Mutineer's Moon

did before. We’d have to shut down pretty soon, anyway, and too many people are getting killed. I don’t think I can take another bloodbath.” He looked at his hands and spoke with difficulty.

“This isn’t a drop in the bucket compared to Genghis Khan or Hitler, but it’s still too much. It’s happening all over again, and this time we started it, Maker help us. Can’t we stop sooner than we planned?” He turned desperate eyes to Hector and Jiltanith. “I know we all agreed we needed Stalking-Horse, but haven’t we done them enough damage for our purposes?”

“Isis?”

“I have to agree with Dad,” Isis said softly. “Maybe I’m too close to it because of Cal and the girls, but…” She paused, and her lips trembled. “I … just don’t want to be responsible for any more slaughter, Colin.”

“I understand,” he said gently, then looked at her sister. “Jiltanith?”

“There’s much in what thou sayst, Father, and thou, Isis,” Jiltanith said quietly, “yet if we do halt our actions all so swift upon his murders, wi’ no loss of our own, may we not breed suspicion? If e’er doubt there was, there is no longer: Anu and his folk have run full mad. Yet in their madness lurketh danger, for ’tis most unlike they’ll take a sane man’s view o’things.

“Full sorely ha’ we smote his folk. Now ha’ they dealt us buffets in return, and ’tis in my mind that e’en now they watch us close, hot to scent our stomach for this work. And if but so little blood—for so know we all Anu will see it—and it not ours stoppeth up our blows, may not doubt hone sharp the wit of one so cunning, be he e’er so mad? Be risk of that howe’er small, yet risk there still must be. ’Twas ’gainst that very danger Stalking-Horse was planned.” She met her father’s pleading eyes.

“Truth maketh bitter bread i’such a pass,” her voice was even softer, “but whate’er our hearts may tell us, i’coldest truth it mattereth but little how many lives Anu may spend. Their blood is innocent. ’Twill haunt us all our whole lives long. Yet if we fail, then all compassion may ha’ spared will live but till such time as come the Achuultani. ’Tis in my mind we durst not cease—not yet, a while. Some few attacks more, then turn to Stalking- Horse as was the plan, would be my counsel.”

Colin nodded slowly as he recognized her anguish. Her eyes were hooded, armoring the torment her own words had given her, and behind her barricaded face, he knew, she was seeing countless, nameless men, women, and children she had never met. Yet she was right. That the blood that would be shed was innocent would mean nothing to Anu. Might he not assume it meant less to them than the lives of their own people?

They couldn’t know that, but Jiltanith had the resolution to face the possibility and the moral courage to voice it.

“Thank you,” he said. “Hector?”

“ ’Tanni’s right,” Hector sighed unhappily. “I wish to God she weren’t, but that won’t change it. We can’t know how Anu will react, but everything we do know points to a man who hurts people for the pleasure of it and regards all ‘degenerates’ as expendable. He wouldn’t stop because some of them were getting killed; if we do, he may just ask himself why, and that’s the one question we can’t afford for him to ask.”

He stared at the table, pressing his clenched fists together on its top.

“I hate the thought of provoking massacres—or even a single death more than may be absolutely necessary—but if we miscalculate and stop too soon, all the people who’ve already died will have been killed for absolutely nothing.”

“I agree,” Colin said heavily. “We have to convince them, in terms they can accept, that they’ve made us stop. Go ahead with the set—up for Stalking—Horse, Hector. See if you can’t compress the time frame, but do it.”

“I will.” MacMahon rose, and only Imperial ears could have heard his last words as he left the room.

“God forgive me,” he whispered.

Ninhursag sat on the bench and concentrated on looking harmless. The enclave’s central park struck her as crude and unfinished beside her memories of Dahak’s recreation areas, and she filed the observation away with all the others she’d made since her return from the outside world. The sum of those observations was almost as disturbing, in its way, as the day she awakened to learn what Anu had been doing to her fellow mutineers.

She managed not to shudder as a tall, slender man walked by. Tanu, she thought. Once she’d known him well, but he was no longer Tanu. She didn’t know which of Anu’s lieutenants had claimed his body, and she didn’t want to find out. It was bad enough watching him walk around and knowing he was dead.

She looked away, thinking. There was an unfinished feeling to the entire enclave, like a temporary camp, not a habitation. Anu and his followers had lived on this planet for fifty thousand years, yet they’d never come to belong here. It was as if they deliberately sought to preserve their awareness of the alien about them. There were comfortable blocks of apartments here under the ice, built immediately after their landing, but no more had been built since and virtually none of the mutineers used the ones that existed. They’d retreated back into their ships, clinging to their quarters aboard the transports despite their cramped size. For herself, Ninhursag knew she would have gone mad long ago if she’d been confined to such quarters for so long.

She watched the spray of one of the very few tinkling fountains anyone had bothered to build and considered that. Perhaps that was part of the miasma of madness drifting in the air. These people had far outlived their allotted lifespans penned up inside their artificial environment but for occasional jaunts outside. Their stolen bodies were young and strong, but the personalities inhabiting them were old, and the enclave was a pressure—cooker.

By their very nature, most of Anu’s people had been flawed or they would not have been here, and over the endless years of exile, closeted within this small world, their minds had turned inward. They’d been alone with their hates and ambitions and resentments longer than human minds were designed to stand, and what had been flaws had become yawning fissures. The best of them were distorted caricatures of what they had been, while the worst…

She shuddered and hoped none of the security scanners had noticed.

Theirs was a dead society, decaying from its core. They wouldn’t admit it—assuming they could even recognize it—yet the truth was all about them. Five thousand years they’d been awake, yet they’d added absolutely nothing to their tech base beyond a handful of highly personal modifications to ways of spying on or killing one another. They were only a small population, but it was the nature of societies to change, to learn new things. A culture that didn’t was doomed; if an outside force didn’t destroy it, its own members turned upon one another within the static womb to which they had returned. Whether or not they could admit or recognize their stagnation was ultimately unimportant, for deep inside, where the life forces and the drive of a people came together out of emotion and beliefs they might never have formalized, they knew they were spinning their wheels, marking time … dying.

Ninhursag’s eyes were open now, and she saw it in so many things. The suspicion, the ambition, the perversions of a degenerate age that knows it is degenerate. And, perhaps most tellingly of all, there were no children. These people were no celibates, but they had deliberately renounced the one thing that might have forced them to change and evolve. And with it, they’d cut themselves off from their own human roots. Like a woman barren with age, their biological clock had stopped, and with it had died their sense of themselves as a living, ever—renewed species.

Why had they done that to themselves? They were—had been—Imperials, and the Imperium had known that even a single quarter-century deployment aboard a ship like Dahak required that sense of vitality and renewal among its crewmen. Even those who had no children could see the children of others, and so share in the flow of their species. But Anu’s people had chosen to forget, and she could not understand it.

Had their stolen immortality made children irrelevant? Or did they fear producing a generation foreign to their own twisted purpose? One that might rebel against them? She didn’t know. She couldn’t know, for they had become a different species—a dark, malevolent shadow that wore the bodies of her people but was not hers.

She rose, walking slowly across the park towards the building in which she had half-defiantly made her own quarters, aware of the way her shadowing keeper followed her. He didn’t even bother to be unobtrusive, but it had helped to know exactly where the security man assigned to watch her might be found.