Heritage of Flight (40 page)

"You tell
me
of the war-crimes trials?” Pauli Yeager asked, her voice breathless, hard. “Me? In the name of God, do you think that a day's gone by when I don't think of them?"

Or identify with judge and criminal both
, Neave thought. Not a woman easy to like, this Yeager, with her damnable guilt that spared neither herself nor anyone around her; but von Bulow was no charming specimen either.

Neave withdrew his attention from the fray to the way that the light generated by the repellors edging the fields shimmered in a violet haze above the river. It reminded him of night mists on the farm his family had owned. He had loved it, had visited it every year until the spring it. was sold to pay for his education. Since then, his only home had been Earth itself: no one place, unless it was any place where the truth, the sanctity of facts, counted more than people's whims or prejudices.

By that standard, I could call Cynthia home,
he thought, and shuddered.

I'm not well educated,
Yeager had said of herself. Yet she had neatly stymied Becker, von Bulow, and Neave himself since the moment that they had set foot on this world. He wished he had never seen it.

Shadows wandered and merged in the moons’ light, and he heard voices ... “don't trust..."

"You never do."

"Shut up!” A woman's voice hissed, and Neave strained to pick up the whispers that followed. A breeze stirred the ground scrub, flapped in the sag of the huge tent nearby, and he felt like cursing it.

"Do you think he'll hear? Do you think he'd care if we got them away? You saw. He wants a way out."

"I say we get them away, Pauli and Rafe. Thorn too."

"Do you think he'll go?"

"We'll make him!"

"Lohr, you're crazy. Thorn's stronger than any of us; we can't
make
him do anything."

"Then I'll talk him into it. What about Dave, Ari?"

"They've got some medtech watching him all the time. Can't get him away, and frankly, I wouldn't want to try."

"Don't cry, Ayelet. At least this Neave's saved Dad for us."

"Commissioner.” Yeager had walked over to him and laid a hand on his arm. “My husband and I will return to our quarters now. I have one request."

With difficulty, he drew himself back from the plot whispered in the shadows. “Name it, Captain."

"You'll have enough officers, I think, from the combined services of Earth, Alliance, and Secess’ ... I mean, the Republic ... to convene a general court-martial. May I ask, please, that you do not name Elisabeth von Bulow to the board? In light of what has just happened, I do not think she could render a fair judgment."

Von Bulow sputtered, and Neave allowed himself a thin smile at her discomfiture. “A point well taken. Captain Yeager, you have my word."

She inclined her head with an odd formality, as if his word alone would guarantee her what she sought. A woman of formidable honor herself, thought Neave.

I do not want to have to try these people. I do not want to condemn them.

What choice do I have?

Much later that night, Neave was still ignoring his messager and the barrage of files and personal requests that no doubt awaited on board ship. Instead, he wandered about the colony, slipping from the misty circles of light into shadow, from clusters of domes out toward the open fields.

"Commissioner?” called one of the omnipresent “littlests,” now adults ready to start families of their own. “Don't go beyond the repellors. There might be stobor. One will give you a nasty shock, and if you stumble into a bunch of them, it could kill you."

This planet could kill, Neave thought. Had killed. When his own exploration teams returned, he would know the full extent of its powers and potentialities: the mountain barriers and storms that had prevented the colonists from moving out of the Cynthian natives’ path; the land, possible crops and resources—the report that Becker's Project Seedcorn should have had, but did not.

He wanted to leave it. That desire was an ache in his gut: to leave Cynthia and its stubborn, naive moralists; to return to the libraries of an Earth that hoped that this time, it could declare itself dedicated to peace, and be right, for a change. He wanted to talk—God, did he want to say a few things—to the people who had saddled him with this assignment and confront them with the irony he now perceived. He had protested his lack of qualifications for the job, but now—who
is
qualified to conduct a genocide trial? he asked himself.

It ran in his family, they had told him. By now, very little else did: land, artwork, and other property having long ago been sold to help Earth weather the blockade and educate the last Neave with suitable rigor. Independently Yeager's awkward research had unearthed the very trials at which one of his ancestors served. Neave remembered that one. Like himself, he had been legally, trained; unlike himself, he was a military man (though, in his case a direct commission had taken care of that problem).

What was it his ancestor had written? “I felt I had come to speak for the dead. The tribunal itself would be the voice of the civilized world."

Had his ancestor been, like Neave himself, reluctant to act, even more reluctant to judge? He didn't think so. It had been a time for soldiers with strong loyalties to regions and factions, none of which Neave himself possessed. What would such a man have done if the criminals in that case had insisted on their “rights” to arrest, trial, and execution? Who were “the dead” that he must speak for? The native Cynthians? The settlement's first commander, dead because of sloppy information? The refugees and children in the settlement's too-large cemetery? And what was “the civilized world"? The people who had made and now demanded to unmake Thorn Halgerd, or Becker with his plots and excuses? What about himself? “Looking for a technicality,” Yeager had described him. He would have thanked every god in any pantheon he'd studied for the opportunity to play Pilate: wash his hands of this world's seismic moral quandaries, and flee. What about the children for whom the settlers had killed? They were plotting now to help their leaders break their arrest: a crime, by all laws, and yet love drove them to it too.

Perhaps they were the ones who were civilized.

His boots crunched in the ground scrub, and he stumbled over something, swore, then saw what he'd tripped over. “Forgive me,” he muttered to the grave marker that had almost brought him down. Ramon Aquino, it read; and someone had etched an ankh into the stone with a blaster. He traced the circled cross's outline and noted the date—the outbreak of ergotism that had turned the settlement into a colony of maniacs. Neave turned and walked back the way he came. Wandering in graveyards: God knows, the next thing he'd be writing poetry, and he was a philosopher, a governor, not a poet.

Abruptly he strode toward the dome where the colony's leaders had confined themselves.

"Lohr's been unnaturally well behaved for the past weeks, I'd say, wouldn't you, Pauli?” Rafe told Neave.

She nodded. “I should have expected some sort of outbreak from him by now. I suppose this sudden burst of chivalry, I suppose you would call it, is reasonable. Do you want us to stop it, Commissioner?"

Rafe laughed. “I think that the commissioner would be just as well pleased if we agreed to it, love. He has a classic case of ambivalence. What about it, sir? We let Lohr and his friends spirit us away, maybe to the caves or to the base Thorn established with those new gliders of his; and the case falls apart. David ben Yehuda's too sick to stand trial; Thorn's claimed asylum—and Commissioner Neave is off the hook."

Neave forced a chuckle, wondering which was harder to take: Yeager's nerves or her husband's urbanity? Ambivalent was barely the half of it.

Pauli looked at Neave, then picked up a book he remembered. “I told you I wasn't particularly well educated, Commissioner. But I've managed to puzzle out this much.” She handed Dr. Pryor's copy of Plato to him, and the “Crito” was clearly marked:

Moreover, you might have in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But you pretended that you preferred death to exile, and that you were not unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten those fine sentiments, and pay no respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you made as a citizen."

"Tell me, Commissioner, what happened to the man who said that?"

Neave coughed. “He died in prison. By his own hand. But he was innocent."

"Still, innocent as he was, he was sentenced and he died. How much more should we..."

His judicious, rational calm finally punctured, Neave erupted from his battered chair.

"Damn you, woman, how can I try you? You're
human
, and you killed aliens and call it genocide."

"Which it is.” Yeager's voice was inexorable.

"Say that it is, then. You know what you did. I know what you did. Do you think, though, that you're going to get a fair trial? Do you think that anyone can judge you?"

Again, Adams laughed hollowly. “Let he who is without sin among you cast the first stone?"

"Man, can't you talk sense into your wife?"

Rafe's eyebrows rose, and he snorted.

"Me, get Pauli to change course? I haven't managed it once in fifteen years.
You
try it,” Rafe answered. “Look, Commissioner, I opened contact with the Cynthians. They were human, all right. Intelligent. Kind. They liked us; and we betrayed them. Convene your trial, Commissioner. Do it the best you can and the fastest you can. I'm bone tired. Alicia was the lucky one; she's out of it now. It will be good to rest."

It will be good to rest
. Neave's eyes hadn't burned like that since he was a graduate student in the last frenzied days before his qualifying examinations held despite the war. He sighed, and pulled out the lustrous, blackish-green plaque that held the exploration preliminary report from one of the exploration teams. It glistened, luring him back to the fascinating topic of a fresh new planet—
Earth was old and tired, drained from the blockade; the worlds of the Secess’ and Alliance, those not slagged or glowing, were in even worse shape
. Once his crew conducted a proper survey, Cynthia could be opened up to immigrants who would have all the advantages of the settlers’ experience and full backing. Apparently the team had inspected Halgerd's designs for ultralight craft and begun to test them in storm conditions like they might find over the seas here.

Neave sighed. Once he knew who the construct's “father” had been, he would have been surprised if Halgerd's designs had not been brilliant. The test results tempted him with distraction. So what if it was an adventure? It was his responsibility, therefore his duty to study it. Rationalization lured, but he turned his attention away from the plaque and the way it caught and focused the light in his cabin, and resolutely chose another plaque.

The LEDs of his screen danced, wavered, and reformed. His back felt like someone had set fire to his spine as he reviewed the rules of evidence: writings, official writings, letters, reports—Gods. Then there were the rules relating to witnesses.
An accused person who voluntarily testifies as a witness becomes subject to cross-examination upon the issues concerning which he has testified and upon the question of his credibility ... When the accused voluntarily testifies about an offense for which he is being tried, as when he voluntarily testifies in denial or explanation of such offense, he thereby, with respect to cross-examination of such offense, waives the privilege against self-incrimination, and any matter relevant to the issue of his guilt or innocence of such offense is properly the subject of cross-examination.

He had no doubts on that subject. Yeager and Adams had pleaded guilty. They would testify against themselves. The only problem would be “explanation of such offense.” He already knew that they did not consider any explanation relevant.

His door annunciator buzzed. “Yes?"

"David ben Yehuda, sir."

"Come in."

The door slid aside and ben Yehuda entered. The weeks since the
Amherst II
had touched down had stripped weight and vigor from the man. His hair was almost totally gray now, and he walked as if uncertain of each step, as if the ground might open and swallow him. He stood before Neave, clasping and unclasping his big, competent hands, and blinked when he was asked to sit down.

"I think I had better stand for this,” he said.

"As you wish.” Neave angled his screen away from the man and punched up his records.
Depressed
. Well, he knew that. Yeager had as much as ordered him to put her old friend on suicide watch. And, judging from the conversation Neave had overheard, his children concurred in that decision. He was a civilian. If Neave waived jurisdiction over him, he would have to be extradited for trial.
As well shoot him here, and far kinder
, thought Neave.

"I have a request to make,” ben Yehuda said.

Neave tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

"Try me with my friends. Please. I assisted the military governor to make and implement her decision. I've held a reserve commission; you could activate it and try me too."