“I understand your concern,” Trejo said, one palm up as if to say, Please stop whining.
“First, they all saw the Tempest stand up to their fleet. They knew what it was capable of. And we saw them destroy the same unkillable ship. We don’t know what else they’re capable of.”
“The readings from Sol are consistent with the full complement of antimatter resupply we sent having been used,” Cortázar said.
“And there isn’t any more missing,” Trejo said. “All that still exists is either being isolated on the construction platforms or was shipped to bomb ships in other systems. It’s possible that they’ve been appropriated by the enemy since the loss of the Typhoon, but we haven’t heard of any that have gone missing.”
“So if it’s not that,” Ilich said, “then what is up their sleeve that they’re willing to throw three hundred—”
“Four hundred,” Trejo said. “More came through.”
“Four hundred ships at us? Because unless they’ve all suddenly become suicidal, we have to assume they know something.”
Elvi tended to agree with Ilich’s point, if not with his tone. She also understood why Trejo seemed more at ease. After all the alien strangeness and political intrigue, a nice simple shooting war was a move back into his comfort zone. Not into hers, though.
“You let me worry about that,” Trejo said. “I’ve already been in touch with Admiral Gujarat. The Whirlwind’s still not at a hundred percent readiness, but she’s comfortable taking it out so long as it stays in-system. I have no interest in putting our last Magnetar through the gates anyway. We’re ready for this. What we aren’t ready for is the high consul’s silence.”
“Would seem strange,” Cortázar said.
“Leading a secret task force focused on the things that killed Medina is plausible,” Trejo said. “Reassuring, e
ven. Staying silent in the face of an invasion is not. We need his face on this. No options.”
“I’m not sure how we do that,” Elvi said. “He hasn’t had a really lucid moment since—”
“We make it,” Trejo said. “I understand that this is a little below your collective pay grade, but I’m not interested in bringing a media team into the fold. We’ll scan the high consul, get recordings of his voice, and generate a message to enemy and empire. You have some experience with imaging, yes?”
“I’ve run a bunch of animals through sampling pouches,” Elvi said. “It’s not really the same thing.”
“We can make it work,” Ilich said.
“Good,” Trejo said, and stood. For a moment, Elvi thought the meeting was adjourned and started to head for the door herself. “Dr. Okoye. We’re not waiting on this. We’re doing it now.”
The scanning device wasn’t particularly bulky, but Duarte’s room wasn’t built for it. Kelly had dressed the high consul in his formal uniform and was helping him to his chair. The thought, as Elvi understood it, was that if they scanned the uniform into the same profile as the man, creating the false version would be simpler.
“There are going to be forensic traces,” Cortázar said. “There always are.”
“We have very good imaging programs,” Trejo said as he tried to fit the lighting stick into its base.
“Other people do too,” Cortázar said. “I’m not objecting to the plan. Just be prepared to discredit the people who say it’s faked.”
“Already on that,” Trejo said, and stood. The lighting stick cycled through its spectrum, getting ready to catch the subtleties of Winston Duarte’s skin and hair. He’d grown thinner since the break. His eyes still had an intelligence to them if not a focus, but his cheekbones had become more prominent. Elvi felt like she could see the skull beneath the skin, and she didn’t remember thinking that before. Kelly brushed his hair, trying to put it into place the way he probably had before other addresses and announcements. Only Duarte wouldn’t keep still. His hands were thinner, gray and dusty-looking, and he moved them constantly. His eyes rolled in his head like he was following butterflies no one else could see.
“Is there any way to make him sit still for a minute?” Trejo asked.
“He does sometimes,” Kelly said. “Having people around agitates him. Give him a little time to settle.”
Trejo muttered something but didn’t object. Elvi waited with the others, watching the man who had, however briefly, been the god-king of a galactic empire. All she saw now was a lost man. She remembered feeling the force of his personality the first time they’d met. The sense of being in the presence of something vital and irresistible. She saw something in the way his jaw fit against his neck that reminded her of Teresa. It was easy to forget that they were also people. Father and daughter. The same complicated, fraught relationship that human beings had been navigating since they’d developed language. Before that, probably.
Without really knowing why, Elvi stepped forward and took Duarte’s hand. He considered it like it was a pleasant surprise. She knelt, smiling gently, and his gaze swam through whatever dark waters he lived in now until he found her.
“We just need to scan you, sir,” she said. “It won’t hurt.”
His smile was gentle and filled with an unspeakable love. He squeezed her fingers gently and let them go. She stood back, getting out of the light and the scanning radius. Duarte looked around the room like a beneficent king in his dying hours until his attention landed on Cortázar.
“All right,” Trejo said. “Let’s get this done before—”
Duarte stood, his head tilted at an angle like he was remembering something half-forgotten. He stepped away from his chair. Ilich made a small, frustrated hiss.