Tolwyn slowly shook his head. "I won't. They're Aristee's victims. Not ours."
The space marshal sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "God, Geoff. What have we done? We're talking about genocide as though we're commenting on the financial markets."
"We didn't start the conversation, but we'll finish it."
She scrutinized him in an almost motherly fashion. "That kind of resolve will get you court martialed."
"Or promoted," Bellegarde said, wringing his hands as though her neck were between them.
"Have you gentlemen watched the Terran news channels?"
Bellegarde gave a half-shrug. "Just the local reports from McDaniel."
"Well, maybe you need some perspective." She reached into the attache case on the deck beside her, withdrew a data disk, then slid it into the table's holoplayer.
A female reporter in trendy dress tunic shimmered above them. "… so the incident over Triune was just the first in this on-going series of challenges to the Confederation Navy's blockade of all systems and enclaves. Three more cargo vessels were lost over McDaniel's World just this week, shot down by fighters from the Concordia battle group, and massive rioting has begun in Spiritia, the Pilgrim enclave in the Ymir system."
The reporter dissolved into the image of a city street straight from one of the Pilgrim metroplexes on planet. A wall of fifty or so heavily-armed Marines pressed forward with their riot shock-shields, into a far larger wall of two or three hundred civilians throwing rocks, bottles, and whatever they could get their hands on. The image turned Bellegarde's stomach, and his jaw fell slack as the Marines fired sylago gas into the crowds. Emerald clouds billowed over the mob and descended, turning grimaces into vacant stares. For a few hours, the gas would make the mob quite agreeable. But far in the distance, another fifty, maybe sixty Pilgrims wearing gas masks and brandishing confiscated rifles ran a ragged pattern toward the frontline.
"Seen here in a Terran Six News exclusive, Marines try to quell the crowds, but their efforts are only marginally successful," the reporter said before her image returned. "The death toll in Spiritia stands at over three thousand. Nearly twenty million Pilgrims live there now, with just five hundred thousand Marines assigned to keep the peace. Reports of massive food shortages have already poured in from Spiritia and the other enclaves. Meanwhile, skirmishes continue to break out in and around the nearly ten thousand Pilgrim safe camps."
Bellegarde now studied the image of a university campus. Ancient brick buildings with signs identifying them as Library, Administration, Biological Sciences, Offworld Sciences, and Humanities and Fine Arts girdled an oval reflection pond about thirty meters across. The caption read: designated pilgrlm safe
ZONE: UNIVERSITY OF CENTRAL FLORIDA, EARTH. A half dozen rifle-toting young men sprinted along the pond's perimeter, with an equal number of Marines in pursuit. The men took up flanking positions near the library and unleashed a vicious spray of conventional fire into the building's glass doors as the reporter narrated the action. "Many Confederation citizens are using the current crisis as an excuse to take the law into their own hands. Some seek revenge for the Pilgrim war, and they intend to get it. Marines who have been assigned to protect camps like this one in Central Florida have been accused of doing a less than adequate job. One Marine, Private Jacko Fistalis, had this to say."
The chiseled young grunt held his combat helmet in the crook of his arm, and stared self-consciously at the camera. "Couple my buddies from boot were on Mylon Three when it was attacked. Yeah, we gotta protect these people, but if a few Pilgrims buy it, well, it won't be on my conscious. They got it com-ing. Hey, Mom! Hey, Pop! You [BEEP]ing believe this? I'm on the [BEEP]ing news!" The grunt's ridiculous grin dissolved, and the reporter returned. "According to one insider, that apathetic attitude now permeates the military. And Terran Six News has also learned that Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn, Commander of the Fourteenth Fleet, has given Captain Aristee until calendar date one-five-eight to surrender. After that, his forces will annihilate all Pilgrim systems and enclaves. We go now to military analyst Jobar Bouliano, author of the book Why Your Military Hates You." The holograph split into two vidboxes, one containing the reporter, the other a portly, middle-aged man wearing antique wire rims. As the reporter and Bouliano exchanged the requisite greetings, Tolwyn pushed himself up.
Space Marshal Gregarov scowled at the admiral. "We're not finished."
"I'm familiar with Mr. Bouliano's work," Tolwyn responded, remaining on his feet. "The man's assessment of our situation will be as biased and ill-informed as his book."
"Still, I'd like you to hear it."
"Ma'am, I'd rather not."
Gregarov switched off the holoplayer and stood to meet Tolwyn's gaze. "Geoff, you're the best I have. But I'll relieve you of command without hesitation. I've already sent for the rest of my staff. I'll be setting up a field office here."
"That won't be necessary."
Her gaze grew as heated as his. "I think it is."
"Lost your faith in the old rogue?"
"Not at all. I have complete faith that you'll eventually resolve this situation, despite broken promises. I'm here to make sure you do so without sacrificing your career." She shifted her attention to Bellegarde. "I'll try to save yours, too."
Unsure of whether to thank or curse her, Bellegarde opted for a weak nod.
"Gentlemen, we're off to the map room for my update." She fetched her attache case and carried her solid frame toward the door.
Bellegarde shared a weary look with Tolwyn as they followed her out.
Who am I? Who am I Really?
Paladin had not said a word to Amity Aristee during their trip down to Aloysius Prime. He had stared through one of the launch's portholes and had imagined himself as a numb, purely logical creature who knew what was best for the Confederation and for the Pilgrims. But he had kept returning to the notion that he should do what was best for himself, for his heart. Why couldn't that complement his duty? Why did they have to be at cross purposes?
The launch had set down in a wide clearing encompassed by a dense rainforest that reminded Paladin of the holos he had seen of South America during his secondary education. Dark green fronds the size of Rapier wings created a fettered canopy that split the sunlight into thousands of glimmering blades. Trees with trunks as thick as three meters soared upward, losing themselves in their own limbs and the limbs of neighbors. Brown, moss-like vegetation blanketed most of the forest floor, with the occasional splotch of rich, black soil seeping through. Surprisingly, it had only taken a few minutes to grow accustomed to the air, and a strange, almost familiar scent lingered, a blend of anise and cinnamon that seemed wholly out of place given the damp terrain. Paladin presumed the odor came from a particular species of flora, though he had yet to find it. He had cautiously moved through the bramble, avoiding thorns and stroking the leaves and stems of several plants his terrain scanner identified as non-toxic. He had marveled over velvety textures and the trilling some vegetation made when touched, one of the few sounds in an area that, were it on Earth, would bustle with the hoots and cackles of its denizens. Aloysius's indigenous forest dwellers, mammals ranging from the size of a fingernail to three meters tall when standing on hind legs, were some of the shyest creatures in the known galaxy; the fact that any of them had been recorded stood as a triumph of some remarkably patient researchers.
The slightly muffled roar of running water emanated about one hundred meters away from the clearing, and while Aristee had gone off to meet with Frotur McDaniel, Paladin had ventured down a steep, natural embankment to a spectacular waterfall that rose some ninety meters and thrust out its great chest for nearly twice that. The water fell partly in a large double drop and partly in a series of smaller cataracts that gave it a crescent shape at its apex. Clouds of mist surged up from the river below and wound their way through the verdant treetops guarding the falls. The soothing rush of water and the angelic vapor that glossed the scene had lifted Paladin out of the nightmare of Aristee's rebellion and had lowered him into a dream where he could be consoled, comforted, and loved without complications. After a few minutes of pure rapture, he had sat on a large rock whose face had been worn smooth. He had remained there for nearly an hour until Aristee had come down to find him. She had massaged his shoulders for a few minutes, then, like a giggling schoolgirl, had stripped out of her uniform and had jumped into the river. Paladin had shaken his head at her requests for him to join her. Then she had come ashore and had dragged him fully clothed into the water.