon you deserve!”

Despite himself, Than’s lips twitched in a smile. The Mínzú Yīngxióng Xūnzhāng—known more or less affectionately as the Flying Dragon because of the magnificent winged dragon engraved into the teacup-sized golden medal—was the Terran League’s highest award for valor. They’d given it to him after the Battle of Callao, which was probably the reason he’d been tapped as Dragon Fleet’s original CO. Even at the time he’d received it, though, he’d been aware of the degree of political calculation behind the award.

“They don’t give the Flying Dragon to the CO of the losing fleet, Shǎguā!”

“That wasn’t you; that was Xing!” she shot back.

“Kristina, I love you, but the truth is that if I’d been in command in New Dublin, I would have taken Murphy’s bait exactly the way Xing did. The difference is that I would’ve sailed straight into his ambush with our entire fleet, not just three quarters of it. In which case, he would’ve done to me exactly what he did to her.”

She glared at him, and he shrugged.

“She was an arrogant, amoral, narcissistic, murderous, calculating, dishonorable bitch with a severely overinflated opinion of her own capabilities,” he said dispassionately. “In that particular instance, though, I read the tactical situation as poorly as she did.”

“But you—”

“But I didn’t K-strike Crann Bethadh,” Than interrupted. “I think that was the right decision. Xing and people like her—and anyone looking for a scapegoat—are likely to disagree, once they find out. Which, hopefully, they won’t for a while. And then, after that, I pulled out of Diyu and abandoned the shipyard to the Feds.”

“They had seven carriers, and you had two, both already damaged! You couldn’t have prevented that!”

“No, but do you really expect people—especially the sort of people who’re currently in the Accord—to admit that when they start looking for someone to pin their disaster on? And, to be honest, all I did was decline to get still more of our people killed. Well, that and convince Murphy to spare our yard workers’ lives.” He shook his head. “No. I agree with you that the universe isn’t exactly running over with justice, but there’s no point pretending that as the senior surviving officer involved with this debacle I’m not the one the politicians and the xīxuèguǐ are going to lay the blame on. And that—” he turned his gaze back to Cayha “—is why we’re going to do this my way.”

“But—”

Qīn’ài de, this one will have every senior politician in the League running for his or her life. Even people who didn’t know a thing about Diyu or the Dragon Fleet will be tarred with the brush of failure, and you know damned well that the politicians who were actually responsible for it will spread the blame onto as many of their colleagues as possible in an effort to save their own necks. Moderation…is not going to be in great demand from our political lords and masters.”

“No, it’s not,” Kristina said, and her tone was flat, defeated. “He’s right, Cayha. He may be able to dodge the bullet, especially if Governor Zheng backs him. She’s not just the Uromachi System Governor, she’s also the Governor for the entire Sector, so her approval will carry weight not even Liu can ignore. But if they do ignore it, or if she declines to paste a big target onto her own back just because it’s the right thing to do, these bastards will trot zuzhu back out if only to warn the rest of the Navy’s senior officers they’d better not even consider supporting Qiang.”

Than nodded soberly. Officially, the League had never embraced the ancient Chinese penalty of “family execution.” That was a point its propagandists had always hammered away at in their vehement denouncement of the Federation’s propagandists’ claim that it did. And, to be honest, the League had never actually executed an offender’s entire immediate family.

Yet, at least.

But the reason the Federation claimed the Tè Lā Lián Méng’s penal code did enshrine zuzhu was that over the last twenty-odd standard years, the League had embraced a policy of collective responsibility. As the odds turned ever more heavily against the League, the consequences for those who failed their political masters had grown ever more drastic. After a failure as colossal as the Dragon Fleet fiasco, there’d be no hope of mercy for whoever the politicians could fasten the blame upon. And that meant—at best—that Than Qiang’s wife, son, uncle, and sister could expect to spend the rest of their lives in miserable poverty. More likely, they’d find themselves imprisoned in one of the “rehabilitation camps,” where they would serve as horrible examples for the recidivists who might learn from their experience.

And quite possibly, in this case, they would be executed.

“I need you to be safe if I’m going to do this,” he said softly. “And—”

His comm chimed with Su Zhihao’s priority override attention signal. He looked down at it and frowned. It wasn’t Van Raksmei, his comm officer; it was Su. He hesitated a moment, then tapped the tiny screen.

“Yes, Zhihao?”

“Sir, we’ve received a burst transmission from Jinan. It’s…not from Governor Zheng.”

“Oh?” Than was surprised his own voice sounded so calm. “Who is it from, then?”

“It’s signed by Governor Shen,” Su said flatly. “Shen Hanying. Apparently, Governor Zheng died two months ago.”

“I see,” Than said, and looked up to see his sister staring at him in horror.



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