“Then why only nine?”
“Would any rational system deliberately inject a disease into itself? Nine is all the Commonwealth could possibly take. They were conceived in back alleys, built in secret, launched almost in guilt, and commissioned without ceremonies. They’re even named after ancient killers and loners and assassins: Sirhan, James Earl Ray, Charles Manson. They’re like some shameful medical condition. And yet they’re the only Commonwealth ships which might defeat Her.”
“And the only time,” Ninth Voice said quietly, “the only time an Outsider has ever faced Her was here, in our system. And you turned away.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you told us how you remember that engagement? Not statements or recordings, but how you remember it.”
“I remember when I first saw Her. It’s true what they say, it’s not like seeing pictures of Her. When She unshrouds, there’s something about Her actual presence which you don’t forget.
“She’s a bit smaller than an Outsider, but a very similar shape, a thin silver delta. But on Her, the shape looks different. Like She’s only the visible part of something larger.
“I remember seeing Her pick off the others one by one. It was obscene; they didn’t have a chance.
“I remember requesting the Cromwell, again and again, to withdraw that ridiculous task force and let me engage Her alone. All my requests were refused, and all of them are on record.
“I remember thinking that She could have destroyed those cruisers, but She only disabled them. There were casualties, but there were also survivors.
“I remember how She kept probes on the Sirhan all through the engagement. She made no move against us, and we made none against Her, but Her probes were on us all the time, and they were much stronger than ours on Her. Ours gave us nothing.
“And I remember the Thomas Cromwell, because that’s where the end came. The Cromwell tried to keep Her at long range and use its beam weapons, but She turned suddenly, in Her own length, and charged down its throat in less than a nanosecond, too quickly for the Cromwell’s electronics to refocus. That’s the first time I’ve seen a ship do something in battle which was both pure reason and pure impulse. It was done so suddenly that it even outpaced computers. It looked instinctive; yet logically it was perfect, and She executed it perfectly.
“I remember one other thing. She could have used Her own beams and vaporised the Cromwell, but instead She used conventional closeup weapons. Again, She left survivors. I don’t know if that was intentional. I don’t know Her motives. Nobody does. She never communicates.”
“So, Commander, we’ve come to the point where you turned away.”
“Yes, I turned away. I took survivors off the Cromwell rather than chase Her, because I knew…”
“A moment, Commander. You say She was heading here, and you didn’t chase Her?”
“Yes. I knew She’d never attacked civilian targets. And I knew there were people on the Cromwell I could save. Even knowing what She did to your city, I’d still do the same.”
Ansah remembered how, on the Bridge of the Sirhan, She was first registered by the scanners: blips and echoes and simulations denoting a single ship of similar dimensions to the Sirhan. And then She unshrouded.
Ansah had watched in disbelief as She moved among them like a living thing, the way Ansah always imagined the Sirhan appeared in comparison to ordinary ships. Faith made even the Sirhan look like an ordinary ship. She looked like She belonged in empty space; like She was actually a part of empty space, a small part made solid and visible. And the rest looming around Her, unseen.
There were low chimes from a gold carriage clock on the long table. It was well into evening. During the pause, and in view of the unexpectedly late hour, tea was served. The silence refocused to a muted clatter of porcelain and silver among the indistinct figures at the long curved table. Even in here, the smell of faeces persisted round the edges.
“Thank you, Commander,” the Chairman said. “I think none of us realised how late it was. The Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning.”
The trial wore on for another few days, but that was its last substantive chapter. There came an afternoon, seven days later, when all depositions and statements had been read and considered, all recordings of the engagement played and studied, all theories of Faith’s nature and origin weighed, and all matters of Ansah’s record and conduct assessed; and the Chairman found himself ready to bring the trial to a close.
“Commander Ansah.”
She stood and faced him. The Chairman studied her through the gathering twilight as Isis set over De Vere, turning the air velvet. She was a beautiful woman, tall and elegant. She was Commander of an Outsider, and he knew she had done terrible things; he’d seen them in her record. Yet she wasn’t unlikeable; even here, at her trial, she had shown glimpses of a self-mocking sense of humour. How had she found time in her life, which wouldn’t last much longer, for such a career? And how could she have done those things?
“Commander Ansah, these proceedings are concluded. The Court will adjourn to consider its verdict on the two charges against you: Cowardice and Desertion.”
He realised, only after he said it, that the final words he would speak to her in these proceedings, the final words on the transcript until the announcement of the verdict, would be Cowardice and Desertion.
The Chairman felt a mounting unease. He knew that an injustice was going to be done, but he genuinely didn’t see how to make it right; and even the injustice would have some trace elements of justice. Nothing was simple.
The outcome was inevitable, like the fate of those five Isis ships; she knew that. But there was something he still might do for her.
“Ebele Ansah, please stand. The Court has now reached its verdict,” the Chairman told her, three days later. “On the charge of Cowardice we find you Not Guilty. Unanimously. On the charge of Desertion we find you Guilty. Eleven votes to one.”
Ansah gazed back at him, without any visible emotion.
This was what the Chairman had done for her. For three days he had argued against the Cowardice charge, insisting they find her Not Guilty. Their opposition was furious, but he would not be moved. Sensing his mood, some of them had even tried to compromise with a verdict of Not Proven, but still he would not be moved. So, Not Guilty of Cowardice was what he had done for her, but Guilty of Desertion was inevitable. Even she knew that.
“Commander, you know the sentence.”
“Yes,” Ansah said. “I request the Court to allow me to carry it out on myself, in accordance with military custom.”
“That’s granted, of course. You have until midnight. The Court Secretary will bring you the necessary substances.”
“Thank you.”
“Commander,” the Chairman said, “would you like us to provide you with a companion of some kind?”
“Yes. I’d like my guard, if he agrees.” She turned to the Sakhran. “Will you?”
“Of course,” he said. It was the first time they had spoken to each other.
•
The pictures faded from where Foord had imagined them, in some quasi-space behind the words of the transcript; then the words themselves faded from the screen. He turned away. His grief for Ansah had come, occupied its allotted time, and gone; much like his relationship with her. What it left was a sense of unfamiliarity, the knowledge that she was no longer a part of the universe. It would make the shape of his life different. The rest of his life, for as far as he chose to see it, would be devoted to Faith. We were made for each other. We belong together.