“John, Ilsa,” Gervais said, nodding at each. He didn’t act like he was even aware the couple might have reason to be angry.
“Gervais,” Ilsa said, her light tone polite enough to make even John wonder if she was angry.
John was saved from having to respond when Priscilla and Rodney entered. Both of them looked like the walking dead. Priscilla stopped and yawned so hugely a hint of tears came to the corners of her closed eyes. Led by one of Rodney’s great mitts, she found a seat across from John and Ilsa.
Looking around, John saw the rest of the Mission were more or less equally divided between yawning or, like him, stifling one.
“Hey, all,” Rodney said.
Everyone’s responses were muted.
John felt Bertram looking at him but, not trusting his temper, refused to meet him eye to eye.
“Sorry this had to be so late, but I wanted to make sure we all had a chance to talk,” Gervais said.
“About what?” John said, barely restraining a snarl.
“I certainly hope we’re here to talk about the big fucking elephant in the room,” Ilsa said.
Everyone turned to stare at his wife, not least of all John.
Her smile was so lovely it made his heart stumble through a few beats. Ilsa did not see his response, as her eyes were on Gervais as she answered. “You should have brought us in, Gervais. You know it, and you should apologize for it now, profusely, so we can all get along again.”
“I—I—” Gervais stammered, usual eloquence deserting him.
Monique said in his stead, “To be fair, Ilsa: it was discussed and at very great length. Jahanara vetoed it.”
“Is Jahanara a member of this USE mission? A special envoy of the USE?” Ilsa asked. “As she is not, it should have been obvious who you were duty bound to report to.”
The con man flinched. What she was describing was perilously close to treason, something Gervais had just lost his oldest friend to. “I—”
Ilsa cut him off: “I am not done yet: You knew who you were supposed to report to and confer with and you didn’t. That’s not something you can just ignore.”
Gervais rallied. “The fewer people who know the details of—”
“To hell with that, Gervais! You needed John and Rodney, and to a lesser extent, Priscilla and me, to act hurt and despondent, and rather than trust our ability to perform in your little operation, you actually hurt us. I can excuse the hurt to me. I can’t be so sanguine about what you did to my husband.” She smiled again, coldly this time. “Now, I understand there were reasons for doing what you did, I truly do. But now is not the time to defend yourselves. Now is the time to make it as right as you can. That in mind, I, for one, would like to hear an abject apology from each of you to each of us. Once you’ve all done that, I would have you explain one thing more: tell me that all the shit you were driven to do was worth it.”
John, blinking in the wake of his wife’s use of profanity, looked from Ilsa to Bertram then back again.
“And you, John, don’t look at me like that,” she said. “Just because I dislike such language doesn’t mean I do not know how to employ it in order to impress upon our friends just how fucking important this is to me.”
Ilsa settled back in her cushions, looking at each of the others in turn.
All three of the other down-timers looked stricken. If John hadn’t been so angry and tired, he might have felt sorry for them. As it was, he could only sit in mute silence.
“Damn straight,” Priscilla said, all traces of her earlier drowsiness gone.
She looked at Rodney, who was nodding agreement. “Better said than I could manage,” he rumbled.
Gervais opened his mouth to say something, but Bertram beat him to it. “I am sorry. Truly sorry. Ilsa is right, we should have trusted you. I knew it from the moment I heard about the corpses in the manufactory.”
Monique’s hand found Bertram’s, squeezing it. “I am sorry, too. We should have done better.” She looked at her father. “Could have done better.”
“Well, experience tells me I should smile and make some excuse to cover for my errors…” Gervais trailed off, one fine-fingered hand rubbing his bearded chin. “But no, not this time. In my life, I have used any number of rationalizations to excuse my behavior. To the public, to myself, to my daughter, to her mother. I have watched others do the same, and get away with acts barbaric and cruel. I find, at this late date and”—he swallowed—“and only after the recent example of my friend’s failure to see the harm he did, that I am tired of rationalizing, of excuses.” He raised his head and there were tears in his eyes as he said, “I am sorry, John, Ilsa, Priscilla, Rodney. I am deeply sorry.”
Wanting to believe their apologies were sincere, yet uncertain how to trust again, John looked away.
“As to the other part,” Bertram said, taking up the thread and looking directly at Ilsa. “I suppose the battle to come will provide the only real answers to whether Jahanara’s subterfuge and the lies we told to maintain it were worth it or not. Early indications are good, though. If he was planning a siege, Aurangzeb’s forces would have started digging trenches as soon as they first encircled us. As no one we’ve seen has even picked up a spade, it looks as if little brother plans to try and overrun us in one go. That means the impact of the weapons will be far greater than those killed or injured by them.”
“Surprise is in the mind of the enemy,” John muttered.
“Exactly.” Then, probably because John had yet to acknowledge their apologies, he said, “I’m really sorry, John. Should have told you right from the start. Or later, when we were with Talawat on
