“I agree,” said General Tensch, obviously satisfied with her reasoning, and certainly with her conclusion.
Melissa Savitch noted with dismay that more than half the heads in the room and on the far end of the holo links bobbed their assent. Some of the fence sitters just took a side, she thought. She was about to make a rebuttal when another voice intervened.
“Poppycock.”
As one, the three dozen heads, real and holo projections, turned toward a huge bear of a man in a dress black Navy uniform who sat in the shadows at the periphery of the gathered luminaries. The gravelly voice, barely understandable through a carefully cultivated Russian accent, belonged to Vice Admiral Evgeni Zhukovski, one of the Confederation’s most brilliant officers and an unabashed Russophile. His left breast boasting more ribbons and decorations than most of the others in the room had ever seen in their lives, Zhukovski had more than paid his dues to humanity. Glaring at Matabele with his one good eye, the High Command’s Chief of Intelligence did not try to conceal his contempt for her and some of the others in the room. After facing the Kreelan enemy so many times in his life, the potential opponents arrayed around him now seemed entirely laughable, save that they had a great deal to say about their race’s survival. It was what continually terrified him away from retirement.
Squinting theatrically at the table console, Zhukovski said, “Obviously, I have been remiss in my understanding of what was said in good Lieutenant Mackenzie’s report, as well as progress of war in general,” he paused, glancing at Counselor Savitch, “and articles of Confederation Constitution in particular. Perhaps review of facts may help eliminate ignorance of old sailor.
“Fact,” he said, thrusting his right index finger into the air as if he was poking out someone’s eye. “Since war began long ago, certain humans have tried to betray their own kind – for whatever insane reason – and Kreelans have never accepted them.” He paused, glaring at Matabele, then at Tensch. “Never. In fact, from what little is known from exposed cases, would-be betrayers fare even worse than normal victims, getting nothing for their trouble but slow and painful death. This is no war of nation against nation, fighting over land or competing ideologies, where at least some participants of both sides may find something in common, even if only greed, and therefore find reason to betray side they are supposed to be on. We have nothing in common with Kreelans. Or, if we do, we do not know what. Nearly century later, we know nothing of their language, culture, customs; nothing of their motivations, their weaknesses: only their name – and even that we assume from what dying Kreelans have said before death. We know much about their biology, but we cannot explain what we see. And their technology, which covers such wide scope, we do not understand on anything other than strictly application level, and sometimes not even that. They build incredibly advanced starships to come and find us, and then use swords and spears to kill us.”
He had to pause for a minute, taking a dramatically noisy gulp from his water glass. “Please excuse,” he said, cutting off one of Tensch’s supporters before he could open his mouth, “I am not finished yet.” After another gulp, he went on. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. So, we know nothing of importance, really, about our enemy, which makes basic tenet of most human martial philosophies, ‘know your enemy,’ rather useless, da?
“Another fact: over fifteen years ago, planet Hallmark blows up. Poof. No distress signals, no evidence that orbital defenses worked, nothing. No people left, all blown to little pieces. We know it was Kreelan handiwork, because navigational traces were found in system and orbital defenses destroyed, but we do not know how or why. Bigger question is why did they only use this weapon that one time? Why not use it on all human planets? And why use it on defenseless Hallmark, world of orphan children, in first place? Could they not find better target? What were they doing there, and why did they not want us to find out about it, why cover their tracks with such vigor?
“Now, fact that brought us together today.” He pointed at the console and the display of Jodi Mackenzie’s report. “Less than twenty-four hours ago, strange young man masquerading in Kreelan armor shows up on tiny settlement where Marines are, shall we say, not doing well. According to young Lieutenant Mackenzie’s report, he somehow appeared inside and somehow got out of small room that had only one door, and that was watched by remnants of Marine regiment on far side – all without being seen.” He jabbed his finger in the air again. “Then he appears on field of battle and proceeds to kill over fifty Kreelan warriors by himself in close combat in only minutes.”
“So what, admiral?” Anthony Childers, another senatorial aid filling in for his master, asked. “First of all, how do we know this Mackenzie is reliable and not just coming up with some nutty concoction to get back to her ship or something? Frankly, I find it hard to accept this magical mumbo-jumbo about popping in and out of rooms like a cheap magician.” Heads nodded around the room, with several hands covering not-so-innocent smiles. “Secondly, this guy killing a bunch of his own doesn’t prove anything. He could have done that just to get into the confidence of those grunts down there on the colony, and from the way this drippy report reads, he did a damn fine job.”
Zhukovski could do nothing but glare at the man. The admiral lost his arm and an eye nearly ten years before after ramming his dying ship into a Kreelan destroyer, and he now regretted not having taken up the surgeons’ suggestion that he get a prosthetic. He would have liked to strangle Childers, but would have needed two hands to grasp the man’s fleshy neck. “I will ignore insulting comments to men and women of military services,” he growled, his accent deepening. “Not having served any time in military sometimes makes people say and do unkind things to those who have, instead of truly appreciating their sacrifice.”
Childers reddened at the insult. It was not a widely known fact that he had obtained an under-the-table exemption from mandated military service through the intercession of his powerful shipping magnate father, and he would have preferred to keep it that way, especially in this crowd.
Zhukovski knew that he had just made yet another enemy by humiliating the man, but he did not care. What could they do, retire him? He shrugged. Childers had more than deserved it.
“But, comrade,” Zhukovski went on, “to answer question, I have reviewed Mackenzie’s records in detail. I have no reason at all to believe that what she said is not so. As for this Reza Gard pulling off so-called ‘snow job,’ I do not believe it. As Chief of Intelligence, I cannot and will not rule it out as possibility, but it goes against what few hard facts we have obtained, and – more importantly – nearly century of deadly experience.”
“Then what exactly do you believe, admiral?” Melissa Savitch asked. Based on previous encounters with the man, she had long regarded Zhukovski as another conservative military hard case whose brain functioned on one level only, if at all. But she got the feeling that she was in for a surprise.