Without a Front (14 page)

CHAPTER 23
Mercy

 

Talinn opened the sealed package
and looked inside at the five identical skinsprays. The four other healers on his team crowded around.

“I expected them to look different,” said one.

“Me too,” Talinn said. “Like…solid black, maybe.”

“Or red.”

After several pipticks of uncomfortable silence, Talinn reached in and selected one at random. “Come on, choose. It's time.”

One by one, each of them chose a skinspray.

“I'm required to explain the process once more before we begin,” Talinn said. “One of these holds the fatal dose. The others are biologically neutral. Each of us will inject the patient, with no more than ten pipticks between injections. The sedative won't take effect for three to four ticks, so there's no way of knowing which of us gave the fatal dose. We have sixty-three patients but only three injection teams. That means each of us will be giving twenty-one injections.”

“Yes, I noticed how many declined,” one healer said bitterly. “We were only supposed to be injecting a maximum of ten.”

“I know. We expected more volunteers. But I don't blame the conscientious objectors, and I hope you won't either. This is a very difficult duty.”

They murmured their fervent agreement.

“The hope was that we could reasonably say you might not give a fatal dose. Statistically, there is still a chance, but…it's not a good one. This is your final opportunity to withdraw. If you don't believe you can live with this, tell me now.”

He looked each of them in the eye. All four stood straight and silent, skinsprays in their hands.

“All right. Then I just want to say…” He hesitated, then continued, “I'm proud to be part of this team. We're doing the right thing. Some people won't see it that way, but none of those people have felt what we've felt.”

“Words for Fahla,” muttered one.

“Let's just get started,” another said. “I've been wanting this and dreading it for what feels like five cycles already. I need it to be over.”

Talinn turned and led his team out into the corridor. As they neared the barracks, the horror reached out for him, just as it had every day.

He had never thought much about his mid empath rating before this job. He was on the high end of the midrange and that was fine; he didn't pine for more. What he had was what Fahla gave him.

But he didn't think Fahla meant for them to deal with what lay behind those doors. If she had, she would have made them all high empaths, with blocks strong enough to wall off their minds completely.

The horror grew blacker and thicker, and when he opened the door, his stomach rebelled at the stench of fear. In ten moons he had never gotten used to it. By his third moon here he was getting sick even before leaving his house for work, the mere thought of walking into that room enough to make him nauseous. That he had survived for seven more moons of it was something of a miracle. Today's nausea had been the worst of all, and the thought that this would be his last day was all that kept him going.

Curtained cubicles stretched the length of the barracks, housing beds on both sides of the central aisle. The first cubicle was open, and a healer stood at the head of the bed. She looked pale when they came through the door.

“Right on time,” she said in a misplaced attempt to sound cheerful.

Talinn had no patience for that. “Do you have the monitor set?”

“Yes. The patient is ready.”

He looked down at the Voloth, whose smooth, slack facial features belied the activity of his subconscious. Like all of the insane Voloth, this man's mind had been shattered by a blast of pure terror, and terror was all that remained. It leaked out even under sedation, because as long as there was any brain activity at all, there was terror.

The only cure was in his hand. Without any fanfare, he lifted his skinspray, rested it against the patient's wrist, and pressed the button. The medication hissed into the Voloth's bloodstream.

He stepped back and motioned his team forward. One took his place while another went to the opposite side of the bed and injected the Voloth's other wrist. Bare pipticks later, the last two healers had injected their skinsprays. All six of them stood back and watched the status displays.

They wouldn't do this for each of the Voloth. There wasn't time to stand and watch every one of them die, not when they had so many to get through. Or rather, there
was
time, but none of them could tolerate it. It was one thing to deliver what might be the fatal dose, and something else to watch it take effect twenty-one times.

But this first one—this they had to see through to the end.

The displays didn't change, their blue and red graphs showing normal readouts for what seemed like half a hantick. When the heartbeat finally dropped by a single digit, his own heart nearly stopped. He glanced at the other readouts, seeing similar minuscule drops in all of them.

It was very slow at first, hardly even noticeable and certainly not obvious without the readouts. But after the agonizingly gradual start, the overdose seemed to slam into the patient's systems. The heartbeat dropped so rapidly that the numbers were scrolling, and the vertical graphs looked as if someone had unplugged them, draining all the color out.

Less than two ticks later, all readouts had zeroed. Their patient was dead.

Talinn looked at the Voloth's face again. It appeared exactly the same as before. But the horror was gone. It still filled the air all around them, accompanied by that awful stench, but the leakage from this Voloth had ended at last.

He frowned when the Voloth's face shifted, not understanding how it could be moving after death. Then he realized that it was his own vision creating the illusion. As the tears dropped down his cheeks, he dashed them away with his free hand and glanced at his team to see if they had noticed.

Every one of them was weeping.

And they had twenty more to go.

CHAPTER 24
The Voloth solution

 

Upon hearing that the full
Council had voted in favor of euthanasia, Lanaril poured herself a celebratory glass of spirits and lifted it in the direction of the State House. Its main dome loomed over the trees, and she focused on its top floor as she called upon Fahla to bless the Lancer and keep her in office for a very long time.

In the past, there had been many a time when she had scowled at that view and wished she could visit a few old-fashioned plagues on its inhabitant. Lancer Tordax had been an arrogant ass and an embarrassment to the scholar caste. When his seat was won by the relatively young warrior she had voted against, she was sure they were in for more of the same.

But Lancer Tal had surprised her. While Lanaril didn't agree with all of her decisions, she supported more of them than she would have expected. As the cycles passed, she even found herself supporting some she had initially opposed, once the long-term consequences manifested themselves. She came to realize that their new Lancer played a long game, foregoing the quick, easy positions in favor of the harder, less popular ones that looked toward the future.

And then one day the Lancer appeared in her study, looking for assurances while she made one of the hardest decisions of all. From there they had begun a friendship, which Lanaril had come close to exploding in one ill-advised moment.

She should have known that Andira would play the long game in this as well. The debate had been intense, but with the Prime Scholar spearheading the yes vote, supported by the Lancer and the Lead Templars of Blacksun and Redmoon, opinions had begun to shift. Lanaril's visceral demonstration on the broadcast debate had been replayed over and over again, along with the now-famous quote from Rax Sestak:
They'd say “let us go.” They'd say “put us out of this misery.”

The Council vote was decisive, with a two-thirds majority voting yes.

When Andira made the official announcement, she had Rax at her side. He thanked the Council and the people of Alsea for showing true mercy.

Three days later, the shattered Voloth were finally being released from their suffering. Every news channel had wall-to-wall coverage of the event, most with a readout on the screen counting the number of Voloth reported dead. Lanaril spent the morning and afternoon in her temple, helping those who sought guidance or reassurance on this terrible day and praying when she had a moment to herself. Now and again she would slip into her study for a breather and to check the ongoing count.

It was almost evenmeal when the readout reached its final count of two hundred and forty-four.

Lanaril turned off her vidcom and called her aide. “It's time,” she told him.

She was pouring her first drink when the great bell of her temple rang out a single, sonorous note. One tick later, it tolled again.

It would take nearly two and a half hanticks for the bell to toll once for every Voloth death. She had consoled and prayed all she was going to; now she just wanted to be alone in her study. Perhaps she could drink enough to forget the part she had played in this event. Releasing the Voloth was the right thing to do; she had never questioned that once her decision was made. But it was done and there was no going back. She had helped—no, she had actively strategized and fought—to kill two hundred and forty-four living beings.

The knock on her door startled her as she was picking up her glass, and she swore softly when a few drops spilled. “Just a moment,” she called, wiping up the liquid.

A second knock sounded before she could reach the door, and she opened it impatiently. “What is your—oh.”

Andira held up a bottle. “Have you started drinking yet?”

“Only just.” She stepped aside and watched her walk in, tension in every line of her body.

“Oh, no. Not that,” Andira said, setting her bottle next to Lanaril's. “That's much too light. We'd have to drink at least a bottle each to stop feeling. I've brought something much more efficient.”

Indeed she had. “I don't normally drink grain spirits.”

“This is not a normal day.” Andira fetched new glasses from the sideboard, uncapped the bottle, and poured their drinks. Handing one to Lanaril, she held up the other in a salute and then tipped its entire contents down her throat.

Lanaril watched in amazement. “I can't do that.”

“Yes, you can. Go on, the first is the hardest. It will get easier after that.”

She had never seen her friend in a mood like this. Hesitantly, she lifted the glass and took a sniff. “Great Mother! Did you get this from the small-engine repair shop? I think they use it as a degreaser.”

Andira chuckled, the tension in her body easing slightly. “That probably would have been quite a bit cheaper. Come on, Lanaril. I brought you the expensive stuff. The least you can do is try it.”

Taking a breath, Lanaril drank off half the contents of the glass, which was as much as she could force down before her lips closed of their own accord. She swallowed hard and gasped for air. “Holy shekking—”

“Ah, it seems to be working.”

“Whew! I can feel it all the way down to my stomach.” Lanaril licked her lips and examined her glass. “And now it's up in my nose. This is potent.”

“That's the point.” Andira was already topping off the glass. She refilled her own, set the bottle on the side table, and flopped into the armchair next to it.

Lanaril took the other chair. “Are you all right?”

“Are you? We just killed two hundred and forty-four Voloth in their beds. Your bell is tolling for them right now. Should we be all right?”

Lanaril sipped her drink, which didn't taste quite so harsh now. “I thought it might be easier for you,” she said. “You never gave any indication that you had a moral issue with this.”

“You mean you thought it might be easier for me because I'm a warrior.”

Lanaril reached for her hand. The emotions that came through their touch were stronger than she would have guessed, and she sucked in a breath. “I'm sorry. I should know you well enough by now to know better.”

Andira squeezed her hand once and let go. “I'm trying to tell myself that this is just an extension of the battle. The logical end. They either died back then, or they died today, but either way they had to die.”

“And I'm trying to tell myself that this was an act of mercy,” Lanaril said. “Which it was, but there isn't anything in my training or a single one of my interpretive texts that applies to it. And I looked, believe me. I wanted to find some precedent to guide me or at least help me feel better about it, but it doesn't exist. So I'm left with knowing it's right, yet being unable to point to any trusted source to explain
how
I know it's right.”

“I know what you mean. I stopped looking at the Truth and the Path for precedents while I was on vacation. That's when I realized that Alsea has outgrown its past. We can't keep looking backward for guidance. We have to look forward and inward instead.”

“Exactly. But it's hard to convince other templars in a moral debate when my main source is…me.”

“Perhaps you should write the next text, then.”

“Well, someone has to do it, yes?”

They shared a chuckle before Lanaril continued, “I just wish my inner voice was a little louder right now. It was perfectly confident while you and I were strategizing. It was confident when I smashed that panfruit on a global broadcast, and it's been confident while I waited for the Council to decide. But now…”

She trailed off, and in the silence, the next toll of the bell sounded twice as loud.

“I don't know how many Voloth I killed in the battle. I didn't keep track. It was a lot, but it certainly wasn't two hundred and forty-four.” Andira tossed down half her drink and didn't seem to notice. “One of them I shot at point-blank range after I empathically forced her out of her ground pounder. She was climbing down the leg and I shot her without a second thought. Then I ran past her almost before her body hit the ground.”

Lanaril watched her silently and wondered if she had ever spoken of this before now.

“When I climbed inside that ground pounder and saw the results of our projection—you don't want to know what it looked like. Gehrain came up behind me and said…” She paused, a wry smile crossing her face. “He said we overdid it. And just for a moment, it was funny, because Fahla, we really did. There were brains—” She looked up in sudden realization. “Sorry.”

“It's all right. I've heard quite a few stories about what our people saw.”

“I guess you have.”

“But I haven't heard yours.”

Andira's expression said it all. She heard the encouragement to unburden herself, and part of her wanted to reject it. The other part, the part that was finally stronger tonight, couldn't stop speaking.

“If I hadn't been so focused on battle strategy, I would have laughed. I'd have stood there with blood running past my boots and laughed, because I'd spent so much time worrying about how we could beat this invincible foe and it was so
easy.
All we had to do was break the bond that holds us to civilization.”

“Temporarily,” Lanaril said.

“Yes, but it's not something you can ever put back again, is it? Not entirely. None of us who did that will ever forget it.”

“I would worry if you
could
forget it.”

“Hm.” Andira tilted her head as the bell tolled again. “Hard to forget any of it tonight.”

Lanaril made a noise of agreement and sipped her drink.

“The problem is that we're remembering in different ways,” Andira said. “I remember and want to do everything I can to make sure this never happens to us again. Most of the scholars remember and wish they didn't have to. And a few have made sure they never remember again.”

“May Fahla grant them what they seek,” Lanaril murmured. They hadn't had many suicides, but every one of them broke her heart.

“The veterans who joined those Whitemoon smugglers remembered and decided that mental manipulation was far too easy to give up. They'd been in trouble before, but it was all minor until now. They broke the covenant because we asked them to, and then they couldn't find the boundary again.”

Lanaril sighed. “There were bound to be some. A battle doesn't end with the defeat of the enemy.”

“You know it's only a matter of time before we end up with a veteran who turns to empathic rape or murder.”

“Yes, but I also know that in most cases, they would have done it on their own anyway. The kind of mind that enjoys inflicting harm doesn't suddenly discover the attraction. It's built in. We dug the Pit a long time ago. Empathic criminals aren't new.”

Andira nodded, staring at her drink as she swirled the liquid in the glass. “I met a veteran at the grand opening of the Whitesun Builder Caste House. She was so…not a warrior. Soft voice and gentle manners and a librarian at a children's school, for Fahla's sake. And we threw her into a soul-destroying battle because we had no other choice. She asked if I thought she should join the program and meet the Voloth she turned.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said it helped me realize that neither of us were monsters. She said she already knew the Voloth weren't monsters, because monsters don't love.”

Lanaril paused. “Great Mother. She's right. I should have thought of that argument back when we were debating the amnesty.”

“I asked if she was sure she wasn't a templar.”

“She should be.”

“I know. And that's the kind of heart I worry about. She knows the Voloth soldiers aren't monsters, but she still thinks she is. I'm not worried about the few that can't find the boundary again. I'm worried about the majority. All those high empath scholars and the untrained warriors…all the people I asked to do the unthinkable. I once thought I'd have to pay the highest price for Alsea, but in the end I paid the lowest. I'm one of the least affected. And I don't understand why I feel guilty about killing for mercy when I don't feel guilty for anything I did in that battle. Not one single thing. Not the empathic force, not using the Voloth to kill their own people, not even the fatal covert projection. It was war and it was easy. Live or die. Save Alsea or die trying. There wasn't any mercy involved.”

“Of course there was.”

Andira looked up. “What?”

“Why didn't you destroy your Voloth the same way the untrained high empaths did? Wouldn't it have been easier just to break them, rather than leave them intact? I've met Rax twice now; he seems entirely whole.”

“Because I take pride in my skill.”

Lanaril picked up her drink and waited.

After a long moment of silence, Andira sighed. “Because I didn't have to. It wasn't necessary. And…I didn't want to live with that.”

Leaning forward, Lanaril said, “Let me see if I understand. You were in a pitched battle the likes of which Alsea has never seen, with an enemy that we already knew was bent on our utter destruction and enslavement. If there was ever a time when I could understand hatred and revenge, that would be it. You could have destroyed them—taken away everything that made them who they are. But you didn't. Do you know what that sounds like to me? It sounds like mercy.”

Andira stared at her.

“Or maybe it was just pride.” Lanaril saluted her with her glass and sipped it.

“I'm beginning to understand how you made Lead Templar,” Andira said.

“And I'm relieved you made Lancer. Because you did save Alsea.”

“We all did. You were ready to do your part as well. You would have been the very first to break Fahla's covenant. Did I ever tell you how shekking impressed I was with that? With your courage?”