"What, exactly, is this?"
"I think it's self-explanatory, Sky Marshal. I'm resigning my commission."
"So it's true-I got one of these from Marcus LeBlanc just yesterday. You and he really are planning to retire to . . . what Fringe World hole is it?"
"Gilead, Sky Marshal," Murakuma said, and MacGregor shuddered.
"This is preposterous. Your resignation is not accepted."
"I believe I'm within my rights, Sky Marshal. I've obtained definite legal opinion to the effect that-"
"Oh, spare me that!" MacGregor glowered for a moment, then relaxed. "See here, let's try to work out a compromise that'll accommodate both your, uh, personal agenda and the good of the Navy."
Murakuma's antimanipulation defenses clanked into place at the last five words.
"I'm willing to listen, of course," she said very, very cautiously.
"Excellent. I've been doing some consulting, too, and I believe we could offer you permanent inactive status. Oh, I know, it's unusual. Unique, in fact. But it could be done. And," MacGregor's genes made her add, "the money would be better than your retirement pay."
"Hmmm . . ." Murakuma subjected the Sky Marshal to a long, suspicious look. She saw only blandness. "But then you could reactivate me any time you wanted," she pointed out.
"Oh, no! It would be strictly your decision whether or not to accept any reactivation request." MacGregor emphasized the last word.
"I'd have that in writing?"
The Sky Marshal looked deeply hurt. "Of course."
"Well . . ." I'll have to look this over, but if she's not snookering me . . . well, what harm can it do? I'll never accept reactivation. "May I have a day or two to think it over?"
"Certainly-two Terran Standard days." The emphasis was perceptible. MacGregor wasn't likely to forget about this twin-planet system's godawful sixty-two-hour rotation period.
"Thank you, Sky Marshal." Murakuma stood, and MacGregor dismissed her with an airy wave and an expression behind whose benignity ran the mental refrain: Got her! Got her!
Murakuma returned to the first floor and proceeded to the main meeting room. A briefing had just broken up, and Marcus LeBlanc was chatting with Kevin Sanders as she approached.
"Lieutenant," she greeted Sanders. "I understand you're departing for Old Terra sometime soon."
"That's right, Admiral. I'm being attached to the DNI's staff."
"Well, Admiral Trevayne is fortunate to get you."
"Thank you, Sir. She's assigning me to the . . . the office that specializes in the Khanate." That was about the closest anyone, even the famously irrepressible Sanders, could come to admitting out loud that the Federation spied on its allies.
"So you'll be working for Captain Korshenko," LeBlanc observed.
"Yes, Sir. In fact, I'll be going back with him. I'm not sure he exactly wanted it that way. He seems to think I'm a little . . . well, unorthodox."
"Where do people get their ideas?" Murakuma wondered, deadpan.
"Can't imagine," LeBlanc intoned with equal solemnity, and Sanders cleared his throat.
"Well, must be going, Sir. Admiral Murakuma," he said, and departed jauntily. The other two waited until he was out of earshot before they laughed.
After a moment, they went out onto the terrace where they'd always seemed to find themselves whenever the winds of war had swept them both to Nova Terra.
"So," LeBlanc began, "have you talked to her?"
"Yes. She had a proposal."
"Oh, God! Please don't tell me you let her-"
"No, no, no! I only told her I'd think about it. Just let me bounce it off you-"
Kthaara'zarthan turned his head without surprise as someone walked up from behind him. Two someones, actually, and he smiled at them-the expression remarkably gentle for a warrior of his race and reputation-and then turned back to the painting. Silence hovered as the newcomers stood beside him in the quiet, late night gallery. It was long after hours, but the museum's board had been most gracious when he asked them to permit him one final visit before his departure from Terra.
"It is a truly remarkable work," he said finally, his voice quiet as he gazed at the enigmatic Human-style smile which had entranced viewers for over eight Terran centuries.
"Truth," Raymond'prescott-telmasa agreed, equally quietly. He didn't add that Kthaara was one of only a small number of Orions familiar enough with human expressions and emotions to realize just how remarkable a work it truly was.
"She knows something the rest of us do not," Zhaarnak'telmasa said, and Prescott smiled at his vilkshatha brother. It was different, that smile of his, since the destruction of Home Hive Five. Warmer. More like the smile Zhaarnak remembered from before his younger brother's death, but touched as well with some of that mysterious serenity which hovered about the painting Kthaara had been admiring.
The younger Orion returned his own attention to the portrait and considered how much he himself had changed in the years since Raymond had taught him the true meaning of honor-of his own honor, as much as of his vilkshatha brother's. How odd, he thought yet again, that it had taken a Human to make him realize what the Farshalah'kiah truly meant. Not because he hadn't already known, but because, in his pain and his shame for his retreat from Kliean, he'd allowed himself to forget.
"I wonder," he went on after a moment, "if she would share her secret with us?"
"There is no secret, younger brother," Kthaara said, and pretended not to notice the way Zhaarnak's shoulders straightened at his form of address. "Not truly. She smiles not because of any secret knowledge forbidden to the rest of us, but simply because she remembers what we too often forget."
"And that is?" Prescott asked when he paused.
"That life is to be lived," Kthaara said simply. "She is eight of your centuries dead, Raaymmonnd, yet she lives here still, upon this wall, revered by your race-and by those of mine who have the eyes to see-because she will never forget that. And because by recalling it, she keeps it alive for all of us."
He turned away from the painting, slow and careful with the fragility which had come upon him, and he was no longer the tall, straight, ebon-furred shadow of death he'd been all those years ago when he and Ivan Antonov had first met. So much. He had seen so much as the years washed by him-so much of death and killing, so much of triumph and of loss. And now, at the end of his long life, he finally knew what he had truly seen along the way.
"We are warriors, we three," he told them, "yet I think there have been times in this endless war when we have . . . forgotten the reason that we are. I was thinking, as I stood here alone, of other warriors I have known. Of Eeevaan, of course, but also of others long dead. Some of the Zheeerlikou'valkhannaiee, but even more of those who were not. Of Annnngusss MaaacRorrrrry, who I met on your world of New Hebrrrrideeees during the war against the Thebans, Raaymmonnd. And, even more, perhaps, of Ahhdmiraaal Laaantu. Do you know his tale?"
"Yes," Prescott said. Every TFN officer knew the story of First Admiral Lantu, the Theban commander who'd fought so brilliantly against the Federation in the opening phases of the Theban War. The admiral who'd led the forces of "Holy Mother Terra" to one stunning triumph after another and fought even Ivan Antonov to a near draw. And the greatest "traitor" in Theban history.