Sample of “Revelation in Vela (book two of The Incepti Cataclysm trilogy)”

21 Hamaticrucis c

1

Forget the pomp and circumstance of ceremonial chambers and swarms of cameras. The galaxy’s real decisions came out of small rooms hidden from the public eye.

Junior priests led Anara and the professor to a conference room high in the north wing of the High Temple. Floor-to-ceiling windows of one-way glass showed a courtyard with a small steakfruit orchard partially screening a small wooden structure. Thickening clouds dappled the courtyard with shade. Beyond the courtyard rose the northwest quadrant of the High Temple’s outer ring, where thousands of junior priests like the ones guiding them toiled away in offices. Bureaucrats maintaining the Theocracy’s iron grip on the Velan worlds.

Anara shook her head, rubbed her eyes. Three months in the Velan worlds, she knew these people well enough to be more charitable. The vast majority of Velans were loyal to the Theocracy, yes. Out of love, not fear. The vast majority of priests of the One God were motivated by duty in both directions, to god and man.

How many of the Democracy’s bureaucrats back home on Alpha Aemulatori could say the same?

She turned her attention to the men waiting for them. A select committee of the Synod of Elders, the rulers of the Theocracy, or as the Velans called their realm, the Worlds Unified by Faith. Seven of them, seated behind a long table that ran from wall to window with a foot to spare on each side. Brown robes and hoods up like all other priests. The only markers of their high rank came from the heavy pendants, platinum and diamond, resting against their chests. The Velan cross, four barbed arms touching an enclosing circle. Their faith spreading to the galactic rim or permeating every facet of the human mind. The metaphor didn’t matter. Their faith was not hers.

Anara looked for a familiar face. There, second from the window, jaw like sculpted granite. His lined forehead and the gray flecks at his temples gave him a distinguished look. Wynston Alcantar, newest member of the Synod. He met her gaze and gave a minimal nod of greeting.

The other Elders were only names to her, projected by her subcutaneous implanted computer through her transcranial magnetic stimulation hat to her optic nerve. Names floated in her vision on the table in front of the seated men. Crantos, Gavinson, Beyett, others… Luckily there wouldn’t be a closed-notes quiz.

The Elders were not alone. Between the table and the door stood more priests, most of these with wristbands or cuffs patterned in red, green, or white. Specialists in foreign affairs, intelligence officials, defense strategists. Amid the priests clumped together men in the black and gray dress uniforms of the Velan Fleet and Marines. Civilians, including the only other women in the room, clad in formal attire, shades of gray, blazers with wide lapels, shirts zippered up to the neck.

The low burble of side conversations ran to silence. All eyes turned to Anara and the professor.

The two of them would look out of place anywhere on 21 Hamaticrucis c. Their yellow eyes and narrow chins showed they traced their ancestry to Mu Incepti V, a world devastated by nanotechnological catastrophe during the past war between the Velans and the Democracy. Decades of mistrustful peace clouded the way these people looked at her and the professor, she realized, exactly as those decades still clouded her view of them. A few months hadn’t yet washed away the habits of many years.

More than that, of course, lurked in the eyes of these Velans. Anara Orden and Professor Radano Tissart had become household names on every Velan world. The confrontation at the Revelation Day ceremony with Elder Auston Centrich. The professor’s confession of his and his friends’ responsibility for the Incepti Cataclysm, contrary to the official lies told by the Democracy leadership and echoed by Centrich to justify his power grab.

Two unassuming figures. A middle-aged bearded college professor, with shifting levels of wisdom and sadness in his yellow eyes. A young woman with a stocky heavyworlder build and a dark blond ponytail hanging below the narrow all-around brim of her bucket hat in robin’s egg blue. The people who toppled one villainous leader.

The people who brought down the wrath of another on the Velan worlds.

From the middle of the table came the rapping of knuckles on the tabletop, followed by precisely enunciated Velan words. “Professor Tissart, Miss Orden, welcome.”

Anara touched the professor’s elbow. He went forward, across a pale wood floor of synthetic birch. She followed a half-step behind, scanning the faces behind the table and watching through her peripheral vision for threats. Velan counterintelligence would have cleared everyone here. But she hadn’t.

Officers and civilians parted for them. Unreadable eyes shied away from her gaze.

She stopped next to the professor, in front of the table of Elders. A virtual display named the one who’d spoken as Gavinson. He tapped the flats of long clean fingernails against his coffee cup. Gavinson studied them with eyes that seemed friendly, though it only took her a moment to recognize his type, the kind of politician in whom you could see and hear what you wanted, and get blindsided when he revealed his true position.

“Thank you, all of you,” Anara said, “for inviting us here.”

“Don’t thank us.” Short, wiry Beyett sat between Gavinson and Wynston Alcantar. A smirk curled up his lips. “Kentatu Donnall made you the guests of honor.”

A mix of chuckles and sucked-in breaths confirmed what she’d guessed. The mood in the room was split.

Gavinson cleared his throat. “We all know about yesterday’s ultimatum from the Democracy…” He pushed an image to a shared data space visible to all in the room. On the back wall behind the Elders showed multiple pages of text.

“…but I’ll recap for anyone who didn’t do their homework. Because we allowed Professor Tissart to tell the Velan people the truth, the Democracy will declare war if we don’t denounce his testimony and hand him and Miss Orden over. The deadline is in about fourteen local days. The task for this committee today is to receive your input in your areas of expertise. We will reach a consensus, then report to the full Synod of Elders. The Synod as a whole will decide our response to the ultimatum.”

One of the civilians, a pudgy man in baggy trousers, raised his hand. From the pampered smoothness of his face and the platinum sheen in the zipper pull of his shirt, he looked like he’d bought his way into this meeting. A virtual tag named him Pyoter Faulknen, Director of the Theocracy’s largest nanofab company.

Gavinson told him, “We’ll call on each of you in turn.”

“Even these two?” Pudgy Faulknen’s words slurred together. Anara needed the text popped up by her subcute’s translation app to be certain the content matched his tone. “Foreigners? They’ve got no expertise we need and they got us into this mess in the first place.”

Someone else in the standing crowd mumbled “Hear, hear.” Behind the table, Beyett lowered and raised his chin an inch.

“May I?” Alcantar asked Gavinson.

The chairman gestured back with a manicured hand.

Alcantar licked his lips. He had only been an Elder since Revelation Day, and anyone could show nerves in this, the biggest crisis in four decades. “We invited Tissart and Orden because they have knowledge of the personalities behind the ultimatum.”

“A college professor five jump points from Alpha Aemulatori rubs shoulders with the Democracy Consul?” said Faulknen. “Or did Miss Orden rub something else with him?”

Gavinson sized him up. “Decorum, please.”

Anara faced pudgy Faulknen. She arched an eyebrow and angled her head to shame him for his innuendo. She spoke in Velan, her subcute providing virtual visual feedback on her vocabulary and pronunciation. “The Consul, Parliament, the Diplomatic Office, none of them drove this. It’s the work of my former boss, Democracy Chief Intelligence Officer Kentatu Donnall. Helped by one senator, Vidarno Arensel. Chief Donnall controls key elected officials from all parties through blackmail. He distorts the information he provides to the rest.”

She let out a breath. Not perfectly spoken, but she’d made her points.

Faulknen swatted the air without looking at her. A musky cologne wafted off his wrist. “Fine. They’re here for that. But it’s not their job to say if Velan families should tighten their belts for a war economy, or Velan boys should live or die.”

“Quite true,” Gavinson said. “Nor is it yours.”

Faulknen shuffled back half a step. Discontent rustled through his supporters.

“First,” Gavinson said, “how serious is the threat behind the ultimatum? Is it a bluff?”

Military intelligence spoke first. Along the frontier, the Democracy fleet outnumbered the Velans. Reports from field agents suggested the Democracy redeployed other flotillas from quieter borders to the Velan front.

A priest with a white-and-green checked armband, a specialist from the Foreign Affairs Curia, said, “Our diplomats should work on the Centauri and the Doradonese—”

Gavinson raised his voice one notch. “In time.”

Outside the windows, shadows cloaked the courtyard. The clouds thickened and their bruised bellies hung low.

The conversation continued. Gavinson called on priests, officers, and civilians to each speak his or her piece. Eventually, the puzzle assembled. The Democracy backed up the ultimatum with an invasion force capable of fighting its way to the 21 Hamaticrucis system, leaving hundreds of destroyed ships and hostile occupation of a dozen Velan systems in its wake.

Conversation became argument. An admiral said, “We can mine the jump points—”

“—and stop the first ship. But not the ones behind it,” said a Marine general with baggy eyes. “Instead we build weapons caches and train civilians to use them against occupiers—”

“—or we give them what they want.” Faulknen shrugged his soft shoulders.

His words quieted the room for a moment, but multiple voices soon thundered back.

“—Velan honor—”

“—more systems lost, more 94 Veneratorums—”

Faulknen jutted out one pudgy hand. “If we give them what they want, then we don’t lose any systems.”

“For now,” said Professor Tissart.

“How do you know that? Your old friends gave you powers of divination?” Faulknen’s mouth twisted. His backers nodded.

“I know because I know history. Once you pay danegeld, you never get rid of the Dane. Pardon me, let me put that more plainly. If you give in to a bully, he’ll bully you for more.”

“Unless you build your strength before he comes back,” said Faulknen. “We keep all our systems, we keep our infrastructure intact, we embark on a crash course of ship building and military recruitment, and we’re ready for them next time.”

The marine general shook his head. “The Democracy will use that same time to build up its Space Force and Ground Force even more than they already have.”

“All of you miss the point,” said Alcantar. “Systems? Infrastructure? If we give in, we might keep those for now, but we lose something more important and harder to win back. We lose the confidence of the Velan people. By now, billions have seen the video from Revelation Day. They know Professor Tissart’s words were true enough to drive a former Elder to suicide. They know Vela is innocent of the Incepti Cataclysm. They know decades of guilt-mongering, by the Democracy and by false priests inside our own ranks, were built on a foundation of sand. If we give in, we’d bend the knee to a lie that we know is a lie and the Velan people know is a lie. How do we square that with our claim that we stand for the truth revealed by the One God?”

“We tell them we have to yield for now,” Faulknen said. “To buy time. The One God will see us through in the long term.”

“The Seer faced longer odds than we do,” said one of the Fleet women, with a curved nose and a caduceus pin on her dress gray jacket. Virtual text named her Capt. Tameron, medical branch.

A wave of piety swept through the room. A shiver tickled down Anara’s back too. She’d heard stories of Aidan Payna’s career often over the past months, of the revelation he received, of the vested interests opposed to him, of his eventual triumph. She didn’t believe in Payna’s revelation, of course, but that didn’t matter. He’d acted as if it were true and he won. Inspirational—

Rain clattered on the window like a double handful of flung stones. Anara flinched. The room lights brightened to battle the purple-gray clouds.

Faulknen spoke. “Sadly, the Seer is not here.”

The mood in the room fell. Voices muttered in unwilling disagreement with Faulknen’s sentiment. Dolorous gazes tracked the rain running down the windows like lost hope.

Anara’s breath caught. Aidan Payna wasn’t here, but his example was. He didn’t overcome his foes by fighting them. He didn’t even overcome his foes by standing up to them.

He triumphed because his foes knew exactly why he stood up to them.

The strategy came to her in a flash… followed by the realization she couldn’t say it aloud. From within his pudgy face, Faulknen’s eyes watched her, ready to seize on some reason to denounce her in the name of craven peace.

If she said a word of her intuition, Faulknen would win.

2

A fresh burst of rain struck the windows. The outer ring of the High Temple showed only a dark gray bulk dotted with muffled lights. The downpour completely masked the steakfruit orchard and the Hidden Chapel in the courtyard.

Gavinson raised his voice over the squall outside. “We have a consensus on the situation facing us. Now we will discuss strategies for response.”

Strategies? At her side, Anara’s hands balled into fists. If she couldn’t speak, the Elders could only choose from fight or yield.

The first group to take the floor, priest-diplomats in the Foreign Affairs Curia, confirmed her fear. They proposed a third strategy, of carefully-worded protests, proffered concessions, continued negotiations.

Anara gave a pained grunt. Her squeezed fists showed white knuckles.

“Miss Orden,” said Gavinson. “You have a comment?”

She blinked. Now? Speak your piece…

Faulknen eyed her, his irises like pits in his pudgy face.

No, not yet.

But when?

“Miss Orden?”

“Pardon me.” She willed her fists to open as she bowed to the diplomats. “In college, I took a political science course where the instructor lectured about monolithic, rational state actors that made policy according to clear rules. If that’s how Alpha Aemulatori made decisions, maybe diplomacy would work. But it doesn’t. The rational actor calling the shots on the other side is Kentatu Donnall, with help from Senator Arensel. They reached their positions by riding the lie of Velan responsibility for the Incepti Cataclysm. If the masses in the Democracy learned the truth, those two would be disgraced, now and in the history books. So they can’t allow the masses to learn the truth.”

One of the Elders spoke. Crantos, the one with bushy black eyebrows and a broad nose. “Blackmail and doctored intelligence reports are how he controls Alpha Aemulatori, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Which he brags about to all his junior agents,” Faulknen said in a side conversation. He clearly meant his sarcasm to be overheard.

Crantos’ eyebrows flexed like inchworms at Anara. “And the masses in the Democracy? How does he keep them under control?”

Anara mused. She didn’t know the masses. She knew her parents. Her non-Incepti classmates from her childhood on Epsilon Tutelum II. Acquaintances from college who went on to normal lives free of subterfuge and murder. “Most people see the world through their senses and memories. Life in the Democracy is good. Long lives, comfort, possessions. New colonies are opening through the Mu Incepti outbound jump point. And they’ve been told since birth the Democracy are the good guys. The masses believe they deserve material prosperity and new worlds to settle because their parents saved the galaxy from—” She bowed and put on a wry smile. “—religious fanatics who destroyed a planet.” A hint of her plan leaked into her tone. “They don’t know any better.”

Her words sounded full of portent to her, but Crantos simply nodded to Gavinson. The latter said, “Thank you, Miss Orden. General, your proposal, please.”

She turned away from the Elders. She raised one fist to her mouth to mask her mashed lips. Hints wouldn’t work. But neither would words.

An intuition bubbled up her torso and lifted her chest.

Her words wouldn’t work…

She watched the Marine general discussing planet-based resistance while she thought. The TMS circuits woven into her bucket hat picked up her brain activity. Her subcute turned into an outgoing message. Not for the general, but for one of the seated figures in her peripheral vision. «Elder Alcantar, it’s important we talk, right now.»

Alcantar responded with the barest nod of his solid lower jaw. He kept his gaze on the general too, while his words sounded in Anara’s mind. «Tell me.»

She ran through her proposed strategy and its parallels to Payna’s career. The unexpected things the Velan military and civilians would have to do. They would have to show far more discipline than Marines in combat.

He kept his visage impassive. He listened, but what did he make of her words?

Anara finished. She wanted to look at Alcantar’s face, but resisted. Her toes curled against the rubber sole of her chukka boots, irrationally trying to grip the floor in case his reply rocked her on her feet.

The Elder’s voice rang out in her mind. «I don’t know who’ll oppose it more. Fleet or Faulknen.»

She sloughed out a breath. At least he considered her strategy. Her virtual voice sounded brighter. «My guess, Faulknen.»

«It’s risky.»

«Talking about it?» Anara asked. «Or putting it in practice?»

«Both.»

«True, but is it more risky than fighting a war when outnumbered?»

Alcantar replied with a chuckle. «I’ll propose it. I cannot guarantee my brethren on the Synod will choose it.»

«I understand. Thank you.» Anara broke the connection.

Her subcute recapped for her the Marine general’s half-heard plan. Weapons caches and mass guerrilla action against Democracy occupiers.

Faulknen stepped forward to speak. “Respectfully to the general, there’s a lot of problems with his plan. Civilian fabs are my business. They don’t have the code to assemble weapons. Fourteen local days is barely enough time to push code updates to nearby systems anyway.”

“Every system has military fabs.”

“Sure, but General, how long do soldiers train on blaster cannons and other heavy weapons before they have a prayer of using them effectively in combat?” Faulknen turned to the Elders. “And there’s a humanitarian risk. In the war, the Democracy did a lot of vile things, but it never targeted civilian fabs. In exchange we kept civilian fabs fully civilian. No weapons came out of them. My predecessors even wiped the code for sledgehammers and butcher knives.”

“And lost Ven-bee-cee,” muttered one of the other civilians. Lavigne, wide-faced and rumpled, chief of the missionary assistance society.

Faulknen gave a dismissive little head shake. “The 94 Ven system was doomed either way. Turn civilian fabs into weapons factories under Democracy occupation and the Democracy will blow them up. You won’t get a billion guerrillas. You’ll get billions of people starving to death.”

Gavinson cleared his throat. “Points noted. Anyone else have comment on the general’s proposal? No? Next, Fleet?”

The admirals in dress gray brought up multiple strategies, in droning voices full of jargon. First, defending system-by-system with a tactical variation. Send the lancers, ships that were effectively one giant blaster cannon, at high speed through enemy formations. Second, forward defense, deploying 95% of the Fleet’s ships to systems on the Democracy frontier. Numbers, timetables, simulation results…

Anara tapped her toes inside her boots. When would Elder Alcantar have a chance to speak?

“Third,” one of the admirals said, “a strategy quite the opposite of the forward defense, a variant of defense-in-depth that also forces the enemy to account for our fleet-in-being…”

After a few moments, she deciphered the jargon. The Velan Fleet would not give battle. Its squadrons in each system would wait until Democracy ships entered through one jump point, then withdraw through the next in sight of the enemy. It would be especially effective at 87 Constantiae, which had three outbound jump points. The Democracy would have to split its forces to defend against counterattacks on its lines of communication.

Meanwhile, the bulk of the Fleet would assemble at 21 Hamaticrucis, while the rest would form up behind the main Democracy force. The second formation would follow the enemy into the Velan capital system. The final encounter would be a pincer attack on the Democracy’s overextended main force.

Anara stole a glance at Alcantar. He leaned forward and briefly met her gaze.

Faulknen spoke first. “How many systems would we give up to Democracy occupation?”

The other admiral said, “At most, if the Democracy attacks on a broad front, seventeen. The occupation would be temporary. A decisive victory would undo any harm the Democracy could do to our worlds and people. From a position of strength, we could compel the return of 94 Veneratorum to its rightful home.”

Faulknen snorted out a breath. “And a decisive defeat means the Democracy will burn down the High Temple in the name of religious freedom.”

Alcantar leaned toward the center of the table, hand raised, eyes afire. A warm breath filled Anara’s lungs. It was time.

Gavinson said to him, “Speak, brother.”

Though Alcantar’s words came at a measured pace, excitement filled his tone. “Someone mentioned the Seer faced longer odds than we do. We all know he did not waver and triumphed in the end. Though he’s not here, his example lives on. We can apply it to Fleet’s third strategy. We can set up a decisive encounter here in the 21 Hamaticrucis system. In this decisive encounter we will not fire a shot.”

Around the room, brows knitted and muttered questions trailed off. Faulknen stepped forward. “If you’re a defeatist, we should give in to the ultimatum and be done with it.”

“We don’t need to fire a shot to win.”

The admirals crossed their arms and scowled. “With respect,” one said, “leave Fleet affairs to us.”

Alcantar’s firm jaw made Anara think of some patriarch from some ancient religion the professor had told her about. “The Democracy has a weak spot. Our guests have told us what it is. The Democracy’s ultimatum is based on lies.”

He forged ahead. “If we reject their ultimatum, thousands of Democracy space and ground personnel will invade our systems. Thousands of bureaucrats and civilian contractors will follow to remake occupied worlds. But not a single one of them knows why they are invading. Hence, we will tell them.”

The storm tossed more rain against the windows. With wide hands, one of the civilians, Lavigne, smoothed some wrinkles in his jacket. “Tell them.”

“The instant a Democracy ship comes through the jump point, we will broadcast on every frequency everything Professor Tissart and Miss Orden have told us. In every encounter between a Democracy occupier and a Velan civilian, the civilian will talk about the true story of the Incepti Cataclysm, including the roles of Kentatu Donnall and Senator Vidarno Arensel, and forgive the occupier for his ignorance. I may lack expertise on military affairs, but I know rumor and gossip are endemic to all large groups. The professor’s testimony will spread farther and faster inside the Democracy because of this invasion. Rather than leave well enough alone, Kentatu Donnall will bring about his own downfall.”

The admirals looked at Alcantar as if he were a senile uncle to be humored for an inheritance. The Marine general looked at him as if he were a bright-eyed and ignorant child. “With respect, you hope the Democracy forces will mutiny.”

One of the admirals found his tongue. “Elder, you’re right enough that every military unit suffers from rumor and gossip. But every military unit worth a blast—pardon my Carinese.” He added a placating gesture to the Velan women in the room. “Fleets and Marines use political instruction, discipline, and the military justice system to keep rumor and gossip in check.”

Faulknen chimed in. “The Democracy’s got all that in spades.” Though his words mushed together his oily tone made the meaning plain. “Miss Orden talked about the Democracy’s political instruction, didn’t she? She called it what it is. Propaganda.”

His audacity rocked her to silence. I never used that word.

“And Professor Tissart,” Faulknen said, “is a historian. He’s got to know that the worst atrocities ever were committed by people who believed they’re the good guys. You’re good enough at your job to know that, aren’t you?”

The professor rocked from side to side. “Ancient Earth was a long time ago. The ethno-cultural bottlenecks of galactic expansion have selected for—”

“Human nature is the same as it ever was,” Faulknen said. “Greedy, craven, run by peer pressure and herd mentality and respect for authority and my country right or wrong. There’s no way Democracy military people would mutiny based on our say-so.”

The rain eased, leaving only a whisper on the roof above and the courtyard below. Alcantar’s voice boomed through the room. “Which is why this strategy takes more than words. Turn again to the example of the Seer. What did he say as he stood alone and unarmed in front of the leaders of the old regime? ‘I know what is true.’”

Beyett shook his head. Voice sharp, he said, “The Seer’s words shouldn’t be taken out of context—”

“—nor twisted till their meaning is wrung out,” said Crantos. He glowered at Beyett, who then glared back.

“Brothers.” Gavinson’s voice held a note of warning. No more bickering, at least in front of laity.

The General’s expression toward Alcantar hadn’t changed. “You’re serious about us holding our fire?”

“It’s the best way to show we know what is true. We turn off the planetary shield generators. We don’t fire even when fired upon.”

Faulknen tossed back his head and barked out a laugh. “That’s cold-blooded. You’d sacrifice thousands, millions, billions of civilians. Hmm, we were speaking of rubbing…” He trailed off before Gavinson could scold him, though he added a last mocking glance at Alcantar and Anara.

Alcantar returned a level gaze. “We would sacrifice no one.”

“Whatever, not a sacrifice, what’s the other word?” Faulknen said. Someone muttered near him and he snapped his fingers. “A gambit.”

Head fixed, jaw like a shield, Alcantar said, “We would ask billions of civilians to live their faith as the Seer lived his.”

A silence followed. Gavinson’s eyes swept the room. “No further comments? Very well. We thank you for your input. Go in peace in the name of the One God.”

The Elders had heard enough. Now they would deliberate. A hand full of bad cards, how would they play them? Or would they fold, mucking Anara and the professor into the discard pile for the sake of peace?

Anara gave each Elder a quick study. Alcantar sided with her and the professor. Maybe Crantos as well. Beyett clearly stood against them. Gavinson and the others? She couldn’t tell.

The doors opened. The crowd filed out. Drawn faces showed the Democracy ultimatum weighed on them all. Faulknen passed close enough to sneer at her. His cologne stank. The fresher air of the corridor filled her with relief.

The junior priests came forward. Had they been at the ready the entire time? They bowed and led Anara and Professor Tissart toward the elevators.

Though the crowd thinned out, the professor spoke in a private channel. He’d learned some subterfuge from his months on the run with her. «Interesting. History is full of examples of religiously-motivated passive resistance. I hadn’t expected Alcantar to conceive of this strategy.»

«He didn’t,» Anara replied. «I did.»

Some subterfuge, but not enough. The professor turned his narrow, bearded chin to her, an obvious sign they communicated in private. «When?»

«It came to me during the meeting. I knew if I brought it up, Faulknen would poison it. So I reached out to Alcantar like this.»

«Clever. We’ll see if it works.»

Now she wanted to look at him, but she resisted. «You don’t think it will?»

«Passive resistance is only effective when the physically more powerful force has a moral code that makes it feel guilty over its actions. But that’s not enough. A faction on the powerful side must use that guilt against other factions for internal political gain.»

«The Democracy has a moral code,» Anara said. «At least most people do.»

«My old friends Kentatu and Vidarno don’t. Though that doesn’t matter. Passive resistance wouldn’t end when they confess their crimes, but when others convict them in the court of public opinion. Though who will do that?»

Thoughts swirled of politics on Alpha Aemulatori, as glimpsed from her former junior role in the Office. Blackmail, innuendo, political backscratching. Kentatu Donnall used all of it to amass power. Who could rise up against him?

The elevator doors pinged open. The junior priests waited for them to enter. The flash of brown from their robes brought her back to the present.

«I don’t know whether it will work either,» Anara said. Nervous energy made her bounce on her feet on the floor of the elevator car. As the doors slid shut, she continued, «But before we can find out, the Elders have to agree to try it.»

3

From the Foreign Affairs Curia of the Worlds Unified by Faith in the One God, on behalf of the Synod of Elders of our Faith, to the Chief Diplomatic Officer of the Carinese Democracy:

The bellicose tone and unreasonable demands you made in your recent communiqué filled us with surprise and disappointment. In the decades since the end of the previous state of war between our governments, the Worlds Unified by Faith have sought peace. Our commitment to peace arises from the immense and painful burden that renewed hostilities would inflict on the faithful of our worlds. Our commitment to peace is independent of any particular historical understanding regarding the facts behind the destruction of the biosphere of Mu Incepti V, commonly termed the Incepti Cataclysm.
As your communiqué states, and as we hereby acknowledge, the historical understanding of the Incepti Cataclysm prevailing among the Synod of Elders and the faithful has recently changed. We note that your communiqué does not inform the reader of the basis for this change. Though we are aware of the basis, other persons, *e.g.*, employees in your office and other citizens of the Carinese Democracy, may not be so aware.

Accordingly, we inform them that the change in our prevailing historical understanding of the Incepti Cataclysm is based on numerous points of evidence, including:

Testimony of Radano Tissart, a native of Mu Incepti V, concerning the accidental release by him and his comrades Kentatu Donnall and Vidarno Arensel of the Incepti Cataclysm;

An attempt by Democracy agents to assassinate Prof. Tissart during his asylum in the Worlds Unified;

Accusations by Prof. Tissart that a former member of the Synod perjured himself during trials in which officers of the Fleet of the Worlds Unified were wrongly convicted and executed for causing the Incepti Cataclysm;

The suicide of that former member of the Synod in the face of Prof. Tissart's accusation and other evidence;

Data collected post-mortem from the brain of that former member of the Synod; and

Testimony of senior aides of that former member of the Synod, that he admitted his perjury to them as part of their initiation to higher levels of his conspircy, that he ordered willfully negligent acts which abetted the attempted assassination of Prof. Tissart by Democracy agents, and that he ordered a second attempt to assassinate Prof. Tissart.

To borrow a phrase from your communiqué, the Worlds Unified cannot forget but do forgive that a false historical understanding arose in the aftermath of the previous state of war. The evidence set forth above strongly suggests that this false historical understanding was promulgated by Mr. Donnall, now your government's Chief Intelligence Officer, and Mr. Arensel, now a Senator in your government. Therefore, the Worlds Unified have no quarrel with your government. We leave any investigation, trial, conviction, punishment, or other consequences for Mr. Donnall and Mr. Arensel to the will of the Carinese Democracy and its citizens.

Your communiqué demanded we undertake several concrete assurances to maintain peace. Among them, you demanded we cease all aid and advice to forces resisting your government's control of 94 Veneratorum Bc. We have never provided aid or advice to such forces. Therefore, compliance with this demand is thus impossible.
The bulk of your demands asked us to reject the evidence presented above regarding the destruction of the biosphere of Mu Incepti V and to remand Prof. Tissart and his companion, Miss Anara Orden, to your custody. Given the weight of the evidence described above, your government's attempt to silence Prof. Tissart, and your government's threat of armed action if we continue to act upon our revised historical understanding, we conclude that the destruction of the biosphere of Mu Incepti V took place essentially as described by Prof. Tissart. We further conclude that your demand that Prof. Tissart and Miss Orden be handed to you is intended solely to silence them through extrajudicial execution.

Because no government can long endure if it denies reality, we cannot and will not lie to the faithful or sacrifice Prof. Tissart and Miss Orden for political expediency. We therefore reject your remaining demands.
We reject your demands with full cognizance of your statement that your government "will consider it necessary to engage in defensive military operations" against the Worlds Unified. If your military operations are purely defensive in character, meaning they will take place solely in Democracy space, we have no objection. We could have no objection; we respect the sovereignty of the Carinese Democracy. Our sole comment is that you would be building defenses against an attack that will never come.

If, however, your use of the word "defensive" is a euphemism for an invasion by your forces of the Worlds Unified, we will resist, secure in the justice of our stand and in our faith in the One God.