Crisis of Faith

THE SKY LOOKED odd this morning, Trevik of the Midli of the Seventh of the Red thought as the Queen’s entourage left the residence wing of the palace and began the short walk to the Dwelling of Guests. Perhaps it was clouds, he thought: clouds too high and too thin for his eyes to distinguish through the mists rising from the Dreaming Waters that lay to the north of the Red City.

But he’d seen the sky through thin clouds before. More likely it was something their guest had done, the chief of the thirty beings who had arrived a month ago, creatures with yellow eyes and hair the color of a storm cloud. Had their chief not said he would protect the Red City from the evil forces gathering among the stars over Quethold?

“Drink.”

Quickly Trevik lifted the ornate bowl of nectar that he held clutched to his chest. The Queen leaned toward the bowl, her embroidered robes moving in time with the rhythmic swaying of her canopied litter, her long abdomen stretched out along the litter’s couch—

“Higher,” Borosiv of the Circling of the First of the Red growled tersely from his far less ornate litter behind the Queen’s.

Wincing, Trevik stretched up his arms, raising the bowl as high as he could. The Queen drank deeply and then straightened up again, her mandibles shaking off the last drops of the rich liquid, her eyes flicking impassively across Trevik’s face.

Trevik lowered the bowl again to his chest, feeling the thudding of his heart within his torso. Being selected to act as the Queen’s bowlcarrier was the highest honor any Midli could achieve. It was as if all the Midlis on Quethold stood behind him, just as all the Circlings stood behind Borosiv. The last thing in the world he wanted was to fail, and through that failure to bring shame to his family.

“Straighten up,” Borosiv continued in the same low, grouchy voice. “Watch the Workers. Duplicate their stance.”

Trevik swallowed, a quick flush of shame flickering across his heart. He’d been told all this earlier, of course, but in the heat of the moment he’d forgotten.

Now he looked over at line of Workers carrying the Queen’s litter. There were eight of them, their torsos held nearly vertical despite the weight of the litter on their shoulders. Each Worker’s abdomen stretched out behind him, perfectly level with the ground, with his four legs moving in precise lockstep rhythm.

Swallowing again, Trevik tried to match their stance and movement. The Queen, he’d heard, was willing to give a new bowlcarrier a certain degree of latitude on his first day. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try his very best.

Especially since Borosiv didn’t seem inclined to give the new Midli any of that same slack.

The Dwelling of Guests was a circular building situated in the center of the courtyard. It was small, with only a modest central gathering area on the ground floor and ten small privacy rooms on the floor above. Two of the storm-haired aliens stood at the south entryway, their strange weapons held across their shoulders as they watched the Queen and her entourage approach.

It was the closest Trevik had ever been to these particular aliens, and he eyed them curiously as he and the litters drew near. They were upright beings, unlike the Quesoth but very similar to the Quesoth’s allies, the Stromma. They had two legs, a torso with no separate abdomen, and a head topped with flowing black storm-cloud hair. Humanoid, he’d heard such beings called before.

But at least their eyes were proper, multifaceted like those of the Quesoth, though they were a bright yellow instead of Quesoth’s pale blue. Perhaps their eyes were why the Queen had chosen to defy Quethold’s old alliance with the Stromma and accept the Storm-hairs into the Red City as her guests.

Or perhaps it was because of the weapons the Storm-hairs had brought with them. Weapons more compact and powerful even than those of the Stromma.

Trevik focused on the Storm-hairs’ weapons, feeling himself suddenly tensing. Along with the twelve Workers carrying the litters, the Queen’s entourage also included twelve Soldiers, and if the Storm-hairs neglected the proper greeting the Queen might well order the aliens to be disciplined. Trevik hadn’t seen the Storm-hairs’ weapons in action, but he’d heard enough stories to know that he didn’t especially want to. Especially not at close range.

Fortunately, the Storm-hairs knew the correct protocol. “Hail, O Queen of the Red,” one of them intoned as the litter came within the prescribed five paces. “We live to serve, and die to serve.”

The Queen remained silent as the aliens pulled open the doors and the group filed through. Under the circumstances, Trevik decided, her silence was probably a good thing.

The chief of the Storm-hairs was waiting in the center of the gathering area. It was the first time Trevik had seen the area since the Queen had granted them the Dwelling, and he was struck by how alien it had become.  Changes in furniture were understandable—after all, the Storm-hairs weren’t built anything like the Quesoth.

But the Storm-hairs had gone far beyond simple comfort and convenience. They had redone the entire room, from the hangings on the walls to the meditation sculptures about the walkways. In fact, even the pattern of the walkways had been changed. It was as if the Dwelling had been transformed into a part of the Storm-hairs’ own world.

“Drink.”

Trevik lifted the bowl, his heart again beginning to pound. Some of the sculptures the Storm-hairs had removed had been from the Queen’s own meditation room. Would she take offense that those treasures had been taken out of sight?

Perhaps she already had. Lifting her face from the nectar bowl, she raised her voice in the high-pitched ululations of Soldier Speak.

Trevik tensed. But the two lines of Soldiers flanking the two litters didn’t surge toward the chief Storm-hair. The commander replied in the same language, and all of the Soldiers spread out across the room toward the Dwelling’s outer doors. They passed through and disappeared into the courtyard, closing the doors behind them.

“Down,” the Queen ordered.

Trevik took a step to the side as the eight Workers carrying the litter lowered it to the floor and then knelt and curled themselves over into the Worker sign of homage. Behind the Queen’s litter, Trevik heard a softer swishing of cloth as the four Workers in the rear likewise lowered Borosiv’s litter.

The chief Storm-hair bowed low, his posture almost a caricature of the Workers’ stance. “Hail, O Queen of the Red,” he said.

Trevik frowned. Was that it? Did he not also live to serve and die to serve, as did the Quesoth and even the other Storm-hairs?

“Drink.”

Hurriedly Trevik stepped back to the litter and offered the bowl.  Apparently, the chief Storm-hair had indeed finished his greeting. Even more amazing, the Queen didn’t seem offended by the lack of a death-pledge. It was almost as if she saw him as an equal, the way Trevik would see his brothers of the Seventh as equals.

But that was insane. The Queen /had/ no equals.

The Queen finished her drink and waved Trevik away. “The threat remains, O Nuso Esva,” she said, addressing the chief Storm-hair. “My Circlings have seen the flying cities, black against the stars.”

“The threat remains, O Queen,” the chief Storm-hair—Nuso Esva—agreed. “Let us take further counsel together as to how we may deal with our common enemy.

“Let us speak to the destruction of Grand Admiral Thrawn.”

The other five members of the strategy session were already waiting in the bridge conference room of the Imperial Star Destroyer /Admonitor/when Senior Captain Voss Parck arrived. “My apologies, Admiral; gentles,” he said as he circled the table to the empty chair at Grand Admiral Thrawn’s right. “There was a last-minute report from the Tantsor system that I thought might be relevant to our discussion.”

“Was it?” Stromma Council Liaison Nyama asked, his grasslike fur glinting in the room’s lights, his heavy brow ridges angled over his pure black eyes, his normally snide tone even more insolent than usual.

“Yes,” Parck said, long practice enabling him not to take offense at Nyama’s manner. Loud belligerence was a universal—and highly prized—quality among the Stromma hierarchy, and the species’ military professionals were no exception. “The rumored activity turned out to be nothing but a small smuggling group. The searchers found no connection between them and Nuso Esva, and no trace of actual warships.”

“And in your vision this waste of effort constitutes /progress?”/ Nyama scoffed.

“What Council Liaison Nyama means to ask,” a younger Stromma at Nyama’s side said in a more polite tone, “is whether clearing one system genuinely narrows the search for Nuso Esva’s remaining forces, especially when so many other possibilities remain.”

“Even negative information is useful,” Thrawn said calmly, his glowing red eyes focused on Nyama. “Particularly since the probe droids we’re leaving behind after each search ensure that Nuso Esva’s forces don’t move in behind us.”

Nyama gave a throaty snort. “We /know/ where he is,” he said, jabbing a finger emphatically downward. “What do we care where his scattered remnant cowers?”

“Because as long as he lives, they remain a threat,” Parck said. “You of all people should have learned that, Council Liaison. You were winning in the struggle against those forces until he returned to take personal command.”

“The situation there was vastly different,” Nyama growled. “The forces on Oristrom were well supplied and well entrenched. And there were a great deal more of them.” He pointed down again. “Besides, Nuso Esva isn’t going to be leaving Quethold. Not anymore. Certainly not alive.”

“Liaison Nyama makes a valid point,” Stormtrooper Commander Balkin said from the other end of the table. “Wherever his remnant is hiding, Nuso Esva surely has insufficient ships to break through our blockade.”

“Agreed, Commander,” Thrawn said. “Unfortunately, the blockade will very soon have to be lifted. There are other matters that urgently require my attention, other threats to this region and to those who have joined the Empire of the Hand.”

“The admiral is correct,” Parck seconded. “I can name at least ten such threats right now, and there will be more to come.”

“Then make an end of him,” Balkin said firmly. “The stormtroopers of the 501st stand ready to move in and bring you his head.”

Nyama snorted again. “You have no idea what you’re saying,” he said scornfully. “You’ve never faced Quesoth Soldiers in battle. We, on the other hand, have dealt with them both as allies and as enemies. They’re bigger even than the Workers—when they rear up they’re nearly as tall as you or I—and immensely strong. They’re also fiercely loyal to their Queen, obeying her orders unquestioningly and with no consideration for their own safety. And there are thousands of them within the Red City.”

“We’ve faced loyal and numerous enemies before,” Balkin said. “These will fall just as thoroughly.”

“But at a severe cost,” Nyama warned. “Are you ready to accept such losses, Grand Admiral Thrawn?”

“I don’t accept unnecessary losses of any sort, Council Liaison,” Thrawn said, his blue-skinned face impassive. “But I was unaware that you once fought against the Quesoth.”

“It was long ago, during the foolish arrogance we called our Expansion Period,” Nyama said. For once, Parck noted with interest, the belligerent voice was almost introspective. “Even with the primitive ceremonial weapons they still use, we suffered greatly before we came to our senses and made peace with them.” His nostrils flared. “As will you

if you continue this path of foolishness.”

“Perhaps someone on the council can talk to the Queen of the Red,” Parck suggested. “If you could get her to see reason—”

“Queens of Quesoth make their own reason,” Nyama said. “Whatever her logic for accepting Nuso Esva into her care, she will not be moved from it.”

“Then she will suffer,” Thrawn warned.

“We all suffer,” Nyama said flatly. “Such is the way of life.”

Parck grimaced. The Quesoth would suffer, all right, like the twenty and more species that had already suffered under Nuso Esva’s reign of terror. Ever since the alien and his people—the warriors he proudly called his “Chosen”—had emerged from a still-unidentified planet in the Unknown Regions, they’d been cutting a deadly swath through peoples, worlds, and even small federations. Of all those attacked, only Thrawn had shown the skill and resolve necessary to block Nuso Esva’s expansion and, eventually, to begin driving him back.