For a few muddled seconds, Brezan tried to work out if there was any non-insubordinate way to say that he would rather kill himself with a wooden spoon than join the Kel hivemind. He had always been secure in the knowledge that he’d never succeed to command. Clearly the universe was punishing him for making sensible assumptions about his career.
Tsoro’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Don’t worry,” she said, “there would hardly be time to integrate you, and you’d need to be on site with the rest of Kel Command for it. In any case, historically speaking, not all high generals have been part of Kel Command, although Kel Command has always been composed of high generals.” The change in practice had taken place after the establishment of the hivemind.
“Brevet rank,” Brezan suggested.
“We prefer to limit the use of brevets because not all Kel respond to them satisfactorily.”
There went that.
“You can still decline the mission.”
He drew a shuddering breath. “I accept, sir.”
“Good,” Tsoro said. “Consider yourself promoted, High General Brezan. We’ll expedite the paperwork. There have been enough delays already. Don’t fail us, and don’t forget to adjust your insignia. Your first stop should be Medical. After that, may we suggest that you use your first order to scare up some real food?”
Brezan opened his mouth to make a retort. Thankfully, the hexarch saved him from making an ass of himself by cutting the connection.
It looked like the universe was giving him another chance at Jedao. All he had to do was not fuck it up.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
KHIRUEV WAS HAVING an energetic argument with Colonel Kel Najjad in one of the conference rooms when the ultimatum arrived. They’d been having variations of this argument ever since Najjad joined Khiruev’s staff. At this point, Khiruev would have felt disoriented if they discussed logistics without also sniping at each other about completely irrelevant points of musicology.
“—that flute concerto by Yeri Chejio,” Najjad was saying as he jabbed the map. The interface couldn’t make up its mind about what Najjad wanted it to do about the jabs. Add a waypoint? Assign the waypoint to Tactical One? Change the color of the marker? Create an inset centered at the site of the jab?
“Colonel,” Khiruev said, “would you please stop doing that? I’ll even concede that the seven-movement suite is a valid form on the grounds that the early post-Liozh composers can’t be put into proper historical context without it. Just stop doing whatever it is you’re doing.”
Najjad grinned at her. “I’ll show you the trick if you like, sir.” He had a positive gift for breaking interfaces, or causing the grid to hang. Sometimes Khiruev thought she should loan the man to the Shuos the next time she needed a favor. “It’s all about confusing the—”
Khiruev looked at Najjad’s latest map and winced. “I don’t want to know how to duplicate the feat. I just want to stop getting a headache every time I try to figure out who in this radius is still talking to us that has the setup to do repairs on this many bannermoths.”
“If we still had any Nirai,” Najjad said, “I could torture one of them with the inadequacy of the interface controls. But our beloved general sent them packing, so I’m afraid you’re stuck.”
“I’ll be sure to put it on the list of grievances I have against him,” Khiruev said, “so I can present it to him the next time I’m feeling suicidal.”
Najjad stopped making the terminal have fits, thank goodness. “At least he hasn’t stuck knives in us yet. I’m actually rather—”
The grid said, “Message for General Khiruev from Communications.”
Khiruev checked the headers and hid her surprise. She had a hunch that Communications was trying to tell her something that should properly go first to the ranking officer. There were a number of reasons Communications might choose such a course of action. None of them had pleasant implications. “Clear out, Colonel,” she said. “I’ll get back to you when I can.”
Najjad thumped a salute, gave the interface one last jab to make Khiruev twitch, and left the room.
“Secure the room until I say otherwise,” Khiruev told the mothgrid. “Get me Communications.”
Communications forwarded Khiruev not one but two messages from Kel Command. She saw immediately why Communications had hesitated to bring either to Jedao’s attention directly. It was clear which message was more important, but Khiruev knew the order in which she ought to deal with them.
She requested, and got, a link with Communications. “Make sure Commander Janaia gets these orders,” she said. Janaia was off-shift at the moment, but she knew Janaia slept lightly. “General Khiruev to all units. I am aware that you may have gotten word from Kel Command. All units are to hold formation. Formation breaks will be met with the usual consequences.”
“It’s gone out, sir,” Communications said after a moment.
“Good,” Khiruev said. It wouldn’t buy much time, but with any luck, she could get this sorted out before the swarm began to panic.
She asked the mothgrid where she could find Jedao and flagged the query as urgent. After an unusual stutter, the grid replied that Khiruev should meet Jedao in the latter’s quarters. Strictly speaking, Jedao could choose to be as inaccessible as he pleased. There could be some mundane reason for it. Still, there was nothing to do but show up and trust that the general was willing to talk to her.
Khiruev departed the conference room and headed straight for Jedao’s quarters. The door admitted her. Jedao was standing with his hands folded behind him, contemplating several large paintings projected at various points against the far wall. At a guess, he was trying to figure out how colors harmonized with each other and mostly failing, one of his favorite pastimes.
“Have you heard the news, sir?” Khiruev asked as she entered.
“What news?”
Communications hadn’t wanted to be the messenger. Khiruev couldn’t blame her, although she had taken one hell of a risk routing the messages so Jedao didn’t catch wind. “Two things,” Khiruev said. Time to take a risk herself. “We’ve received an ultimatum from the hexarchs.”
“There must be some reason it went straight to you,” Jedao said, fixing her with an interested stare. He dismissed the paintings with a wave. “Care to enlighten me?”
“May I?” At Jedao’s nod, Khiruev played back the message from the primary terminal. The old familiar chill ran through Khiruev when she saw the Vidona stingray. Jedao’s expression was politely curious. A woman’s affectless voice said, in clear, pure high language, “Shuos Jedao. You are to release the Swanknot swarm to the nearest Kel facility by the twenty-seventh day of the Month of Pyres, and turn yourself over to hexarchate authorities. The Mwennin are in Vidona custody. If you fail to comply, we will annihilate them. In case you need the reminder—”
Her voice went on, giving a summary of who the Mwennin were, their numbers, where they lived. There were an estimated 58,000 of them, concentrated on the world of Bonepyre. The only reason Khiruev had heard of them earlier was that Lieutenant Colonel Brezan had brought that part of Cheris’s profile to her attention. The hexarchate was home to a staggering number of ethnic groups, but the Mwennin were unusual for avoiding faction service and predominantly practicing natural birth, among other cultural quirks. She and Brezan had wondered what had driven Cheris to the Kel. Cheris’s profile had suggested a need to fit into the hexarchate’s broader culture. The assessment had approved of this, but Khiruev bet Cheris had had second thoughts.
“I’m not certain what they’re hoping to accomplish,” Jedao said, his voice revealing little concern. “It’s taken, what, two and a half months for them to come up with this threat? I wonder how much paperwork they had to do first. But then, I’ve never had a high opinion of Vidona proceduralism.”
Khiruev counted to six. The gamble was going badly already. When she could trust her voice not to shake, she said, “Sir, don’t you care at all? They’re about to die because of the body you choose to wear.” Had she misjudged Jedao after all? “There must be something you can—”