Page 18 of Accidentally Fearless

7

RORY

The Council chamber was built to intimidate. High ceilings vaulting into shadow. Walls of dark metal engraved with historical records—victories, I assumed. The seating was arranged in a descending circle so the accused stood at the center with everyone staring down from above. Amber light angled from recessed panels to cast the center space in harsh illumination while the Council members sat in comfortable dimness.

I'd been intimidated by worse. Specifically, I'd been intimidated by fourteen twelve-year-olds hopped up on Mountain Dew and armed with paint guns after someone told them the elimination round was canceled. This was basically the same thing, except the twelve-year-olds were seven-foot-tall reptilian aliens with political agendas and better posture.

Therak had called the emergency session the night after our victory. Not the night after our loss—after our victory. That told me everything I needed to know about his priorities. A strategist would have studied why we'd won so he could counter the new approach. A politician filed a motion of no confidence.

"The introduction of a human consultant represents a fundamental violation of Velkorin military tradition." Therak addressed the circle from his elevated seat, his voice carrying the cadence of someone who'd rehearsed this speech and was enjoying the performance. His dark green scales were immaculate—groomed and polished in a way that showed wealth and status rather than battlefield readiness. "Commander Talon's reliance on an unqualified alien species member undermines the integrity of our forces and calls into question his fitness for command."

"I'm standing right here," I said.

Twelve Velkorin heads turned toward me. I was in the center of the circle beside Vrex, where tradition required the accused to stand. Vrex had told me to stay silent. I had intended to stay silent. But "unqualified alien species member" was where my silence ended.

"The human will address the Council when recognized," Therak said. His tone suggested I had committed the social equivalent of sneezing during a funeral.

"The human has a name. Rory Sullivan. I'm from Scranton, Pennsylvania. I manage a paintball arena, and yesterday your army won its first decisive engagement in fourteen months using a strategy I developed." I looked around the circle. Some faces were hostile. Some were curious. A few—the younger members—kept their faces straight. They probably agreed with me but lacked the political standing to say so. "If that's unqualified, I'd love to see what qualified looks like, because seven of those came through here before me, and all seven of them failed."

The chamber went very quiet. The acoustics were designed to carry silence as effectively as speech, and the silence that followed my words was very loud.

Therak recovered. He was too experienced to let a disruption derail him for long. "The Council's concern is not with one engagement. It is with the precedent. A human—a member of a species with no military tradition recognized by the Intergalactic Community—directing Velkorin warriors. This is without precedent in the history of the ceremonial war system."

"Many effective things are without precedent," Vrex said. He kept his voice level. "The ceremonial war system itself was without precedent when it was established four centuries ago."

"The system was established by Velkorin, for Velkorin."

"The system was established to prevent total war. Its purpose is resolution, not tradition." Vrex stood very still beside me, his hands clasped behind his back. "In three years, tradition has produced thirty-seven stalemates. One engagement with Sullivan's consultation produced a decisive victory. The Council may weigh those facts as it sees fit."

Therak pushed for the vote. The motion was to remove Vrex from command, which would have terminated my contract by extension. No commander, no tactical advisor. The vote went around the circle. I counted. Yes, no, no, yes, yes, no, no, no, yes, yes, no, no.

Seven to five. The motion failed.

By two votes. Two. The margin between everything continuing and everything ending was two Council members who had decided, for whatever combination of reasons, that a human's strategy was worth more than a politician's objections.

Vrex's scales didn't change. His expression didn't change. But I'd spent enough time with him to see the micro-adjustments—the tightening of his jaw, the way his claws pressed against his palms behind his back. Two votes. He had come within two votes of losing his command, his war, and his valley.

The chamber emptied. Council members filed out slowly. Therak left with his supporters, a cluster of dark green and bronze scales moving together. He looked darkly at me on his way out.

The corridor outside the chamber was empty. The amber wall panels cast long shadows, and the air was cooler here, away from the concentrated body heat of twelve Velkorin in an enclosed space.

My hands were shaking.

The adrenaline dump was hitting. It always hit after confrontations—never during, because during a crisis I was focused and clear and operating on a level of competence that surprised even me. It was afterward, when the threat receded, that my body remembered to fall apart.

I pressed my hands flat against the cool metal wall and focused on breathing. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. A technique I'd learned from a therapist I'd seen for exactly three sessions before my insurance ran out.

"Sullivan."

Vrex was behind me. His formality was back—the wall rebuilt, the control reasserted. But underneath it, visible only because I'd been learning to read him, was fury. Not at me—at Therak. At the Council. At the political machinery that had nearly overridden a tactical success because of tradition and xenophobia.

And underneath the fury was fear. The fear of someone who had everything riding on a single outcome and had just watched it nearly collapse.

"You should not have spoken," he said.

"I know."

"It was a protocol violation. Therak could have used it to invalidate the proceedings."