seen them in her record. Yet she wasn’t unlikeable; even here, at her trial, she had shown glimpses of a self-mocking sense of humour. How had she found time in her life, which wouldn’t last much longer, for such a career? And how could she have done those things?
“Commander Ansah, these proceedings are concluded. The Court will adjourn to consider its verdict on the two charges against you: Cowardice and Desertion.”
He realised, only after he said it, that the final words he would speak to her in these proceedings, the final words on the transcript until the announcement of the verdict, would be Cowardice and Desertion.
The Chairman felt a mounting unease. He knew that an injustice was going to be done, but he genuinely didn’t see how to make it right; and even the injustice would have some trace elements of justice. Nothing was simple.
The outcome was inevitable, like the fate of those five Isis ships; she knew that. But there was something he still might do for her.
“Ebele Ansah, please stand. The Court has now reached its verdict,” the Chairman told her, three days later. “On the charge of Cowardice we find you Not Guilty. Unanimously. On the charge of Desertion we find you Guilty. Eleven votes to one.”
Ansah gazed back at him, without any visible emotion.
This was what the Chairman had done for her. For three days he had argued against the Cowardice charge, insisting they find her Not Guilty. Their opposition was furious, but he would not be moved. Sensing his mood, some of them had even tried to compromise with a verdict of Not Proven, but still he would not be moved. So, Not Guilty of Cowardice was what he had done for her, but Guilty of Desertion was inevitable. Even she knew that.
“Commander, you know the sentence.”
“Yes,” Ansah said. “I request the Court to allow me to carry it out on myself, in accordance with military custom.”
“That’s granted, of course. You have until midnight. The Court Secretary will bring you the necessary substances.”
“Thank you.”
“Commander,” the Chairman said, “would you like us to provide you with a companion of some kind?”
“Yes. I’d like my guard, if he agrees.” She turned to the Sakhran. “Will you?”
“Of course,” he said. It was the first time they had spoken to each other.
•
The pictures faded from where Foord had imagined them, in some quasi-space behind the words of the transcript; then the words themselves faded from the screen. He turned away. His grief for Ansah had come, occupied its allotted time, and gone; much like his relationship with her. What it left was a sense of unfamiliarity, the knowledge that she was no longer a part of the universe. It would make the shape of his life different. The rest of his life, for as far as he chose to see it, would be devoted to Faith. We were made for each other. We belong together.
He recounted his mission briefing from the Department. It was an irritating document, overwritten and portentous (the Department always knew more than it let on, or thought it did) and ultimately of no use to him. Everyone wants to know what She is and where She comes from. Me, I’m interested only in what She’s done. I’ve studied what She’s done, and I know how to defeat Her.
“Thahl.”
“Commander?”
“Lay in a course for Blentport on Sakhra, please.”
PART FOUR
1
I t was a late autumn afternoon, and the sun Horus bled through a bandage of clouds. He arrived alone, cramped and tired after the journey. Foord was disappointed, but not surprised, when they didn’t come out to meet him.
Almost before he stepped out, the Sakhran landchariot which brought him clattered back towards the lowlands, its driver hissing and flaying the team. He looked up at Hrissihr and saw the great black disc daubed over one of its buttresses. A srahr: he remembered reading about it in his mission briefing from the Department.
The srahr (unlike the name of the historical
“Commander Ansah, these proceedings are concluded. The Court will adjourn to consider its verdict on the two charges against you: Cowardice and Desertion.”
He realised, only after he said it, that the final words he would speak to her in these proceedings, the final words on the transcript until the announcement of the verdict, would be Cowardice and Desertion.
The Chairman felt a mounting unease. He knew that an injustice was going to be done, but he genuinely didn’t see how to make it right; and even the injustice would have some trace elements of justice. Nothing was simple.
The outcome was inevitable, like the fate of those five Isis ships; she knew that. But there was something he still might do for her.
“Ebele Ansah, please stand. The Court has now reached its verdict,” the Chairman told her, three days later. “On the charge of Cowardice we find you Not Guilty. Unanimously. On the charge of Desertion we find you Guilty. Eleven votes to one.”
Ansah gazed back at him, without any visible emotion.
This was what the Chairman had done for her. For three days he had argued against the Cowardice charge, insisting they find her Not Guilty. Their opposition was furious, but he would not be moved. Sensing his mood, some of them had even tried to compromise with a verdict of Not Proven, but still he would not be moved. So, Not Guilty of Cowardice was what he had done for her, but Guilty of Desertion was inevitable. Even she knew that.
“Commander, you know the sentence.”
“Yes,” Ansah said. “I request the Court to allow me to carry it out on myself, in accordance with military custom.”
“That’s granted, of course. You have until midnight. The Court Secretary will bring you the necessary substances.”
“Thank you.”
“Commander,” the Chairman said, “would you like us to provide you with a companion of some kind?”
“Yes. I’d like my guard, if he agrees.” She turned to the Sakhran. “Will you?”
“Of course,” he said. It was the first time they had spoken to each other.
•
The pictures faded from where Foord had imagined them, in some quasi-space behind the words of the transcript; then the words themselves faded from the screen. He turned away. His grief for Ansah had come, occupied its allotted time, and gone; much like his relationship with her. What it left was a sense of unfamiliarity, the knowledge that she was no longer a part of the universe. It would make the shape of his life different. The rest of his life, for as far as he chose to see it, would be devoted to Faith. We were made for each other. We belong together.
He recounted his mission briefing from the Department. It was an irritating document, overwritten and portentous (the Department always knew more than it let on, or thought it did) and ultimately of no use to him. Everyone wants to know what She is and where She comes from. Me, I’m interested only in what She’s done. I’ve studied what She’s done, and I know how to defeat Her.
“Thahl.”
“Commander?”
“Lay in a course for Blentport on Sakhra, please.”
PART FOUR
1
I t was a late autumn afternoon, and the sun Horus bled through a bandage of clouds. He arrived alone, cramped and tired after the journey. Foord was disappointed, but not surprised, when they didn’t come out to meet him.
Almost before he stepped out, the Sakhran landchariot which brought him clattered back towards the lowlands, its driver hissing and flaying the team. He looked up at Hrissihr and saw the great black disc daubed over one of its buttresses. A srahr: he remembered reading about it in his mission briefing from the Department.
The srahr (unlike the name of the historical
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