Universum Aethereum

Interlude
The Rim-Core

Interviewer: Good afternoon, dear public, and welcome to another episode of Why/Because, your program for asking new questions about the universe and ourselves. Today we have the honour of hosting prof. Angel Van Thier, Chair of Historical Sociology at the Erythean Institute for Advanced Studies. Welcome, professor.

Van Thier: Thank you for having me here.

Interviewer: So, prof. Van Thier, let’s delve into our topic for today immediately. We hate formalities here.

Van Thier: (chuckling) Good to know we are on the same page.

Interviewer: A few months ago you published your latest book, Rise and Fall of the Rim-Core. As you know, this title became quite a sensation inside the academic circles, and even beyond them. And the result is that your book has become a best-seller in the history and social sciences fields, and a point of hot debate, beginning with the title itself. Many have contested your use of the term ‘Rim-Core’. Tell us more about that.

Van Thier: Oh, well, first of all, allow me to humble myself, as it is customary to do (smiles). While it is true I was the first to make it into a proper, or perhaps I should say explicit, subject for study, ‘Rim-Core’ is not a new term at all. Everyone familiar with the history and documents of the Imperial Age probably met this term at some point. And, of course, everyone else is familiar with the concepts of Core and Rim as applied to galactic geography. The origins of the term are rather simple: it is the fusion of these two terms. To be fair, there are other labels for the same thing: Middle Rim; Inner Rim; Outer Core. Each of them more or less denotes the same thing, as I said. And yet, at the same time, they signify something slightly different, a different way of approaching the same subject, if you will. I chose Rim-Core by purpose, because it best represented the way I approached it.

Interviewer: I see that complexity begins from the title already…Well, since now we have been introduced to the labels, there is no need to wait further. Tell us: what is the Rim-Core? Many of those who dissented with your research pointed out the ambiguity and vagueness of the term. Some contested its cosmographic nature.

Van Thier: If they contested its cosmographic nature, then they did not understand its meaning at all. Rim-Core is not a cosmographic object: it is a sociological and historical object. It is grounded on understanding the developments of human expansion and colonization of space, of its social, economic, political and cultural dynamics.

Interviewer: Fascinating. But, then….what is it?

Van Thier: To answer your question, I need to trace an historical trajectory first. Please, bear with me.
We are all familiar with the main facts of human expansion in our galaxy. We are also aware of the meaning of the terms Core and Rim. While their origin lies, in fact, in cosmography - the Core being made of those stars lying no more than 200 light years from Sol, and the Rim being made of those that were outside of this sphere - their true meaning is, as I anticipated, sociological. The Core, as it became configured during the Imperial Age, was not characterized by its cosmographical position, but by its position inside a hierarchy of power. Political and economic power, that is. The Core is made of those worlds - beware: I said worlds, not stars - where human colonization had progressed further - usually because of a simple chronological reality: they were colonized first - molding them into powerful production and distribution centers. The key here is about timing. Most of the Core worlds were colonized either before, or immediately after, the Katan War. Power on Earth, between the ancient Earth nation-states, even inside the United Nations itself, was still shifting, morphing, looking for a new order, a new stability. The United Nations were attempting to find its own positioning towards Earth as well. Thus, there was no unity of purpose in the colonization of the Core, and no unity of means either. In a sense, and with all due caution, it was a state of anarchy. But it was precisely this state of affairs that made it possible, for these worlds, to develop their own economies, with their own resources, with minimal interference, at first, by the United Nations or Earth in general. As the United Nations grew in power and authority, the situation began to change. More resources were redirected to Sol, and to Earth in particular, at least at first. When this happened, the Core worlds were strong enough to become an integral part of the United Nations, one way or the other. In other words: they wanted a say in how their resources were used. And they managed to obtain it, because the situation was still fluid enough. The Rim was born around this time, in a context made more solid, more crystallized, by a more powerful, more solidly grounded, United Nations. The Rim was not colonized by accident. It was purposefully created to serve the Core. Beware: I said Core, and not Sol. This is not to deny the importance of Sol, of course, which would be ridiculous, but to make it clear that the Core had become an active subject of its own, fully integrated. Sol was the center of the Core.
The history of Rim colonization is relatively well known, so I will not repeat it here. We all know about the projects the United Nations initiated in this vast region of space: the megastructures, as they were called at the time. These are prime examples of what I am saying here, you know. These megastructures were, in fact, nothing more, nothing less, than infrastructure projects. Their aim: to make the flow of resources between Rim and Core more easy, more efficient. But what happens next? It happens what already happened in the Core. Growing populations, growing economies, begin to push for a greater share of political power. New polities organize themselves in the shadows of the UN. This phenomenon became stronger, and more rapid, in those systems and worlds which, due to their position, were best suited to connect Rim with Core. We ourselves are an example of this. The Hesperides Federation, the old Federation, was born out of the necessity to properly organize, on the political level, a star system enjoying burgeoning demographics and economy. An economy based on intermediation, on being the transmission belt - to borrow a very ancient Earth metaphor - between the Rim and the Core. Once this growth translates into political change, the Rim-Core is born.

Interviewer: So, you are saying the Rim-Core is nothing more than a middle way between the Rim and the Core…

VanThier: At first, perhaps. But it soon became something else. You have to imagine, these worlds which could not recognize themselves into the Rim anymore, nor could they say to be part of the Core entirely, though this is what many of them aspired to. Then, once their self-awareness increased, they realized they were neither. They were something else entirely. The Rim-Core is liminal by definition. Beware: I said liminal; not peripheral. And I could add that there was substance to the Rim-Core worlds claim to difference and, at the same time, to autonomy. The answer to this apparent conundrum lies in the writings of Hosayaki. It is crystal clear: the Rim-Core was becoming the connective structure of the new human galaxy-spanning civilization.

Interviewer: And yet it didn’t become so. Why? Did the Wars of Secession destroy this opportunity? Or else?

Van Thier: The Wars were an epiphenomenon. The root was elsewhere. Hosayaki already identified it. The root of the problem was Earth itself. Beware: I said Earth; not the Core. And this is a critical distinction. With the Third Exodus over, with the colonization programs halted, the UN fell prey to the centripetal forces generated by Earth. Yes, Earth. Its status as the imperial world of Humankind, and yet constantly impoverished due to UN policies, made Earth a cause for instability. By slowly transferring its impoverishment to the rest of the UN, it forced the Core to rein in any attempt by the Rim to do what the Core had already done in the past. This is nothing new. Hosayaki already wrote about it in detail. And, thus, the Rim-Core as a transmission belt also fell into uselessness, transformed into a comfortable base for military operations in the Rim.

Interviewer: It seems to me that you are talking about a failure. The Rim-Core was a failure.

Van Thier: In its original form, perhaps, yes. But it evolved. You know, the revolts in the Rim against the UN were generated by a call for a voice in government, for becoming integrated into the UN system. They were focused on resources and representation, at least at the beginning, before the UN retaliated. In the Rim-Core, it was different. The Anti-United Nations League, or AUNAL, the prototype of the future Independent Worlds Alliance, fought for something different: it fought against the pressures generated by UN military presence in the Rim-Core, which was compressing society and economy alike. By disavowing the UN through AUNAL and, later, the IWA, the Rim-Core renounced its role as a connective structure for human civilization, to become an isolated subject, allegedly autonomous, of its own. This is the tragedy of the Rim-Core: the renunciation of its historical role. And, indeed, we all know how it ended. The rest, as they say, is history.

Interviewer: But, according to you, the fate of the Hesperides was slightly different…

Van Thier: Thanks to Sarah Hosayaki, yes. As she understood the true meaning of the Rim-Core, she did not simply allow the Federation to join AUNAL. Until the very end, she tried to keep the Hesperides faithful to their historical role. Only after the civil war had begun, she decided to declare independence. She understood the UN had no role to play anymore.

Interviewer: This leads me to the many controversies your book has generated, professor Van Thier. In it, you repeatedly mention former president Julie Maruge and her writings on Renovationism and New Federalism. It seems clear that you owe some debt to her…

Van Thier: (imperiously raising his hand to stop the interviewer speaking) Please, please. I owe a debt to her first writings, beyond doubt. Every serious scholar does, after all. Despite her later failings, prof. Maruge paved the way for a renewed understanding of Hosayaki’s thought and, by consequence, of civilization. But what my book really proves is that her later ideas are simply untenable. If you read the Rim-Core through the prism of Maruge’s most recent works, well…it becomes unreadable. How could you understand the history of this region of space, including the Hesperides, by simply looking at rights, or freedoms? Without taking into consideration economy and civilizational infrastructure?

Interviewer: Well, to be fair, former president Maruge never denied in her writings the importance of…

Van Thier: She did so, implicitly.

Interviewer: By framing the Wars of Secession as conflicts over rights?

Van Thier: Also, yes.

Interviewer: But you said that what the Rim was looking for was representation.

Van Thier: On a systemic level. I was not talking about individual rights or something like that. My book, my work, is about the history of civilization, not about the history of a person, or a few people.

Interviewer: Yes, yes, I understand. (he takes a copy of the book from a nearby table, quickly but gracefully browsing through a few pages until reaching the point he is looking for) And indeed you wrote that - and I quote: “There are two people which may be considered to be the embodiment of the Rim-Core destiny, and tragedy, respectively: Sarah Hosayaki, and Miguel Ortegas. The former pushed for a future in which the Rim-Core fulfilled its historical role; the latter actively prevented it.” Strong words, if I may say so.

Van Thier: Sometimes, people can play an important role in history.

Interviewer: (smiles) Sometimes, yes….oh, this makes me think. You mention Relena Kenner like, how many times? Two? Three perhaps, in your book.

Van Thier: That’s correct. And it is easy to explain too: Relena Kenner, despite her great importance as a political figure, did not have much to say pertaining to the Rim-Core. Hardly surprising, given the context in which she lived.

Interviewer: And yet, this is exactly what former president Maruge contested, in a paper she wrote some years ago, one in which, by the way, she also used the term Rim-Core. According to her, Kenner had much to say about the Rim-Core. Her New Federalist paradigm, according to Maruge, as a new way to organize human civilization, has a direct bearing on the role of the Rim-Core.

Van Thier: Once again, she is wrong. I am not saying that New Federalism could not play this role, perhaps in the future. But it has not much to do with the Rim-Core, as it is now, and as it has been until now.

Interviewer: I see. So, I guess we may say that Prime Minister Haruno’s Project Hermes, recently announced, meets your approval.

Van Thier: Why so? Because it allegedly aims at re-establishing stronger, more stable, more durable contacts with the other human governments? This emphasis on communication is commendable, of course, do not get me wrong. But, as I also write in the final chapter of my book, which unfortunately came out just before Haruno’s announcement, there is much more beyond communication or connection in the idea of reconstructing the Rim-Core. What to reconstruct equals how we reconstruct it. And viceversa, of course. Project Hermes falls short of any expectation, from this point of view.

Interviewer: So, what you are saying, is that we need something more?

Van Thier: Much more. We need to re-create human civilization according to principles established by historical forces.

Interviewer: And you don’t think Project Hermes could be a first step in this direction?

VanThier: It is but a timid approach to the issue. The Iskran War showed us that the Rim-Core is not stable, quietly waiting for our federalist dogma to reach them and allow them to join us. There are other forces at work.

Interviewer: But some may say that is exactly the reason for being cautious…

Van Thier: Too much caution may be damaging. Look at what happened on Taribia, for example.

Interviewer: Indeed, you write about Taribia towards the end of your book…

Van Thier: Taribia is a prime example of how to do almost everything wrong, when dealing with the Rim-Core. We approached the issue of its integration too cautiously, because our government was hampered by the federalist dogma. If we take a historical approach, grounded on the concept of the Rim-Core, instead…

Interviewer: We should integrate Taribia, by force if necessary?

Van Thier: I did not say this.

Interviewer: So, at the end of the day, what should we do?

Van Thier: I am not a politician, of course, I do not have answers to this question. My job is to critically look at the reality that surrounds us through the lenses offered by the study of history and sociology.

Interviewer: That’s good to know. So I guess the news of your running as candidate for the Federal Renovationist Party next elections was just a rumour.

Van Thier: As a citizen, I have the freedom of pursuing whatever path I choose.

Interviewer: Absolutely, professor. You are perfectly right. Allow me to reframe my previous question, then. Taking into consideration your study on the Rim-Core, as a citizen - beware: I said citizen, not politician - how could or should the Federation look at the Rim-Core itself? What should we do?

Van Thier: May I reply with another question? What have we done, until now? What is the historical trajectory the Federation has laid in front of itself?

Interviewer: That’s two questions, actually.

Van Thier: I do not have clear-cut, easy answers. That’s not what research and study are for. But I know that we need to move beyond the confines we have set for ourselves during the last century.

Interviewer: So, after all, you do agree with President Van Leeuwen and Prime Minister Haruno.

Van Thier: I did not say that. I look for a different perspective, one that has necessarily eluded the government because it is blinded by its federalist dogma. My book proves just that: the Rim-Core can be resurrected, provided the right path is chosen.

Interviewer: But your book does not deal with contemporary politics.

Van Thier: It does. Past and present cannot be disjointed.

Interviewer: So, what is your prediction about the future of the Rim-Core? Does the Rim-Core, actually, have a future at all?

Van Thier: It depends on what will happen next. As I said, there is a possibility, for the Rim-Core, to resurrect as it was, as it was - forgive my use of a verb that an historian should never use - destined to be: the connective structure of human civilization. Of course, it is something different from the past. The UN is no more. The Core and the Rim, both are completely different from what they were during the Imperial Age. And yet, their structures remain much similar to what they were. In this sense, Hosayaki’s old recipe still holds true.

Interviewer: But not Kenner’s.

Van Thier: Depends on how you look at it. If you consider Kenner as the continuator of Hosayaki’s work, then yes, Kenner’s recipe holds true as well for this new universe.

Interviewer: That’s Julie Maruge’s old theory.

Van Thier: Indeed. Though she later disavowed it, do not forget that. I think she was right, at the time. Then she got lost. My thesis proves…

The screen switches off. The two interlocutors disappear from sight.

“For a man pretending not to care much about individuals, you surely use the first person singular a lot, dear Angel.” the old woman muttered while reclining on the chair. She looked out of the window, her eyes piercing into the night towards New Atalanta’s skyline. She smiled: “I have the feeling you should be ready for some nasty surprises, Angel.”

26. Flatpacked and Shipped
Prosperity City, Planet Catacarow, Catacarow System

Tiecho Ylfuns Hearn missed Eureka. Catacarow was fine, but was lacking in those hard-to-discern ways. The atmosphere was breathable, enough. The air was stale, though, like a clean room, even with nature still ascendant all over this world. But it was the farthest habitable planet from Latvyria and felt like it. Not the galaxy’s edge by a long shot, though certainly far from where history happened. He thought about D.R., off at the front, then scoffed and shook his head. He hadn’t heard a word of his brother since the war began, and neither had mother. One day cutting that pompous prick Kesturr’s hair, the next suddenly texting the family that he’d been made a lieutenant in the army. After what happened at Tnirab Ridge, T.Y. had done his best to put the war entirely out of his mind, but even this far from the homeworld, it was hard to ignore.

When he had first been assigned as the District Party Secretary, a lateral move in his career meant to broaden his scope and do some good for the colonial project, there were few, if any police. The occasional local beatcop, and the friendly professionals of Civil Protection, who despite their sometimes thuggish dispositions, were surprisingly upstanding. But when they left for the front, and the Holly Building sent the government a letter encouraging them to expand their local police department to make up for the slack, to Hearn’s horror the mayor took the directive to heart.

Day by day, little police boxes began to pop up across Prosperity City. Staffed by two officers, it enabled beatcops to have a comprehensive grid of response. They even got a shipment of proper uniforms, making every officer deputized the spitting image of a homeworld policeman. The initiative came at the cost of Mama Manmoe’s, a little tea stand near his apartment, as well as the enterprising Mr. Strekt, who lost his sausage stand to a police box.

The Party Headquarters, a sleek modernist building with glass panels that reflected back a red-gold color in the sun, loomed over City Hall, which sat across Vellik Avenue from it. Three blocks down, the Latvyrian Colonial Development bank. Hearn looked up from his papers, taking a small break from his letter to the Mayor to look out over the city. While the city center and spaceport had proper buildings, with City Hall and the bank both made of a local reddish marble-like stone, everything around and between was prefabs. Some were tall, sure, the modular design made it easy for them to expand, but from above Hearn imagined that Prosperity City must look like a patch of rectangular pumpkins, kept shaded by their silk awnings.

He smiled as a bulldozer drove down Vellik Avenue, it was unusual for industrial machines to be in this part of town, but he hoped it reminded City Hall what they were really about, out here on Catacarow. The smile fell from his lips once it clicked how fast the thing was going. He opened his third-floor window, powerless as the bulldozer went blade-first into the front of the building. A speeding van screeched to a halt beside it, and a squad of hooded men rushed into the gap- the bulldozer’s operator hopping down from his machine, drawing a revolver as he joined his confederates.

T.Y. spun around to his desk and pulled the integrated handphone from his console, dialing the police, then stopped when he remembered one of their new police boxes had been constructed just a block away from the bank. Curious to see the action, and eager to be seen present at the scene, T.Y. donned his tweed jacket and eight-paneled cap, and rushed out the door, thundering down the stairs- gentle elevator ride and smooth music be damned!

He rushed down the street, loafers clacking against concrete as his tie lifted up over his shoulder. Others had gathered to see what all the commotion was about as the bank’s emergency alarms began blaring. Mothers held their children close to their skirts, men watching on with their hands on their hips or puffing their pipes. As T.Y. reached the police box at the corner of Vellik Avenue and 4th Street, he found about what he expected of PCPD.

One of the officers in his fine homeworld police uniform had headphones over his peaked cap, scribbling down a crossword as he snacked on sugared fried bread. His compatriot was fast asleep, ears plugged with his cap over his head. T.Y. rapped his knuckles on the window, pointing just down the street.

“Criminals are robbing the Colonial Development Bank!”

Nothing. The one passed out was twitching here and there, clearly in REM sleep, assisted no doubt by the glowing space heater between him and his coworker. The other was wholly locked into his crossword, nodding along to the music he was listening to.

The Party man huffed and slammed a fist into the thin wall of the police box, shouting, “HEY!”

The cop with headphones on jumped, raising his hands defensively as he sized up the man who’d disrupted the peace and quiet. Realizing it was one of the guys from the Party Headquarters, the officer slid the window open and removed his headphones.

“Ah! Mr. Hearn, what's going on? Can’t you see I was doing paperwork?”

“A team of goons just drove a dozer into the bank, man! They have a getaway vehicle ready!”

The officer leaned out of the window suddenly, forcing T.Y. to jump back. With a brief nod he kicked his pal awake, who woke with a jolt, putting on his cap and sitting up as if that’s what he’d been doing all this time.

“Yes! The bank!” The groggy officer said, fumbling over himself to step out of the box.

Just down the street, men were ferrying bags of cash marked with the symbol of the Federation’s currency, the letter M with two lines through it, from the ruined wall and into their van, forming a masked chain of men.

“Distant Heaven…” Gasped one of the cops, “There’s got to be a hundred thousand Dynars in every one of those sacks.”

“Quick! Help me unpack the pursuit vehicle!” Barked the other, grabbing a crowbar and taking it to the wooden crate laid just behind the police box.

As wood cracked and splintered, the lid and walls of the box fell away, revealing a mess of parts. Before Hearn and the police lay the potential of a pursuit vehicle- a bland white shell, a frame, axles, wheels, an engine, and tools. An instruction manual taped to the folded windshield.

“Gahh! Why does it have to be now!” Groaned the one who was doing ‘paperwork’ as he took the manual in his hands and turned to page one.

T.Y. sighed and pulled his tweed jacket off, scooting his hat to the back of his head, then rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and tucking his tie in between the buttons. “If not us, then who? Thats why we’re living so far from our homeworld, isn’t it?”

The sleepy cop paused and nodded thoughtfully, then poked his head around the corner to monitor the robbery in progress. The crooks were still at it- hand-ferrying bags of cash into their van as the other cop began to read the instructions. “Set the main axles apart as they would be fully assembled. Should be two meters.”

T.Y. and the sleepy cop grabbed the first axle, setting it gently on the street before moving to grab the second one. Grunting as they lifted the heavy metal bar, T.Y.’s muscles strained and veins popped as they moved it into place. In order to get the distance right, they measured off the sidewalk- made up of one meter by one meter squares of concrete.

“Step two. Set the rectangular sub-frame and leaf spring suspension in between the axles.”

T.Y.’s ear twitched at hearing ‘leaf spring suspension’. That was a development from centuries before. But, he imagined, if the vehicle was anything like those on Eureka or Follontis, they wouldn’t have a single hope of quick assembly. By the looks of things the crooks were nearly done loading their booty into their getaway vehicle. The sub-frame of the pursuit vehicle was a metal rectangle, with the suspension already attached to it. The cop reading the instructions paused and leaned over to T.Y. and his comrade to show them how the axles were supposed to attach to the suspension, and with no small amount of lifting and cussing, the two men managed to attach the first axle set.

As they made for the second, a middle-aged man strolled up the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. “Building something?”

“Development Bank’s being robbed. No pursuit vehicles in the vicinity.”

“Did you call it in?”

“Of course we didn’t call it in! There’s never been a bank robbery in Prosperity City!” Snapped the officer holding the instruction booklet.

“You should probably do that. Here- let me see that-” The man snatched the booklet from the policeman, hmming and hawing as he looked it over. “I can help with this. This is basically my car but with a better engine. What you’re gonna wanna do is finish up with that second axle, put wheels on the axles, get the main frame on, and then we can start playing a little fast and loose with the step-by-step.”

T.Y. nodded, wishing that the codger would help, but his obvious experience was enough to assuage his brief annoyance. Together with the formerly sleepy cop, they attached the second axle- using a crossbar each to screw in the bolts attaching axle to suspension. From there, Hearn and Officer Plast did the significantly easier part of the assembly which was attaching the tires. The sub-frame and suspension was designed to fold up ninety degrees on either side, making the task of attaching the wheels significantly easier. Just as T.Y. was finishing with his second wheel, he could hear the robbers shouting in the distance to hurry things along. As T.Y. and Plast got to the frame, two schoolboys who had spotted them from across the street walked over, rolling their sleeves up and giving T.Y. the Young Pioneeer’s salute as he and Officer Plast began to attach the wheels.

“Comrade Hearn! How can we help?”

“Officer…” T.Y. trailed off as he peered at the once-sleepy cop’s nametag, “Plast and I are assembling this vehicle. Listen to comrade fifty-something as he gives us the instructions.”

“Its Tull, Comrade Hearn. Now lift the frame over the assembled suspension and axles, then screw it together.” The older man said with a smile, nodding to the kids, “Its gonna be heavy. Be prepared.”

“Always prepared!” The pioneers answered in unison, each moving to a corner of the frame and grabbing it with T.Y. and Officer Plast. While T.Y. and the cop did the lion’s share of the lifting, T.Y. was surprised at the strength of the gradeschoolers- while the frame wasn’t as light as it would have been were four men lifting it, their strain made the real lifting he and Plast were doing easier than it would have been. The four of them managed to set the frame down on top of the sub-frame in a slow, controlled motion.

“Alright, pioneers, go ahead and start screwing in the frame while Comrades Hearn and Plast see to the transmission.”

“Yessir!” Cheered the more excited of the two pioneers, both grabbing crossbars and beginning to screw in the bolts. The placement was graciously obvious, and the moment the bolts were tight enough there was no deceptive give left to try to keep screwing in.

Attaching the transmission together was another thing entirely, but still rather clear. Extending from each axle was a long metal rod, which T.Y. didn’t fully understand, but Comrade Tull patiently crouched down and helped T.Y. and Officer Plast attach both ends, then attach the suspension to the frame the pioneers were nearly done screwing into the sub-frame. T.Y. began screwing in this system and futzing with the clutch, pulling his finger back violently and swearing as his finger got pinched somewhere, sucking the blood from the little wound and flicking his hand about rapidly. “Damnit! Whats next?”

The sight of a Party Man, a Cop, two Pioneers, and an Umarell working to assemble a car while a second cop made frantic phone calls, and the horrid klaxon of the Development Bank’s security alarm was more than enough to draw in a crowd. Some had tried to come in close, but were waved off by an exasperated T.Y. or an increasingly red-faced Officer Plast the moment they proved useless.

“And now the engine.” Comrade Tull groaned.

T.Y. whistled at the red-faced cop on the phone, gesturing impatiently for him to come and help. Looking a moment at the pioneers, T.Y. gave them each a pat on the head. “You’ve done more than enough, Comrades Pioneer. Go and tell your troop leader what you did, and that you worked with Comrades Hearn, Tull, and Plast to help. I’ll make sure you two get your patches. Be prepared.”

“Always prepared, Comrade Secretary!” They said, before trotting off to go back to whatever they were originally doing. T.Y. filed a mental note to follow up on those two- it filled him with warmth knowing that the youth were being raised up right. But the heavy engine block before him filled him with dread. With himself and the two cops, he figured they could do it, albeit slowly, and thus turned to the little crowd around the impromptu assembly area. Standing up straight to address the onlookers, T.Y. raised his left hand and gestured at the partially assembled pursuit vehicle with his right. “I need three good men or two big men!”

Most people stepped forward, women included. T.Y. considered enlisting one, maybe two, but needing to get the job done fast and not equally, he pointed out three of the largest men among them, cocking his head for them to follow.

The engine block had three folded lifting bars attached to it.Thus, two men per bar, three men per side. As the men took their places, they folded out the bars and snapped them into place.

“On three!” T.Y. called out, “One! Two! Three!”

The engine block came right up off the ground thanks to the help of four strangers as Comrade Tull guided them in. With him guiding it down and into its spot on the frame, and the rather obvious engine-shaped area in the frame to put it, the process of seating it was much easier than it appeared. Comrade Tull quickly began shooing people away, handing the instruction booklet to the man next to him and briefly pointing where he’d left off.

“Don’t bother with the finer details of the motor.” Tull grunted, rolling up his sleeves and starting to attach this hose to that component, and that piece of metal to this piece of metal. Tull’s speed made T.Y. wish he understood the finer workings of the machine, but he was just happy to play his part. In the near distance, he could hear the getaway van’s door being pulled and slammed shut, and squeal of rubber on asphalt as it started to peel off.

The body of the pursuit vehicle was slightly less heavy than the engine block, and only took four men to lift, once more guided in and down by Comrade Tull. The fuel tanks, headlights, and grappling/towing winch were already attached, and thus it was simply a matter of Tull climbing into where the driver’s seat was and reaching into the guts of the vehicle to attach electric wires to the vehicle’s alternator system. As Tull did that, the passerby with the instructions guided T.Y. and the rest of the impromptu team to getting the battery in, the cooling system, and the steering column and wheel, which was slid and locked into place between the legs of Comrade Tull.

All that was left now was the hood and the windshield. The windshield was easy enough- a big flat piece of thick glass that just popped right into its frame. By the time the vehicle looked like a proper car, Comrade Tull turned the engine over, the motor giving a sputtering growl like a tiger with a flu before roaring ferociously to life. With his work over, the middle-aged man swung out of the seat and whistled Officer Plast and his exasperated coworker over.

“Good to go, guys!” Tull reported, proud of his work.

Officer Plast slid into the driver’s seat and whistled as loud as he could for his coworker to join him in the car. The red-faced policeman made a mad dash for the passenger side, fumbling the safety latch off his holster as he reported to dispatch his every move.

T.Y., tired from the affair, sat himself down on the curb as the pursuit vehicle sped off down the street, swerving around the bulldozer left in the street. What was even the point? Each stolen Dynar, whether cash or digitally stored- he suspected a mix of both, but largely cash- would be reported as such, and whoever tried to spend them would go right to the jail. Indeed, now that he had time to think, the entire affair perplexed him. Misappropriation was nothing new, in fact, while not encouraged, few if anyone ever minded. Most times industrial machines and equipment went missing, they were returned after being used, like when Mr. Sy stole equipment to fill in a pothole. Such incidents were never punished, and T.Y. had even given the man a civic medal for his quick thinking, as the pothole was on a bus route to the next town over. And sometimes equipment was used for less than upstanding means, but never anything as drastic as an organized bank robbery.

Mama Manmoe, who’d lost her tea stand to the city’s police box programme, had been reimbursed for the value of the stand as well as three month’s worth of lost earnings to get her back on her feet. The same thing went for Mr. Strekt’s sausage shop. T.Y. was just glad it was Officer Plast driving. The other cop seemed more out of sorts than Plast. Now that the robbery wasn’t his problem, and he’d fulfilled his civic duty, T.Y. stood up, dusted off his knees, and grabbed his jacket. He hooked a finger through the loop inside the collar and tossed it over his shoulder.

Deciding he’d finish that letter to the Mayor later, T.Y. picked a direction and began to stroll. He saw another pursuit vehicle tearing off in the same direction the one he’d helped assemble was. It made him glad he wouldn’t have to be the one haranguing the LCPD about their vehicles, but, knowing the burgeoning Policeman’s Union in town, and knowing that the last shipment from Granytt Automotive was only a few days ago, T.Y. had a good feeling for their chances of avoiding trouble- provided the monies were returned and nobody got hurt.

About four blocks from downtown, Prosperity City turned into its well-organized sprawl of prefabs and newbuilt homes and businesses. He’d spoken with woodworkers when they brought their concerns about the quality of wood on the planet to him- no good for building, great for burning or processing into paper or biomatter. The newbuilts were almost entirely made of the hardy lumber one could only get from Eureka, he could tell by the grain pattern on a warehouse’s unfinished siding. Of course, Catacarow exported more lumber than it imported, with offworld saplings being as frequent an import as Eurekan lumber. T.Y. had heard fine things about the wood from New Latvyria, but wasn’t going to touch the New Latvyrian environmental policy debate with a five meter pole.

One such new-built was the Driftveil Room, modeled after the Eurekan city of the same name. Miner’s helmets, old jackhammers and other tools, as well as photos of early settlement efforts of both Eureka in general and Driftveil in particular decorated the walls. The centerpiece of the decor was a large photograph of a number of miners standing on top of or around “Large Larry”, the largest naturally-occuring crystal found in Latvyrian space. Every other one of the men had their hands on their hips. T.Y. had always wondered why, but never had the free time to track down those in the photo- not that he particularly cared enough to find out who. Every Eurekan a generation before him had been to see Large Larry in all its glowing green glory, but the week before his parents were to take him and D.R. out to see it in their boyhood, it had been broken up and processed once a use for Eurekite had been developed.

T.Y. frequented the Driftveil in his free time. Local debates on whether or not the city should permit smoking indoors raged, but establishments which prohibited it were clear and those who insisted upon a good cigarette or cigar with their meals knew well enough where not to get lunch. T.Y. didn’t mind the smell inside the Driftveil Room, thanks largely to its modern air circulation systems. There was a hint of tabak but the room did not smack of it. T.Y. removed his eight-paneled cap and wiped the sweat from his brow, sliding into a booth and pushing the pack of Brilliant Stroke cigarettes up from a pocket inside his jacket. His matches, kept under his hat, were waiting for him. With a deft movement he pulled a cigarette out, brought it to his lips, and scanned the room. All the televisions were running the news- updates from the Kaustan Front, where D.R. was stationed. Things seemed to be going well for once. A breathless reporter recounted the Battles for the Vesyu Passes, where the 8th and 9th Armies under General Lynnyer had been licking every Veyradian formation they came across. Footage of battered, but joyous Kaustans bringing gifts of flowers and sake out to equally joyous soldiers of the Latvyrian Peoples’ Army.

He’d been surprised a few times by the resilience of Federation society. The Darran Rebellion just six years ago, he thought at the time, represented such a unique disturbance and disruption in the history of the Follontist project that pre-rebellion Follontism may never recover. And yet, not only had it recovered, once Darran was put in the ground (to the horror of then-President Vellik) and his flunkies were rounded up, not only did it recover- it thrived. There was a unity of purpose and vision and will like he’d only heard of in his grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s generation. Still, seventy-five thousand terrorists on Belka was not the VDF. And a series of dispersed cells was not Veyrad.

Tearing a match from its book, he ran it against the striking strip and quickly brought it up to his unlit cigarette, holding a hand over the flame to keep it from being blown out by the airflow inside.

Then the feed shifted to a smoldering half-ruin of a city. Tanks and soldiers abound in the background, and T.Y. narrowed his eyes at the sight of short Kaustan troops leading Veyradian prisoners away at bayonet-point. One of them even kicked a prisoner to the ground, then kicked him a good number of times in the side. A hesitant Latvyrian soldier approached, stopped, then turned away from the scene. In the center frame was a woman, bags under her eyes, sharp-featured with a round nose and the intense eyes of someone who’d peered into something she shouldn’t have. The camera followed her as she walked towards a government building, pockmarked with bullet holes and missing most of its roof, though with the volume set low he could hardly hear what she was saying. He made out something about “Latvyrian and Kaustan… side-by-side”, then nothing, and then he coughed on the smoke in his lungs, his jaw dropping.

The footage cut to a shot of his very own brother, D.R., with a sword of all things on his hip and a slightly disheveled uniform. T.Y. could tell immediately that his brother wasn’t comfortable with the camera, and yet still couldn’t hear a thing as the interview began.

“Byl, mind turning up the TV?” T.Y. asked, shouting over the soft din of conversation in the bar. The city was big enough to provide some anonymity, but the nature of his position was that thanks to his frequent appearances in the local news as well as contributions to the local press org’s editorial section, his face and voice were known. Heads turned as their generally softspoken and mild District Party Secretary raised his voice, and quickly the volume went up by ten ticks.

“... and given the rank of Captain for honorable service, D.R. Hearn began his career in Civil Protection. What was the transition from policing to soldiering like?” the reporter asked, holding her microphone out for D.R. to speak into.

“Well, I suppose its like any career shift. Except this one I didn’t exactly choose. I was working on Solidarity-7 as a barber, and then the next thing you know I’m on a flight to the homeworld and in a bivouac and learning all sorts of things.”

“And what were those things?” She pressed.

D.R. shifted somewhat, his eyes unsure. “Like I said, all sorts of things. Moving in a formation, using the new-type encrypted radio devices. But also there was stuff I was already doing in the FCP. My regiment’s- the 7th Armored Regiment’s colonel, Colonel Kesturr, he and I go way back. So I was already helping him out with little things here and there, and thats basically what I’ve been doing since they gave me the raindrop camo fatigues and my olive dress uniform.”

Gwin pushed, and there was a glint in her eyes like a predator having caught the trail of its prey. Still, her expression remained polite and interesting. “And you’d call liberating a whole city near single-handedly part of those ‘little things’, Captain?”

T.Y.’s jaw shut and he leaned in, taking a quick drag from his cigarette to keep it lit. D.R. became a barber precisely because he was so talkative. To see him clammy like this was new.

“I guess not. But it wasn’t single-handedly, ma’am.” D.R. shook his head, his eyes growing distant as he thought. “Like I said before I’ve learned a lot since I was commissioned into the People’s Army. But I’ve learned the most about our Kaustan friends. I was tasked to command a company- thats a hundred-twenty men- to blow up a rail yard in the city. All of these men were Kaustans. Part of the regular Kaustan Army. Guys like you and me. But after what they’ve been through, unbelievably tough men. Hard men. We were sent to our job, then got orders that we had to take and hold the building you see behind me.” He gestured vaguely at the battle-damaged building behind him.

D.R. paused again, and just as the silence got long enough that the reporter was priming her next question, he opened his mouth to speak. “And so we did. Lost a couple of good men doing it. But the Kaustan fighting grunt is worth ten of the enemy.”

“Could you tell the folks back home a little more?”

Again the subject of the interview shifted uncomfortably, his hand coming to rest on the pommel of the curved sword at his side. “Well… Let’s see.” His lips mouthed the words ‘What do they even want to hear?’ before he decided on an answer. “War is hell. Always has been. Thats the lesson that brought all the Ursine together after the Fourth World War. But this war- and it is a war- isn’t the last one our peoples have fought. There’s no mutinies- everyone is in good spirits most of the time, the pay is good, we all know what we’re pulling for- the end of Aurivist aggression and genocide forever, and even if you do get hit there’ll be a tracked armored ambulance or medevac helicopter not five minutes away from you. I-I’m from Eureka, but I’m proud to be fighting for the homeworld on the homeworld. Its… its all for all of us. Everywhere. The powder that fires our bullets comes from mines on the homeworld and Yrusea and Vyrlekhor. Gas mined in Sigma-23 and Ustyo, and oil drilled up from Eureka power the trucks and tanks and so on. Even when I’m under fire, and it feels like the only fellow citizens there is are my comrades in the 7th Armored Regiment, I never forget that all twenty billion of us are in this together.”

The cigarette in T.Y.’s fingers had burned itself out by then, and just as he shifted in his seat the long tail of ash fell onto the table. If he wasn’t so engrossed trying to analyze his poor brother he would have cursed at the small mess left behind. It was clearly, identifiably D.R. Yet everything was different from the way he stood to his speaking tone, but what stood out most to him were his eyes. Not a famed “hundred kilometer stare”, just a shift, and one he couldn’t name nor had ever seen. Even back home, folks who survived cave-ins or saw an accident in a mine or a factory, while initially hollowed-out by their experiences, typically jumped back into their own skin in a few weeks or months. But again, they generally seemed hollowed-out in the immediate aftermath, not… different like this.

There was clearly more D.R. had to say, but his confident little nod and the almost schoolboy-like look in his eyes of “can I go now?” after his statement was signal enough for the reporter T.Y. to know he was finished with the interview.

As the footage cut once again and T.Y. saw some overdressed yahoo of an officer atop a four-legged animal, he immediately lost interest. The Sidewinder Fang he'd planned on ordering had simply ceased to exist as a thought. So T.Y. swept up the ash from the table into an ashtray, set it back, and made for the door, his mind racing. What had D.R. seen? What had he done? Why did he have a sword? The only thing he learned from the interview was that the Federation was starting to win the war and that his brother was very much alive. As of how many days ago? Why hadn’t he written home? He needed to make a call home, and his mobile wasn’t going to reach out across nine systems back to mom and dad on Eureka.

T.Y. decided he was going to be taking a shortcut home. The Grand Canal, called as such because it was a canal and the widest body of water in Catacarow, bisected the city down the middle. On each side of the canal were concrete walls of about five meters high, at a steep angle. While there were ladders and steps for those unfortunate enough to fall in to climb out, with how fast the water was moving today, T.Y. certainly didn’t want to be the one to fall in today. It was a semi-regular occurrence on days the waters weren’t this tempestuous, but with the ice in the distant mountains melting as Catacarow entered its warm season, it wouldn’t be slowing down anytime soon. He’d never seen it move this fast.

As T.Y. crossed over the bridge, he passed Fire District No. 1, the main headquarters of the Prosperity City Fire Department. A rather panicked farmer was also heading in a similar direction, though to a significantly faster pace, worry painted all over his worn features. Noticing his alarm, T.Y. flagged him down. “What’s going on, comrade farmer?”

“A- a man! A man has fallen into the river!”

“Where?”

“A man has fallen into the river in Prosperity City!”

T.Y. was both instantly concerned and instantly annoyed. Of course the man fell in Prosperity City, thats where they both were. But in those artificial rapids, dressing down Comrade Farmer for being an idiot would have to wait. T.Y. began rushing to Fire District No. 1, the old farmer trotted along after him. While the First District itself was housed in a proper building with communications equipment as well as command and control for widespread firefighting efforts, the yard around it was far less well put together. A gravel lot with a number of small, temporary hangars, neon green fire engines sat waiting for the call to duty, one of them being lovingly hand-washed by a team of three firemen. A helipad had also been built, although suspiciously lacking a rescue helicopter to populate it. No, there in all its wooden glory sat a large wooden crate.

The District Party Secretary stopped in his tracks as he looked around, his eyes flitting to the trio of firefighters maintaining their vehicle, the helipad, and the pristine, 90% finished firehouse.

T.Y. drew in air through his nose, filling his lungs before belting out the loudest “HEY!” he could manage.

27. God is Great
“No cane for you, al-Arwin. Veyradians have hospitals for their cripples.”

It was the last thing he wanted to hear. Another man being right. Striker had spent the last hour and a half going over the manual. He’d been many things in his Civil Protection Career- beatcop, a brief stint as a detective, and a platoon leader- but he’d never trusted himself around explosives. But he’d never been a cripple, and had been told to act as if he wasn’t. Still, even three months on what anyone back home would call starvation rations, he was taller and leaner- and fatter than his Tauredi comrades. The bags under his eyes hadn’t carved themselves into his features. There was still some innocence behind his eyes- which he was reminded of frequently and with great laughter at his expense.

“Of course.” Striker gritted, looking at his simple cane mournfully as he let it fall to the ground.

“Now say it in Veyradian.”

“Hamoovin.” He asserted confidently.

Kafnaar sighed and shook his head, resting a hand on the top of his plate carrier. “Khamuvan. Do they teach nothing of Veyrad where you come from?”

A sheepish smile crossed his lips as a nervous chuckle fell from them, “Only that they’re a fascist state who oppress their Veyradian workers and kill innocent Tauredi.”

“And now say that in Veyradian.” Kafnaar purred.

Striker’s face dropped at that.

“And now you understand your Federation’s position.”

“Twenty billion Ursine speak Latvyrian. Less than one hundred million- the Hermit Kingdoms- speak in the old ways. You speak Latvyrian, I know your comrades understand some spoken Latvyrian, and your sons will grow up hoping their own sons will speak Latvyrian as fluently as I. But I see your point.”

The Tauredi’s eyes smoldered at that, but as he opened his mouth to speak a wiry hand slapped the side of the tan vehicle beside them. A young man, no older than 17, dark hair flecked with grays, poked his head round from the back.

“We are not Ibbar! We do not have time to stand around and argue all day!”

Kafnaar cocked his head toward a side door of the vehicle as he smoothly climbed up into the driver’s seat. “Your Veyradian is too poor. Don’t bother talking. A poet of the Latvyrian language like yourself is sure to get us caught.”

Striker nodded, then realized the task before him. Standing with the backpack containing the explosives was one thing. Moving his right leg forward. Then the left. He dragged the leg, trying to make it look natural as he did it- like an odd gait- pure agony. Still.

“This leg is going to kill me…” He muttered under his breath. Trying again, he opted for a shuffle- swinging his left around was a surefire way to invite concern from real Veyradian troops. At least the olive drab uniform was more breathable than the fatigues he’d worn with the CPRG.

The engine of the vehicle kicked over, and they began down the road. It was springtime now, and the winter snows had melted and clumped into piles- yet still coating the distant mountains. As they left their hideout, situated not far from Tnir, Striker could see out the window as the mountains turned into hilly, forested country- hills fading into grayish-tan steppe in the distance. And further still from that, the million men of the 1st and 2nd Armies dug in along the frontier. Surely a distance of no more than a hundred kilometers. Perhaps as less as fifty- Veyrad didn’t hold much land on the continent proper.

If it weren’t for the faraway steppe, it’d almost feel like home.

The white and blue flag of Veyrad was affixed to every one of the vehicles in their convoy- only four lightly armored peoplemovers- flying a flag from the trailer hitch in the rear and one tied down to the roof of the vehicles. The resistance clearly had a good understanding of Veyradian SOP, and Veyrad having to mark their vehicles so explicitly could only mean one thing- they were having problems telling friend from foe. The implications settled over him slowly. The Federation must have really killed all of Veyrad’s most competent pilots. At the same time, the LAF is not yet enough of a concern for them to prioritize camouflage.

Their little convoy continued through the countryside, driving down a pristine military road. In sparse meadows, wildflowers had begun to bloom. And just in front of them, an Avak’rem tank trundled along. The convoy slowed and pulled to the edge of the road as the steel monster approached, its flags flapping in the wind. Battle damage was apparent everywhere- pockmarked paint, the main gun’s barrel blown out like a steel blossom, yet its commander casually sat on top of the turret, reading a book. When the lead vehicle began to pass the tank, the tanker’s head perked up. He dog-eared his book, looking up as he saw the driver of the second vehicle. His head pulled back, a quizzical look on his pale face as he peered at the driver, who passed by too fast for him to read his features. The commander patted the turret roof, keying his microphone, then the tank stopped.

Inside the jeep, Kafnaar’s knuckles began to whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. The Avak’rem’s turret began to swing around, following their vehicle as it passed. Striker looked to his side as the young Tauredi fighter in Veyradian olive drab let out a soft little whimper.

«We don’t have antitank weapons…» He whispered in Asyraic, before starting to pray in quiet, rapid words.
The boy’s quiet words filled the cab. Nobody else spoke. Kafnaar’s eyes stayed on the road ahead, jaw set, hands white on the wheel- a man who’d made peace with providence and was waiting to see if it agreed.

Striker weighed his options. Dying on his ass was not the way he wanted to go. He began to roll his window down, using his right leg to push himself up, then sitting right back down. But he had to act. Using his right arm, he dragged himself up and leaned out of the window. Waving his VDF beret, he called out, “Molahs Tabbahs! Ma Veyrad aich!” in his best approximation of a Let Veva accent.

A long second passed. The turret stopped moving. The tanker cheered, raising his fist, then a plume of black smoke rushed from the side of his wounded monster as it lurched forward, then continued past the convoy.

“Perhaps you do deserve a speaking role in my play, al-Arwin.” Kafnaar groaned softly, “Yet you are not of my company. Your phrases in that vile tongue still do not fix your leg.”

Reaching another set out mountains, they hung a right, then a left, and followed the road into a gulch. Barely hidden from sight in the gulch’s depths, ten round, squat towers stood. Around them, a congregation of fuel trucks. They’d passed a few of that type earlier, but Striker didn’t think he’d see that many.

Then the fire came. The shockwave was directed through the gulch- punching into the lead vehicle of the convoy, which pulled to the side of the road. The others did the same as follow-on explosions rocked the terrain. Two by two, 3000 kilogram bombs fell from the sky, each smacking into a fuel tank and detonating. The sound was louder than the Heavy Works of the Nyvarro Battery, and when those were firing Striker’s ears were safeguarded by the thick concrete of the control bunker. His helmet’s audio filters had been overwhelmed, the sound-canceling effect hardly strong enough to protect his hearing from the fury coming from the heavens.

Striker threw open the door of his vehicle and threw himself on the ground, taking care to land on his right side. He waited for the sound of anti-air fire, but hearing none, he dared the fates and turned his eyes skyward. Over the course of his stay in Veyrad he’d only seen one Da-100 type fighter, but the plane looping eagerly over the fuel depot was not a Da-100. Its lines were… older.

“Of course.” He groaned, letting his eyes roll up once he clocked the aircraft’s livery.

Pure red. He’d seen it once before in two places- Kalriss’ lipstick, and that madwoman’s flying museum piece.

He buried his face in his hands, rubbing his features as he tried to massage away a growing, gnawing sinking feeling. He’d felt something similar when he’d first seen Coral Harbor, and felt almost the exact way when he saw that red plane land at his airstrip. Things, with a capital-T, demanded to happen with him in the middle of them. Right where he wanted to be. When he was whole. But after three months in Taured, he wanted to be so very far away.

“What?” Kafnaar’s cool voice asked, “Did they explode a cousin of yours?”

Striker sighed and sat up, crossing his good leg over the other. “You have been handed Taured on a silver platter by the maddest woman in the Federation.”

The rebel laughed. “A woman blew the dump for us?”

“Yes, one of several Federation women I fear. Kessra Kalriss. And she’ll be solving problems for you now.” Striker paused and thought, “That is, as long as the Tauredi remain a small and battered people as they have for two centuries.”

“And what would you propose, al-Arwin? That we assemble planes of our own? From scrap metal and concrete dust? And twigs and sap?”

“You are presently revolting against the system. You and Hamood and everyone else. But you are not a revolt. You are organized among fifty men from, what? Six, seven families? The frontline hasn’t moved, the genocide hasn’t ended, and from what I’ve heard from you and our comrades, this cell very well may be the last still fighting Veyrad. What about the al-Tarriq Brigades? Hmm? Where are the rest of the fighters among you? If they are not dead, they have stopped wearing their shrouds beneath their clothes as you do.”

Kafnaar began to walk away, a wave of emotion rippling across his face as he did. Then he returned to Striker’s side and swiftly, grabbing him by the chest rig and pulling him up. There was real fury behind his eyes, the kind of rage caused when a friend steps out of line. “You- You come into my village. Your very PRESENCE put all there at risk of death. Death we would call martyrdom but sad- desperate- pathetic ends. Horrible torture, if not immediately shot in the street like dogs! You pompous child. You idealist!”

The rebel let out a roar, spittle flying into Striker’s face. But fury soon faded into grief, “I did try, you know. To start a real revolt. Shunned, kicked out, or beaten by the best men. By lions.”

“And they were right. It was a silly notion. You were an idealist. But those planes- that strike! If heaven willed it, those bombs would have blown us up along with that fuel! This is reality- this is God telling you that the time is now, or it will be never. You think I’m pompous for elucidating the Federation’s linguistic and cultural realities? You have no idea how pompous it’ll get if the LPA alone liberates you silly people from Veyrad.”

“You’d have me open us up to the VDF by transmitting a call for materiel to Follontis or wherever.”

“Yes.”

“You’d expose me to Dassom’s spies and agents among our people, so that within mere days we will be back where we started- or even worse off.”

“I would. Bare your chest to your God. Have you lost all hope?”

One of the men stepped near. The man missing an arm. «Afiah village is ten minute’s drive from here. The garrison will come to investigate here. They will fight. My father’s cousin lives there. He is a good man.»

The youngest of the lot- the graying teenager joined in. «Mazar is also near. The Heeks have a wireless transmitter there. Its tall enough I’m sure its signal could reach out to Eiren, certainly across all Taured.»

Slowly, the pain eased from his eyes. His cheeks slackened, then tightened again as they began to glow. Kafnaar nodded once, then twice, once again pacing away from the group. As he walked, he sloughed off his plate carrier, unzipped the olive drab VDF blouse he’d been wearing, undid the helmet’s chinstrap, then threw the helmet before him- kicking it in the direction of the burning fuel depot.

“So it is.” He muttered, “So it is…” again and again, crossing an arm over his chest and burying his chin in his hand. Then he stopped, and turned to the members of his cell. “So it is.”

“So then we take Afiah?” Striker asked, now on his feet, panting after an excruciating time getting there.

“And Mazar. And then Taured.”

“Very good, Qa’id.” The battered, near-broken Wuniis man turned to the Tauredi fighters who had gathered round. “We drive for Afiah. Remove those rags from our vehicles and buckle up for a drive.”

Striker was met with enough blank stares to be reminded he had defaulted to his native Latvyrian. He looked to his right, where Kafnaar’s attention seemed fixed skyward, then returned his attention to his comrades in arms. He tried again, this time in Tauredi. «We move at Afiah. No flag on car. Now we… go- leave.»

This was understood well enough. While the wounded Veyradians who’d survived the depot attack had noticed them, and began to drag themselves towards who they thought were friendlies, the Tauredi fighters began to rip the blue and white flags from their rides. A Veyradian officer, seemingly more intact than the others, shambled toward them, adjusting his beret and waving.

Four of the fighters, Striker included, drew their weapons. The three natives uttered a slogan or prayer while Striker just pulled the trigger of his pistol. His bullet went through the shell-shocked officer’s hand, who pulled it up to his face to look at the hole that hadn’t been there before, but only had a second to admire the marksmanship before three separate bursts of assault rifle fire tore through his body. He fell badly.

One of the Tauredi spat into the dirt before mounting his ride. Striker, along with the others, slipped into the car. He’d never been this grateful for a rush of adrenaline in his life- his leg hurt but at least it didn’t hurt like hell anymore. The real nuisance was the pain in his chest from his wired panting.

Two fighters refused to mount up, as Kafnaar had laid a small rug out and knelt down on it, prostrating himself five times as he uttered his prayers. The men guarding him flicked their rifles to semi-auto, taking shots of opportunities at the burning or broken Veyradians shuffling and dragging themselves towards them. Striker had never seen such… just satisfaction in the eyes of any soldier before. The men guarding Kafnaar moved like machines, reloading their bullpup rifles in swift motions, taking their time to aim each shot, even as one or two bullets flew in their direction, making the fighter to the left of Kafnaar flinch before leaning forward and squeezing off a few return shots. The Veyradian shooters were dropped one after the other, and by the time the Veyradian injured had ceased all movement, Kafnaar’s prayer was over.

The leader of the resistance rose once more to his feet, gingerly rolling up his carpet, then patting his guards on their shoulders. Striker didn’t hear what he said to them, but whatever he did say made them grin like schoolboys.

This time, Kafnaar did not take the driver’s seat, instead one of the rebels did, and Kafnaar sat in the back of the vehicle next to Striker. “Even after everything you have been through I did not think any from the Federation had it in them to shoot a wounded man.”

“We are not fighting men, Qa’id. We are killing killers.”

Every vehicle in their convoy turned around on its own time, with little coordination. Kafnaar and Striker’s car were now at the head of the convoy. The four vehicles sped off down the road, as just as they hung a left a t-junction, a flurry of VDF cars took a right at the same junction and peeled off for the burning depot.

“Afiah is not far away, al-Arwin. Only a few minutes’ drive from here. But I will warn you, I cannot guarantee success. These people do not collaborate, but-”

“But they’re cowards?” Striker winced at his own words before Kafnaar could, “Bad choice of words.”

“Indeed. The people of Afiah know how to survive this occupation and little else.”

Striker began to look carefully around the interior of their stolen Veyradian ride. But as he did Kafnaar shook his head, “We removed the radios for our safety. There will be no summoning your miracle woman. This task is ours and ours alone.”

Drawing his lips thin he nodded and sighed. “So we go to Afiah, and hope rhetoric and testimony of air superiority wins us what- couple dozen reluctant fighters?”

“If we can get every able-bodied man, that number should be closer to nine hundred. I am surprised you are not more concerned about having to move by night, and on foot.”

“You didn’t have to remind me, Qa’id.” Striker groaned.

“Why do you insist on calling me Qa’id?”

“Its Asyraic for commander is it not? You tell the men my rank in Latvyria is Aqid, but speaking with me you call me Colonel.”

“Precisely. So when we are speaking your language, why Qa’id?”

“Rank makes the man. If a man does not wear and bear his rank, he cannot represent his organization or effectively command. However, there is no rank of ‘Commander’ in Latvyria. There are Colonels and Generals and Captains and Majors, but all those ranks tell you not only the job, but who they work for. Seeing as your organization is a Tauredi one, with aims in Taured, why would I address you as a policeman or federation soldier?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Kafnaar’s lips, but the rest of the trip to Afiah was spent in silence. They passed into a wooded area just three kilometers from the depot, where a proper city- by Tauredi standards- nervously overlooked the hilly, wooded countryside. No building stood over three stories, and the homes and businesses of the settlement were nestled closely together. It was certainly not Tnir, cowering in the shadow of a Veyradian settlement, though it very nearly was, with the Veyradian city of Dodhsa just ten kilometers west of Afiah.

The convoy of stolen VDF vehicles pulled off the road and drove a good distance into the treeline, far enough away from Afiah that should they be found by the VDF, reprisal would be less of a promise and more of a threat. The locals had lived their whole lives under threat, after all, so the worst part of the maneuver for Striker was the prospect of walking just over a kilometer.

With their VDF disguise now dropped, Kafnaar wearing olive green combat pants, his torso was clad in white- his funeral shroud carefully wrapped around him to cover his chest and arms. Striker, still in his stolen fatigues and lacking a shroud, wasn’t about to walk into another Tauredi settlement and make them worry whether or not he was a Heek as well. Carefully, he pulled his arms from the sleeves of his green combat shirt and groaned as he pulled it over his head.

“I’ll be using a cane from now on.” He asserted loud enough for Kafnaar to hear as he began to look around at the duff below for a good stick. There was no response. By the time he’d found one that wouldn’t snap under his mass, he turned around to see his little contingent- sixteen men wrapped up like corpses. Armed and angry corpses.

Shirtless now, he couldn’t help but shiver. Even though spring had sprung, this far north, winds were cold even in summer. He’d come of age in a similar climate, but the rest of his life had been spent everywhere else. It was still better than the basement he’d recuperated in.

“Our men in Afiah know we are coming. They’ll probably be our first point of contact. But Afiah’s headman- the Sheikh- doesn’t. ” Kafnaar explained as they moved slowly through the forest.

Striker was doing his best to move quickly, but with gnarled roots and uneven ground below, every now and then he’d let out a pained, exasperated gasp when he tried and failed to increase his pace. With him slowing them down, what should have been a quick jaunt through the woods became an affair of an hour and a half.

Just as Afiah started to come into view, a voice called out through the silence of the forest. Terse Asyraic. Striker stopped in his tracks, leaning his sturdy stick against his bad leg and raising his hands. Kafnaar kept walking, speaking calmly and simply- enough to get the point across, and enough for Striker to understand him as he informed the gunman watching them they were the Tauredi Revolt, and that to shoot him would be to offend the almighty.

A head poked out from what became immediately apparent was the best hide Striker had ever seen. All he could see was ferns and dirt, and the man’s head. He was smiling ear to ear, and as he crawled out of his position, revealed one of the skinniest men he’d ever seen.

«Kafnaar!» He exclaimed, «It's been too long! I thought the revolt was just me and the others! And you come to me ready for burial, has the hope departed your soul so quickly? Was it the pedantry of your shirtless prisoner? And since when were we taking prisoners?»

«I decided it would have been in poor form for us to harm our ineffective allies. Though they are doing more now than giving us a bomb here and a box of pistols there. The Federations, they come now from the heavens, and the Heeks are made powerless under their wings.»

«We no longer have to fear the skies?»

«Likely not.» Striker responded.

«Why is the Federation speaking God’s language?» The fighter asked Kafnaar in their native tongue, before turning to Striker. “If you are with us,” he began in Latvyrian, “I would not come before the sheikh using Asyraic. You will be sent out before his wife can feed you.”

Resting his rifle against his shoulder, the thin fighter gestured for Kafnaar and the others to follow. They transitioned from wild wilds to a well-trod footpath, which brought them into town. The man from the hide began to whistle a jolly-sounding tune, and as they strolled into the streets with Striker limping behind them, children cautiously came out from inside homes or alleyways to join the fighters. Women gathered on porches or on windows, many of them covering their eyes, some of them openly weeping. As Striker shambled behind them, eyes burned. The way the shrouds were wrapped around Kafnaar and his men, the VDF fatigue pants were well-hidden, but for Striker- with his bare chest and green pants, he very well might be the worst possible thing- a captured VDF soldier. Knowing this, and trailing behind the others, he softly whistled the Internationale, hoping it would be enough to distinguish him as a Latvyrian.

Still, the children walking alongside them gave Striker a wide berth. One tugged at Kafnaar’s shroud, worry on his features as he gestured for Kafnaar to lean in. The commander squatted down and leaned in, and nodded along as the boy spoke. Whatever he said made the boy jump back, staring at Striker with a slackened jaw as he carried himself through the streets.

The Sheikh’s house sat at the end of the road they walked along, bigger than surrounding homes by a smidgen of a percent. It was kept plain by design, built of local timber and mud. As they drew nearer, Kafnaar waved down the whistling fighter. «Fahd, can we get the giant a shirt? I’d rather not talk to the Sheikh with a man this large and this… green. He looks nearly as Veyradian as he did when we first found him.»

Fahd kept whistling, but nodded after Kafnaar finished speaking, interrupting his song to whistle sharply at Striker- who stopped his own whistling to follow. Once more refusing to speak Asyraic with Striker, it was heavily accented Latvyrian Striker heard from him. “We are going to dress you like Federation. Come come.”

Striker did as he was told and shuffled after Fahd, curious to see what Federation dress was to a people outside the Federation. The skinny fighter led him away from the Sheikh’s house, hanging a left turn and then a right turn. “This one’s my house-” Fahd commented as they passed a building like all the others in Afiah. “But these people- the el-Folloon- come from Federations. Ages ago. They are good people, pious, now long removed from Federation. Tauredi as I am.”

Fahd knocked gently on the door five times, Striker waiting patiently with a hand on his wrist. A little girl answered the door, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. «Do you-» Striker didn’t understand half of the excited words that followed, but picked up «great-great grandpa» and «rescue us?».

He smiled and shook his head at ‘great-great grandpa’, but gave the child a wink at ‘rescue’. Fahd began to explain to her that the Federation needed clothes, as he looked like a Heek, which made her giggle, but she grabbed Fahd’s wrist and pulled him inside, gesturing with her head for Striker to follow them in. His ears brushed against the low ceiling. The living room was decorated with fine rugs, the floor with beautifully patterned carpets. A low, medium-sized table at the center was surrounded by pillows. The girl spoke to Fahd in hushed tones, and for half of her questions he just shrugged. After entertaining her curiosity for some time, Fahd raised a finger to hush her. «Do you still have great-great grandpa’s clothing?»

She nodded eagerly.

«Be a good kid and fetch it for us.» Fahd instructed, «He is going to meet the Sheikh today.»

The girl bounded off into the house, little footsteps plodding downstairs. There was a soft commotion downstairs as tiny huffs and grunts preceded the sound of boxes being slid and pulled out of the way. She walked slowly back upstairs, panting, and holding a near-perfectly preserved Xiong Suit. Striker smiled at the sight of the veritable artifact the kid was struggling to hold off the floor. He opened his mouth to thank the girl in Asyraic, but seeing Fahd in the corner of his eye, simply said “Thank you.” in his native Latvyrian.

«Why did great-great grandpa wear this funny suit?» The girl asked.

Turning to Fahd, Striker gave him a smile. “I hope you can translate this for her.” He said, turning back to the girl and crouching down to meet her at eye level. “Our dreams must be acted upon. This suit was one of them. We wanted to make men equal, and to develop formal- serious clothes that were not the serious clothes of people who oppressed us long ago.”

Fahd did his best to translate, and Striker’s heart stood still as he listened to the Asyraic translation. It was incomplete, but there was a wide-eyed look of understanding in the child’s eyes that told Striker the point was made.

“For leaving the comfort of the Federation to help Taured, your great-grandpa must have been a big man. Carry that with you. Your blood is that of heroes. If you’ll excuse me.” Bowing his head to the girl, Striker walked himself into an adjoining room and tucked himself out of sight as he changed into the simple suit. A gray suit with four pockets and a narrow collar, the Xiong suit is intentionally plain. Striker managed to get his boots through the pantlegs of gray pants, where he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Putting the suit on was much easier than the slow process of swapping pants, though challenging in its own right- the motion of buttoning the top buttons using his left arm shot enough pain up his nerves that he opted to just button the jacket with his right. As his left slid down the front of the suit, he felt something in the lower left pocket. Thumbing open the pocket and reaching inside, he grinned as he felt the familiar pin issued to exemplary members of the Socialist Unity Party.

Striker pulled the backing off the pin and pushed it into the suit just above the upper left pocket, over his heart. Smiling to himself he slid the backing back onto the pin, then tugged at the bottom of the suit to straighten it. It was a little tight on him, but, thanks to his unplanned weight loss journey in Taured he found that it looked sharp enough on him.

Leading with a wide swing of his bum leg, he strode back into the living room. His smile only faded once he saw the photograph of the girl’s great-great grandfather on the wall, staring at his Tauredi wife with eyes full of love. His features slackened as his cheeks grew rosy and red. The Wuniis man in that photograph very well could have been a distant relative, or failing that the relative of a neighbor he’d grown up with. «Is your name Harlyn as well?» Came the little voice in Asyraic.

Striker chuckled and shook his head. “Arwynn Striker. I’m just a very lost soldier, doing what I can to help around here.”

Fahd translated, and this only left the girl more confused. «Federation… soldier? Papa told me the Federation doesn’t have any. You aren’t like Fahd.»

“We brought soldiers back to save little girls like you. Give it a few more months and you’ll never fear anything ever again.”

There was a half of a glare in Fahd’s eyes, and his translation was not one for one what Striker had said. «Just tell your machines to leave Afiah alone, okay?» She asked.

“I promise. Paint your roofs red- we own the skies now. It’s… safer than it was just yesterday.”

This was translated faithfully, and the girl beamed. «I’ll tell Mama when she comes home.»

“Very good. I’m to meet the Sheikh now. Maybe I’ll see you when the war is done.” Striker bowed his head as he made for the door. Stopping in his tracks to pat her head. «It’ll get better.» He whispered in soft Asyraic.

Fahd gently shut the door behind them. Striker had never once heard a slammed door during his time in Taured. But, it made sense. When a sudden bang could at any moment herald an ignominious end, a people would adapt to reduce such surprises. He didn’t even notice the felt strips around the doorframe.

The two had little to say to one another as they walked towards the Sheikh’s house. It wasn’t that Striker didn’t want to say something, he just had nothing to talk about. A good few minutes had passed, so Kafnaar was most certainly stuck into negotiations with the Sheikh. Which was right where he wanted things to be. At least for this meeting, he was a prop, and was going to play the role as best he could. Just as he had at the el-Folloon house, Fahd knocked gently on the door five times. An elderly woman opened the door, jumping at the sight of Striker, her pupils shrinking until she noticed his dress- then a wave of calm washed over her. She invited the two inside to the living room, set up nearly identically to that of the el-Folloons’, just with a different pattern on the carpets. The pillows Kafnaar and the Sheikh sat on were fuller and fatter than those at the other house, and the Sheikh thoughtfully puffed on a hookah as the Qa’id made his case. Striker bowed his head to the Sheikh’s wife, then to the Sheikh, pressing his back against a wall until the Sheikh waved him over and gestured for him to take a seat.

Putting Striker in an awful position. There was no way he could refuse, and yet doing so on his leg was… not easy. He stepped back with his left, lowering himself as best he could before allowing himself to fall towards his right, making it easier to pick himself back up in a seated position. The Sheikh looked him over, nodded thoughtfully to himself, and immediately returned to his conversation with Kafnaar. The spoken Asyraic between them was fast, and neither Kafnaar nor the Sheikh had any interest in slowing down so Striker could understand. So he sat there placidly, doing his best with what little understanding he had. The Sheikh kept saying reprisal. There was some emphasis on the geographic position of the village- if the men of Afiah were to leave, there would be no tripwire to alert the others to a Veyradian incursion. That was the key contention, and the Sheikh kept maneuvering back to it. It became clear to Striker in a matter of minutes that this was the thread they were stuck on- Kafnaar pulling in the direction of the revolt, only for the Sheikh to stitch it all back to the concerns of Afiah and her people.

«There are nine hundred men and boys who could take up arms.» Kafnaar insisted, «And my Federation dog is so well-trained he calls me Qa’id. You worry that Follontis will be another Let Veva, but never once did the Aurivist learn our language except to tell us what to do. If I told the giant there-» He nodded toward Striker, «-to jump off a cliff he would do his crippled best to jump for our people. And he has everything to lose here. We lost two hundred fifty years ago. He volunteered to leave the comfort of Federation to share in our squalor. You are proud of our people? You have read The Recitation. You are more familiar with it than I. What words did the Prophet have for a situation like our own?»

«Spend in the cause of God and do not let your own hands throw you into destruction.» The Sheikh stated immediately. Striker was amazed. Even some of the most hardcore Follontists he’d known- himself included- took a second to rack their brains for the right quote. But to simply breathe their holy scriptures as the Sheikh did was something he had not seen once back home, except in the late F.R. Vellik.

Kafnaar almost smiled before speaking. Striker could see in his eyes that he’d maneuvered the Sheikh right where he wanted him, and an almost killer look filled his eyes as he opened his mouth to speak. «And what is wrong with you that you fight not in the cause of God and for the oppressed among men, women, and children who say: Our Lord, take us out of this town whose people are oppressors, and appoint for us from Yourself a protector, and appoint for us from Yourself a helper.»

The Sheikh recognized the coup de grace immediately. But did not respond immediately. He grumbled softly, took a drag from the hookah, and held the smoke in his lungs for a long second. «So you believe the Federation is such a helper.» He muttered, allowing his gaze to wash briefly over Striker. The Sheikh could have followed the thought to its logical conclusion, that Kafnaar’s words implied he was appointed by the almighty. It certainly would have cut him down to size. Yet what he said next took Kafnaar aback- «Those to whom the people said: the people have gathered against you, so fear them. But it only increased them in faith and they said: God is sufficient for us and He is the best disposer of affairs.»

Crawling across the carpet on his knees, Kafnaar wrapped his arms around the elderly Sheikh and pulled him in for a tight embrace. Striker had begun to study the pattern on the carpet as Kafnaar kissed the Sheikh’s right cheek, and then his left cheek, and then his right again. «Our people will not forget your sacrifice, O’ Sheikh. Afiah will be in the soul of every Tauredi born from this day on.»

«My sacrifice, brother? I will remain in my home, and stay planted in Afiah as I have since I was born. You have asked me to deliver into your hands the lives of every man and able boy in town. You have your revolt but I will speak no more of it. Please, leave my house, and never return to it wearing that awful shroud.» The Sheikh’s voice had grown hoarse, hardly a whisper.

The Sheikh’s wife’s eyes were smoldering as she went for the door. Her lips kept contorting as if to find a word, something to say, but as Fahd helped Striker to his feet and Kafnaar moved- floated towards the door, she found her voice. «You have broken an old man’s heart and bereaved every mother here. I pray Veyrad finds their way here before the men find their way home.»

Fahd passed in silence, trusting in Striker to follow immediately behind himself, but the wounded officer found himself unable to pass back over the threshold. He considered the Sheikh, then his wife, then their home. «We will keep them so busy they will never know we took your sons. Some will return, at least, and if they do not, neither will I.» Once the words had left his mouth, even as unsure as he was whether or not he had expressed himself properly, he bowed his head and shuffled out the door.

Kafnaar was already moving through the streets, reciting quotations from the Recitation in the musical way they were always recited. The holy book was held in his right hand, raised over his head, and his rifle rested confidently against his shoulder. Every door he passed opened, and as it did a middle aged man with death in his eyes would come from one home. A young man with burning eyes would come from another. A woman screamed, then shrieked as her teenaged son shoved past her to join the gathering crowd. When her husband kissed the top of her shawled head and joined his son, she fell to her knees, tearing at her clothes as they did. Though the sound of ripping fabric did not cover her cries. Nor those of a dozen other women who had held in too much grief for too long.

When the people mobilized to help Coral Harbor after the attack, it was from all over the Federation. Those called up by their faith in Follontism, but no order had been sent out- no voice in Nyvarro or in Coral Harbor had called to help. There was no obligation in those days after the attack, just the dedication of volunteers who believed. Here, Striker was witnessing something else. It wasn’t fully voluntary- the sad look in the eyes of some said as much- and yet it wasn’t quite obligation, either. He wasn’t even sure if there was a word in Latvyrian for it, but was dead certain there was a word in Asyraic. He had to learn it.

By the time night had fallen over Afiah, the band of men who had driven on a daring mission to blow a Veyradian fuel depot had ballooned into a veritable battalion, edging into regimental territory. Between Kafnaar’s band and the men of Afiah, there were now nine hundred and three Tauredi in revolt. And Striker. For every armed man, there were three without. And of those armed men only Fahd and Kafnaar’s men had modern rifles. The rest were carrying bolt-action rifles or pistols so old Striker thought he’d only ever see them in pictures or old films.

As Kafnaar spoke with the leaders of the men beneath him- fathers, uncles, and grandfathers- Striker took full inventory of their firepower. There were eleven scopes but only one was actually in a state to provide accurate fires. There were thirteen self-loading rifles of three different types and two different calibers, and the rest were those museum pieces Striker wouldn’t feel safe taking hunting, let alone fighting. The unarmed men kept themselves busy whittling sticks into pikes, and of them, some were indeed armed- but with curved swords the likes of which Striker had never seen. All of them at least had knives, but there wasn’t a shovel between them. At least the bolt-action rifles were largely of the same caliber. Not that they had much spare ammunition to worry about sorting.

Striker limped over to Kafnaar’s leaders’ meeting, a grim expression on his features. Kafnaar read his face and simply shook his head, instead inviting him to come and stand around the fire with himself and the others. «When we set off to blow the fuel dumps, our friends in the sky- SOE- told us only five hundred hold Mazar. After the depot was bombed by Federation planes, the number is more than likely less. If the Federation could reach out and touch this deep into the occupation, it means they can go elsewhere- and likely have gone elsewhere. Their Air Marshall personally led the strike we witnessed.»

“Of the nine hundred four of us, there are just two hundred with rifles. Forty of us- forty-one if you count myself, only have pistols. And I’d wager I saw three hundred swords. Our sole choice is a night raid from behind.” Striker laid out after a long pause to parse Kafnaar’s Asyraic, mercifully slowed. “And I do mean a raid. If we try to hold the position this baby dies in its cradle.”

“I will only need five minutes to address Taured. Heek QRF will take ten to respond.”

“That’s ten minutes from point of contact, not from start of the transmission.” Striker grumbled. He paused to think, and Kafnaar gave him the space to do so. “That means we have to kill, what, three hundred or more over the span of a few seconds? We don’t have radios and the men haven’t been drilled in moving as a unit. For all our bravery we are a mob. A scary one, mad deadly, but a mob nonetheless.”

“My cell will be the vanguard. We have the modern rifles, and have fought together. I will need you behind- the men will follow me but must be coordinated in doing so.”

“I- I’ll need flags at the very least. I can devise a few basic orders and codes, and disseminate the information to our sergeants and lieutenants.” Striker mumbled, rubbing his brow.

«You have twenty-four hours.»

He spent no more time at the fire that night, instead going along the lines and gaggles of unarmed or underarmed men. At each group he asked, “Any Latvyrian? Speak?”

As he moved down the lines, dropping phrases like a net and watching for anyone who flinched with recognition, or who struggled to parse his words at all. When one did, he tapped them on the shoulder and beckoned them along. In this manner, Striker put together a cadre of fifty. Their Latvyrian was decidedly poor, and for the most part they trended younger. This was, he told himself, for the best. Not only was he keeping the youngest from the worst of the fighting to come, but was- if they all survived the battle and gathered a proper fighting force- teaching skills that would be needed for an officer corps. And old men learn language poorly.

From there it was simply a manner of acquiring flags and devising codes. Nine hundred men. One marksman. How was he going to coordinate the onrush of nine hundred men for an attack that should ideally be forty-five seconds of horrible, intimate violence?

Once Striker had his signal corps, he had to step away to think. A diversion would surely be shot at… but… a distraction wouldn’t. He had a general idea of where Mazar was, and the massive radio tower he’d seen in the near distance earlier today was probably that. They would most surely attack from the opposite direction of Afiah, in order to redirect any reprisal forces, meaning that the eastern approach was where their eyes and machine guns would be.

This gave Striker a second idea. If only five rifles passed between shooters or from shooters sprinting between hides or microdepressions in the eastern treeline, the entire Veyradian garrison would focus there. The last resistance action of this scale was before any of these Veyradian soldiers were born. That was an advantage- green officers and garrison troops rarely trained for a mob with swords.

He stood with his back turned to his signal corps, chin buried in his hand. That the element of surprise was pre-purchased was of no small amount of relief to him, but coordinating hundreds armed with swords and pikes was a problem he never thought he’d ever have to solve.

Tanks used to use flags, centuries ago, and if he recalled correctly they had two colors. Signals were sent by holding the flags in a certain position. He could do that, but… how would he pull it off at night? If they used trumpets or some other kind of horn, it’d waste the surprise the whole enterprise depended upon.

Striker turned around to his men and eased himself onto a fallen log, poking at the ground with his ersatz cane with his bushy eyebrows furrowed. But looking around at his signal corps, then up at the night sky.

They’d only need ten flags. Five men signaling, the rest lighting small fires in the forest. The fires would be lit after the Wireless fell, and they’d only be there to tell the retreating fighters where not to go, drawing the attention of the QRF in the process. A smile crossed his lips and he looked up from the duff, “Well, then.” he began, «Lets go over a few basic words in Latvyrian, shall we?»

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The signal corps’ speed was tied to that of its commander, and as the sun set, the entire Tauredi Revolt had begun the long march to the rear approaches of Mazar at the same pace. Striker’s cheeks remained hot even as cool evening air blew over them.

Kafnaar strolled easily, if slowly beside him. “I’ve had time to think about your plan. I can afford an extra pistol and two magazines for the signal corps, but you are not to light fires to the east. I shall put no neon sign over Afiah. Not until our freedom is won. Veyrad is not to be drawn into Afiah.”

This complicated things but not nearly to the extent Striker had braced himself for. There was a pass between hills to the North, and they led to a small Tauredi settlement kept in check by a nearby Veyradian settlement. They’d be fine. Or they’d be slaughtered, but the revolt’s debt didn’t belong to them.

«This is where we part ways, al-Arwin. We are counting on those northerly fires, and your flags when we withdraw. Go with god.»

«God is great.» Striker responded, bringing his hand to his forehead and his forehead to his hand.

“And merciful. You will soon see.”

With those words the men of the revolt began to push on, leaving Striker and his signal corps behind. They were the youngest of the fighters, and had quickly grown on Striker. Between them, it only took three hours to develop a functioning Asyraic-Latvyrian Pidgin, and from there it took all of thirty minutes to devise a simple series of positions to hold their white and red flags in. Advance, retreat, group one move left, group two move right, and so on.

Their first task was the easiest. Striker had appointed the oldest boy his XO, who also had the best grasp of Latvyrian out of the fifty of them. Striker and Hafes, mostly Hafes, were the main engines behind their flag codes, and Hafes had taught Striker to make a fire with nothing but a piece of steel and a chunk of flint. Getting to the northerly pass with a road leading to Mazar was also relatively easy for a limping officer and fifty teenagers to manage. Hafes sent out the smallest of the signal corps to scout the position, a boy who had lied to Kafnaar and said he was thirteen, but whose behaviour- even for a survivor of Veyradian genocide- clearly put him at ten or eleven.

The relative silence of the evening was broken by a single warning shot, and as Striker helped the boys of the signal corps gather kindling and good-sized logs, he froze. Hafes, ten paces ahead of him, froze, too, looking back at him with wide eyes, the color rapidly draining from his face. The Latvyrian officer looked at the ground, then back at Hafes, leaving his pile of sticks behind to pat the boy’s shoulder.

“I don’t have the Asyraic for this, but… The burden of command is… not something a boy of only eightee-“

«I’m okay! He missed!» A hushed shout reverberated off the trees as the signal corps’ little scout scampered back to join his unit.

For his efforts he earned a merciless slap from a red-eyed Hafes. The boy fell on his rump with a soft “oof” before being pulled to his feet by Hafes and pulled into a hug. «Can you tell al-Arwin how far from the edge of the woods they shot at you?»

The scout was in a haze of emotional whiplash, unable to fully recognize what Hafes was feeling or why he’d slapped him, but he sniffled and nodded, marching up to Striker and saluting as best he could. “Humbly reporting, uh… Federation. They shoot me five trees from no trees.”

“Very good, son.” Striker patted his head. “No more risking your neck tonight. Understood?”

The boy nodded, repeating his words back to him, then rejoined the others in gathering firewood. Striker cleared his throat and raised his voice so the rest would hear “We light the fires at first dark. Ten trees from no trees! Am I understood, Signal Corps?”

“Ten trees from no trees!” Came the collective response of fifty boys busy in their present tasking.

Satisfied with this, Striker used a spare boot lace to bundle his sticks, kicking or pushing them along with the help of his ersatz cane. The pine branch wasn’t straight, but provided a good spot to rest his hand on and held his weight well enough. In this manner Striker managed to get kindling to five firepits determined by Hafes- far enough from the treeline nobody setting them up would be shot at, and far enough for surrounding trees to prevent starting a forest fire which would most certainly spread west to consume Afiah.

By the time the orange glow of the setting sun had faded, Striker had assisted in setting up nine firepits. His signal corpsmen averaged ten. In total, they established five dozen firepits inside the woods with enough materials to burn for several hours.

“Hafes, you and the corps will need to move and join the main force behind and around Mazar. Are the boys with flashlights situated?”

“They are, sir, but I don’t like it. Their snipers will shoot at the flagbearers, then the lightbearers.” Hafes reported grimly. “And Abbas has one of our flashlights.”

The scout. Striker winced to hear it, but took a deep breath and shook his head. “We are only coordinating the retreat. When we hear the Qa’id on the radio, we’ll know whether we’ve won or lost. If we’ve lost, all we have to do is run. But trust in the Qa’id. Either way I’ll be the last out.” Striker tapped his cane to his leg and winked.

When the last of the daylight began to seep away, making space for the darkness of the night, Striker held a piece of moss between his legs and began to strike his flint against his steel. Each strike left him unsteady- looming over the fire with both hands full and his knees pressed together. As he looked to his left he could watch as the boys went about lighting fires, and down to his right the fires were already blazing. With each scraping strike he could feel the embarrassment grow, but finally! A spark struck the moss between his legs, and the moss caught. He opened his knees, letting the flaming moss fall onto the kindling below him, costing him his balance. Over he went, shifting his weight to the right as he toppled.

One of the boys rushed to his side, and out of instinct he waved an arm to shoo away the helping hand, but just as he did the crack of assault rifle fire opened up. The boys scattered in the direction of where they’d been gathering the firewood, and Striker curled up into the smallest shape he could manage, covering his head with his hands.

“Cane, sir! Now! Get up!” The boy snapped, grabbing Striker’s sturdy stick from the ground and whistling for another to help him. With two fifteen year olds groaning as they heaved him up, Striker groped for his cane, grabbing it from one of the boys lifting him and picking himself up the rest of the way.

“Now run! I’ll see you all at the rally point!” He shouted, the fusillade picking up in intensity. It was a good thing they were all far enough into the treeline to be naught but shapes if spotted, but was enough to leave him without much hope of following the boy’s route out.

It was the kind of time that called for bad ideas. Unpleasantly bad ideas. Striker had pocketed one of the flags used to disguise the stolen VDF vehicles from yesterday- in the moment unsure of why he felt the necessity to do so outside of wanting to bring home at least one memento from his time behind enemy lines- but quickly realized its utility. He hobbled back in the direction of the boys, but where they hung a left, he hung a right. The boys were mobile enough to get to their rally point on the southwest side of Mazar hill on their own, but if he was going to get there on time, he wasn’t going to do it through the woods.

The road up the northerly pass was only visible to the hill for its first two kilometers. As Striker approached the forest’s edge, hoping he was farther up the road than two klicks, he pulled his Veyradian flag from the waistband of his underwear, holding out in front of him. Mostly white, the Veyradian flag featured the seven-pointed star of Davos in blue and two blue lines- one above and one below the star. It was a garment as recognizable to any Veyradian as their own face, designed in the fashion of the shawls worn by Aurivish faithful. Folding the flag over itself once, Striker draped it around his shoulders and removed the red and gold Socialist Unity Party pin from his Xiong Suit’s breast pocket. To complete his disguise, he undid the first two buttons of the suit- as it was traditionally worn fully buttoned. Certainly by any Latvyrian ever depicted wearing one. With a soft breath, he started down the road. Intermittent Veyradian shooting against the treeline continued, but stopped as he walked down a gentle rightward turn in the road.

Leaning forward to make himself appear older from a distance, Striker stopped in his tracks as a shot smacked into the ground. Exaggerating shaking, geriatric arms, he raised his right hand over his head and waved his cane to the hill in front of him, hoping against hope its defenders would mistake his identity at a distance. Or think he was a settler trying to burn Tauredi natives off their land.

Striker stood there for a minute, and when no follow-up shots rang out, continued back down the road. It took him right to the foot of the hill, and here and there were a few winking orange lights- whatever passed as cigarettes for the Veyradians. Even though before the war they had trade agreements with Kausta and Alevanth, Striker wagered that hard fighting and a recent Alevanthine embargo meant the VDF probably smoked through the entire country’s stock of tabak. He continued down the road, hunched over, following it as dirt transitioned to pavement, and the pavement led him all the way around the hill.

He winced when a spotlight shone down from the hill, blinding him with pure, white light as he shambled along, putting extra shake in each step. His left leg seemed to thank him for the permission demonstration of invalidity, feeling leagues better to tremble and quiver as he moved along. Some of the men on the hill shouted down at him in Veyradian, and he only understood “Mohlas Tabbas!”. They were curious, clearly, and his sole hope was for them to have competent enough officers to keep them in place.

Which they lacked. Or at least disciplined officers. One of them began down the hill, moving far faster than Striker was hobbling. The only mercy the VDF had for the old man at the bottom of the hill was turning off their spotlight. He didn’t spend much time looking up at the hill, not wanting to make a tense situation a suspicious one. With every passing second, in which he could only make a step and shuffle, the approaching Heek officer was making two full steps if not three. Striker was halfway around the hill by the time the officer caught up to him, coming around in front of him and raising a hand.

“Mohlas tabbas. Meh shlomch halila?” Came the sprightly voice of a young Major.

“Walk with me. And use the Federation language. I need the practice for the occupation.”

“The occupation? You think those commie rats can actually push? Its been four months and their People’s Army continues its mass suicides against the Nalog Heights. We’ve got a year to worry, old man.”

“You’ll find I’m not nearly as old as I let on. But thank you for walking with the war wounded.”

“You don’t sound very… local. Are your people recent refugees to Veyrad?”

“You could say that.” Striker smiled. “My family and I crossed the Khara’akh before the war began. Dodging angry Tauredi and praying God would deliver us to this holy land. Though I will say- and don’t shoot me for this- I thought there’d be more milk and honey.”

“Well, all of our ancestors thought that, too. Some of them even tried sharing it with the savages.” The major laughed derisively, “It is a good thing you and I don’t live among those idealists anymore. In ten years, God willing, we’ll have those animals and their prophet good and buried. Then I won’t care if the Federation takes all this away from us. We’ll still have our land.”

“But we do not have ten years, Major. The Federation is far, far more than just the planet Latvyria. There are twenty-five star systems fueling the forces arrayed against us. There are magnitudes more wombs churning out soldiers, and so many factories and enterprises it would make your head spin. No… Our best chance is to find a settl-”

“I could shoot you for defeatism. Right now. My men on the hill would not question it.” The Major began, his tone retaining its casual inflection, “But you have clearly been done in well by the Tauredi. Not a whole man in Veyrad would casually say such filth.”

“That might be true. But only the whole men. We who have put our bodies on the line for this project are forced to see the world in another way. I only live off the backs of others. But my infirmity brings me closer to God.”

“You actually believe?”

“Why do you think I wear our colors as my tillat?” Striker cocked his head as the road turned around the hill. “There is a clearing in these woods- and we may still have time- but it is the only place I have felt the presence of the divine in this holiest land. Walk with me just a little longer, so none of your men grow worried or excited.”

“Of course, sir. After you.”

The two walked on in silence for some time, but Striker never once felt the Major’s eyes leave him. “Your people are Wuniis?” The Major asked, uncomfortable in the silence.

“Yes, they are. We were… unable to leave the Great North during the pogroms, but my Papa always told me that the only safe place in the world for Aurivish was Veyrad. His Papa told him the same, and so on, long before Enn Follont and the expropriations destroyed our wealth.”

“Mmh.” The Major grunted as Striker lead him into a treeline. “I thought all the Aurivish Wuniis came to Veyrad on the first ship. The government was very pleased with how thorough its… programme was.”

“Is any state ever thorough enough? I didn’t think there would be any Tauredi after a century, but here I am dodging those who hate me in a land that was supposed to be my refuge.”

“You’re a spy, aren’t you?” The Major asked, unclipping the plastic buckle on his holster.

“As a soldier of the Latvyrian Federation I feel obliged to correct you. There are dogtags around my neck. And I’m a quicker draw than you.” The pistol had already been pulled from his waistband, and was held at head height- the barrel leveled at the hairs between the Major’s eyebrows.

“Wait-”

The shot barked before Striker could shake his head and apologize. “No time to wait for your kind to die on their own.”

The sound of a gunshot invited the searchlight again, and then five more. The woods around Striker were washed in harsh, LED light. As Striker eased himself to the ground and settled into the dirt beside the Major, he reached over with his right hand to start stripping the man of anything he carried of value. There was, of course, the Major’s pistol. Then his chest rig, ammunition, gun belt, and the machine carbine that was slung over his back. All pilfered without detection from the hill.

If he had two good legs to walk on, Striker would have been changing into the Major’s uniform. Without, all he could do was hide and wait and pray that Kafnaar’s group was in position. From where he lay, he had no idea how close he’d made it to the rally point without being detected. He could only hope Hafes and the rest of the signal corps were at work setting up their fires. Striker could only picture what the scene at the hill looked like. But he could imagine being the Major’s number two. And if he was the number two he’d’ve moved the majority of his force- or at least failed to stop dozens or over a hundred of his men from coming over to investigate the sound of a gunshot. He’d’ve probably only succeeded at keeping them put, the gaggle of eyes would take time to disperse.

Time Kafnaar needed, and time the Qa’id was not going to waste. All at once Striker heard hundreds of gunshots squeezed off near-simultaneously, and the uvulating battle cry of almost a thousand. The searchlights trained on him either slumped down or turned away, leaving him the arduous task of scrambling to his feet with the help of a nearby tree. Striker looked at the things he’d stolen from the dead Major. The plate carrier would get him shot at a glance. The machine carbine would be helpful, in another’s hands, and he could fit most of the dead man’s spare ammo in the pockets of his xiong suit. Putting the SUP pin back on his chest and filling his pockets, Striker slung the carbine over his shoulder and tucked his pistol and his new Veyradian pistol into his waistband.

He set off in the direction of the rally point, leaving the Major’s broken and bleeding body where it lay. Already the sounds of fighting on the hill had ended. He could only hope to the advantage of the revolt. “Boys? BOYS?!” He called out, “SIGNAL CORPS!”

And so he went, wandering through the woods to call for his signal corps, groping in the dark and yelling, hoping he wouldn’t be left behind in a country that wasn’t his. Though it was increasingly starting to feel like it. Not that it had anything he’d call “his” country. It was hard for anywhere to feel like home after all the work he and Kammsd had done at Coral Harbor. The fact his mind was so desperate for comfort it was reaching back to Kammsd left him concerned, but he’d have time to ruminate once he was back with his unit. “BOYS? HELP ME DAMNIT! WHERE ARE YOU?”

He went on like that for a minute until the Signal Corps’ little scout rushed to his side, a finger pressed to his lips. “Come, come! They took the transmitter! The Qa’id is going to speak, al-Arwin!”

Grabbing Striker’s free wrist, the boy dragged him along, forcing Striker to put more weight on his bad leg as he limped after him. He’d never moved this fast since he was wounded, not on foot, but adrenaline and hope kept the pain from getting the better of him. He hobbled along as fast as he could until he reached the rally point- a little clearing around a malgrown tree that looked like a trident- and it looked about as bad as Hafes said it would.

The Signal Corps’ XO stood where the rest of the boys sat gathered around the small radio one of them had carried all this way- only good to receive a signal, not that they needed a powerful receiver this close to the transmitter. Striker approached the group, allowing himself to slow down while Abbas continued to eagerly drag him along. “Listen, listen!” the boy insisted.

Hafes nodded as Striker ambled toward the group, receiving a pat on the back and nothing more from the Colonel. He rested his weary body against the tree, catching his breath as the radio went from quiet to crackling. The noise of men shuffling through an unfamiliar room played out until a familiar, weary voice began the traditional call to prayer.

28. A Hundred Thousand Men
The building was old, and when things in Kausta were old they were properly ancient. One of the oldest enterprises in the Federation is a family-run lacquerware business out of the Isle of Tamaya, one of the oldest surviving craft industries on the continent. The oldest on Latvyria was a Kaustan onsen in the unoccupied southern half of the country. A two-story building, wooden, but with a commanding view of the area and just a few minutes out of town, as Kammsd tried to begin appreciating the traditional interior of the building, he couldn’t quite.

Furniture had been moved or removed from where it ought to have been. Military-issue chairs and folding tables had been left behind. A number of spiked radio sets sat abandoned here and there. Papers littered with the blocky writing of Veyradian were scattered around the floor of a conference room. As Kammsd paused to take it all in, an old woman appeared in the doorway of the conference, bowing and apologizing profusely in Kaustan. He didn’t understand a word of it, as she went to start picking up the documents he held out a hand.

“I’m sorry, ma’am but I’m afraid this is a mess I have to clean up.” He said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder and shaking his head.

When she brushed him off and continued at it, Sybolt sighed and leaned out of the doorway, whistling. “Translator NOW!”

Corporal Oroppass rushed to the scene, his olive drab tie kept tucked into his shirt to prevent it from flapping around in a hurry and just looking neater- exactly in regs. His overseas cap, tucked into his belt, was far more mobile- flapping mutedly against his hip with each bounding step.

“Sir!” He barked softly, clicking his heels as he arrived.

“Please inform the houselady that the mess is mine to clean. These documents are important to the liberation of Veyrad.” Kammsd smiled genuinely to Oroppass, trying not to be short with a woman trying to show him hospitality. One of his three batmen, who unlike his aides would regularly get their shoes dirty. “And extend my apologies?”

Oroppass began translating, and Kammsd held himself back from stooping down to collect papers, not wanting to further embarrass the woman and remembering he had military intelligence guys under him to pick it up and analyze it for him.

And so he returned to his stroll, Oroppass a few steps in his wake appreciating the hotel. Sure it wasn’t the oldest hotel in Kausta, but it was nice. Kammsd wished they were still in the South where all the hot springs were, but seeing different parts of Kausta exposed him to different sights in Kausta. That made up for the loss of regular hot spring baths. Once he’d settled on a room- the largest room on the top floor, he ambled back downstairs to see the hotel slowly coming to life. And not just thanks to his headquarters moving in. No, there were at least five locals working in the hotel now, doing their best to roll out the red carpet as officers and men hauled in trunks and radio and proper Latvyrian military-issue furniture. Anything Veyradian left behind was unceremoniously tossed in a pile in front of the hotel, with removal planned for when parts of 15th Army’s Cleanup Regiment arrive in the area next week. The best thing for Sybolt? He didn’t have to lift a finger to arrange it. Hundreds of other fingers had. Men who were likely in spots like he was before Coral Harbor.

All thanks to Major-General Halvrek. Kammsd always felt relieved when he saw him enter a room, and it was no different as the fellow Coral Harbor veteran stepped into the hotel’s lobby. An intense man before everything kicked off (Kammsd first met him indirectly via a bottle thrown out of a second-story window in the Administration Building). His pace was annoying to keep up with- in step and in tone- and he suffered little patience for misunderstanding. Kammsd watched a junior staff officer straighten as Halvrek passed, shuddering as he put himself in the other man’s shoes. In the FCP, he used to flinch when men like those did the same.

“Briefing in five, boss. Won’t be another adapter disaster- I had the men pick up an extra dozen in the last town.”

“Heeks surprise me every time with how much they managed to destroy but how much they left behind.”

“Or hadn’t gotten around to destroying. If they were smart enough to target these we’d have cables running everywhere and nearby generators harming our sleep.”

“I thought we were getting those Type 12 battery things soon-“

“Yes, sir. Three months out.”

Kammsd nodded, “We’ll be halfway through Dschyudija by then! But look on the bright side- while the engineers wire the building to the grid, we get to enjoy a proper meal.”

Halvrek smiled at that. “Yes, and anywhere a Veyradian felt shame enough not to graffiti or burn is a place worth being.”

Halvrek and Kammsd slid out of the way as a team of two privates carried the table through the narrow hallway. The grunts dressed in their khaki semiformals, set down the table, wiped their brows, and exchanged looks between themselves, their cargo, and the doorway, then decided on how they were going to turn the thing to get it into the room. The two generals shared a smile, then a wince as they watched one of them climb over the table and into the conference room. Halvrek rubbed his watch, almost as if the seconds wasted were hurting. Kammsd just winked at the third private who joined the group of people waiting in the hallway, plug adapter in hand as he stood impotently waiting for his fellows to finish their task so he could do his.

Once the table was in, Kammsd and Halvrek breathed a sigh of relief. Halvrek gave an easy salute as a second Colonel-General eased himself into the hallway with him and Kammsd. Sybolt just bowed his head in recognition as the 15th Army’s Colonel-General Embrosyo Dallant stepped out of the light of the lobby. “So wha-“

Kammsd stopped listening to the clever observation Dallant began to deliver when he heard one of the privates setting up the map table ask his comrade, “Is there even a plug in here?”

He didn’t need to look to see Halvrek’s expression, but before anything could be said or done, three sets of well-appointed shoulderboards sagged as a follow-up “Ah! There it is.” was heard.

Halvrek had nothing to say, smoldering through his smile as he politely nodded his head to the trio of privates filing out of the room and squeezing past the trio of generals in the hallway.

“Sure beats being shot at for those guys.” Noted Dallant.

“Sure beats being shot at.” Grumbled Halvrek. “I would have scouted a more modern hotel but you did insist on comfort for this one.”

Kammsd nodded as he entered the room, flicking on the table. “The last one was a motel with a convention center. It worked, but we are on the move and who knows when we’ll have a chance to see Kausta again?”

“There was an old word for people like you, you know. Steen or jeeb or weeb. Doesn’t translate well, but it means you like Kausta too much. It's great to visit, less so to stay. Social dynamics.”

“Uh-huh.” Kammsd stared on at Dallant for a moment, unsure of just how to process what he’d just said. Thankfully he didn’t have to. Major Elyn Bagg was certainly not one of his men, and the farthest thing from “one of his own” from Coral Harbor. Dressed in a blue dress uniform, as he always was, the wings on his chest- if not the dark blue uniform- marked him as an air force man. Well-shaven like anyone else in the armed forces, that was where similarities started and ended.

When he opened his mouth to say “hello”, what came out was something between a Follontis dialect, Cosmonaut’s Latvyrian, and the sum average of every single civilian liner pilot he’d ever heard in his life. Kalriss’ people trended in this direction, and when Bagg had first arrived at his staff, he thought he’d be happier overseeing the factory floor of an aerospace plant rather than his present posting. Half everything he said was “no”, even after the 8th had liberated nine Kaustan airfields. Every one of them ended up as “LAF This” or “LAF That”, and were quickly filled out with hordes of airmen, packs of officers, and reams of bombs.

“Colonel-General Kammsd.” Came the synthesized sound of a tongue with wings that didn’t fly.

“I know we’re four pay grades apart, Major, but a little more familiarity would go a long way. Now tell me about those new-type helicopters I’ve been seeing so much of and hearing nothing of.”

“Yes, everyone would love to hear about your wonder weapons. And how good they are at seeing our boys.” Major Drev Belt purred as he strolled into the room, a cup of tea steaming in his hands.

“Lets wait for the rest of the morning crew, Major. They’ll want their pants on for this.” Major Bagg responded tersely.

The last of them was the most wired. Chief of Operations, Brigadier General Cors Spryt, had not slept in forty-eight hours, and it showed. The bags under his eyes were transitioning from grayish to a bluish sort of color, yellowed at the edges like a bruise. As he entered the room, he plugged a storage drive into the smart table, then poured out a line of a white powder onto the back of his hand between the thumb and forefinger. Holding down one side of his nostril, with two economical snorts the entirety of the cocktail of substances disappeared up his open, flaring nostril. The map glowed to life as Spryt then snorted down the snot generated by his morning glory, wiping his nose with a tissue pulled from inside his uniform blouse.

“How’re we all feeling today? Feeling good? I know I am. I only pictured movement like this in strategy games.” Spryt rushed, giving everyone in the room the perfect duration of eye contact and a shockingly personable little smile for someone who by every metric should have been in bed ten hours ago, and should still be now.

“Doing just fine, Cors. How’re the boys doing?” Kammsd asked, hoping to have enough time left in the day to enjoy his little slice of intact Kaustan cultural heritage.

“Well… well… Just fine.” Spryt began, looking up from his map quizzically at Kammsd, opening his mouth to speak again before being cut off by Major Belt.

“Colonel Kesturr still thinks he’s General Nattop, and Nattop wants him and his staff court-martialed.” Belt assisted.

Kammsd rubbed his brow and sighed. “I don’t get his problem. Every success of the third is getting attributed to him. The press won’t touch Kesturr with a ten meter pole, only the men under him.”

“That’s not the problem, sir.” Major-General Halvrek began, “Nattop didn’t want Oenah, then Kesturr took it.”

“If the 7th does today what it did yesterday, they’re on track to force the 3rd Armored Division into the longest advance in Ursine history tomorrow.” Brigadier General Spryt added. “I heard from his XO, or wherever he stands in their organization- Captain Hearn- Kesturr thinks he can do a hundred fifty kilometers in a day. And he knows his division would have no choice but to follow after and exploit.”

“The court martial isn’t happening. That’d involve Follontis and probably a congressman and- Absolutely not. But someone needs to tell General Rys to stop sending Kesturr fuel for at least a week while the rest of us move up.” Kammsd decided, crossing his arms over his chest. “Think you can bring Kesturr to me? Colonel-Generals don’t answer to the whims of Colonels.”

“Yes, sir. Kicking and screaming, maybe, but I’ll tell him he missed the racing downs the 2nd Armored division are liberating tomorrow. That ought to bring him to the rear for at least a day.” Belt groaned after saying the words, but the weary look in his eyes told Kammsd it could be done.

“My turn again.” Spryt interjected. Eyes turned to the holotable. Zoomed out over Kausta, one could see the divisional icons of the 8th Army’s ten divisions- the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Armored Divisions, and the 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, and 14th Armored Infantry Divisions. 1st and 2nd were supporting either flank of the 8th as it pushed south, with the 3rd Armored Division- named “Speartip”- right at the middle, farther ahead than any other division in the 8th Army. Dragging the 11th and elements of the 10th and 12th behind it. “Turns out there’s only a hundred thousand men against… all of us. Intel was bad. Veyrad mobilized every old reservist and urban cop for rear-line actions, and pulled them all out just before Operation Divine Wind began.”

“Explains how we’ve been moving so fast. But what’s the point?” Halvrek grumbled, “An orgy of violence?”

“Probably cutting teeth, dulling down any semblance of scruples the Heeks had left when they started the war. If they’re going to defend the Isle and the Dschyudijan Strip, they’re gonna need proper killers.” Colonel-General Dallant offered, earning a nod from Major Belt as Brigadier General Spryt gave him a vacant stare.

“The airbase we liberated last week has become the largest operating airfield within our AO. LAF Tokan now. Now that they’ve taken shipments of those new choppers, I think we can start telling divisional HQs that-”

Major Bagg’s voice cut off Brigadier General Spryt. “That they are doing a bang-up job, and should continue to cut their inroads into the history of armored warfare. But the attack helicopters will not be reaching south.”

A room full of unhappy eyes turned to the man in blue. Kammsd and Halvrek spoke at the same time, both on some variation of “What do you mean there are helicopters in-country but no air support?”

“The Myrsk My-120 is a highly capable platform, and not one we can afford to waste on what is, I think you’ll all forgive me for saying this, a clean-up job.” Major Bagg laid out, “LAF Aerie has worked out that the best way to solve the stalemate on the Dschyudijan Front is to wipe every operation target between the front and the coast. Heeks made a lot more roads and railroads than we thought they did.”

“Major Bagg, Coral Harbor mapped out those roads and railroads.” Halvrek warned. “Our drones. Our officers. I know a thing or two about Dschyudija.”

“Do you, now, sir? Because the LAF had to find out the hard way just how much air defense those bastards have. And our helicopters are needed North. Not south. Your tanks can smash whatever they’ve left in Kausta.”

“Whatever they’ve left in Kausta is blowing up five Type 1s a day. Mission killing what, a dozen a day? We can only fix forty percent of what gets towed behind the lines and those timelines are still in magnitudes of a week on average. We’re wearing our teeth down to the gums, Major. I know Kalriss- if I could just get one phone call-”

Bagg shook his head. “I respect that you’ve been kept reasonably busy in Kausta, but I assure you that the General of the Air Force is three times as busy, sir. She’s only at Aerie half of the time. When she’s not sortieing and not planning, she’s liaising with Follontis or with industry. We need to remain in our lane, and trust the process. By the time we take Odei, sir, the 8th- and the 3rd Army Group in general- we’ll be taking on Heeks with a day of supplies, dug in fifty-six kilometers from the sea.”

“It’ll be a bloodbath.” Brigadier General Spryt agreed. We could probably get to Dodsha in a day if the LAF can destroy everything they’ve got behind the lines.”

“If. And they won’t. No war was ever won on the merit of airpower alone. And certainly not against a country that’s had two and a half centuries to dig.”

Bagg smirked smugly, as if there was something he knew that he couldn’t tell the rest of the room, inviting a raised eyebrow from the Colonel-General. “That is certainly the consensus I would come to from your position, as well.” was all the 8th’s Air Liaison had to say about that.

"Major. I remember the men who flew relief into Coral Harbor. You are not one of The Few. So you can drop the moon-man act and find me in my office after this meeting- alone- and tell me what you know."

Bagg's expression did not change, which was answer enough. "Sir, with respect, I'd be guessing. And I'd rather be rude in front of four generals than be the man who made one of them move early - certainly not for an operation LAF won’t even be running.”

"Then guess in writing. On my desk by sixteen hundred."

"...Yes, sir."

“So, is that it? The great eight, chugging along?” Colonel-General Dallant asked, hoping to get things back on track. “I can’t write a book if everything after the Battle of Oenah is ‘the 8th Army swung south and liberated half Kausta single-handedly’, it’ll be a boring read and nobody’ll believe it anyway.”

“Actually, no. 2nd Armored Division isn’t moving.” Spryt started, “There’s a brigade holding Amishuku-”

“The Type 1 MLRs haven’t cracked them?”

“2nd Armored expended their stockpile of 350 millimeter Type 1 and Type 3 guided rockets. And they’ve been reporting the Type 2 unguideds are… not up to the task, nor within General Rhus’ comfort zone.”

“I don’t give a damn what General Rhus is comfortable with, I need my eastern flank to catch the hell up with my western flank. The advance isn’t balanced.”

“And it's not going to be. The coastal zones got the worst of the Tohcok Amihsim.”

“For those of us in the room who are less familiar with that awful language?” Asked Major Bagg.

“Task Forces, in Latvyrian. Kaustans do a good job of cleaning up after themselves and others, so it’ll be hard to… get the sort of evidence Colonel-General Dallant would like to get his hands on, but whenever you see an orphan surviving in the hills or come upon a burned out town, you have them to thank. Not even soldiers.” Kammsd sighed. “If you spent nearly as much time on Latvyria as you do with your head in the clouds you’d understand. Major Belt, if Rhus doesn’t take that position today I’m going to have to get a new divisional commander. Make sure he understands that.”

Belt nodded, pulling his notepad from a pocket and scribbling down a note.

“So, we tell Brigadier General Rys to stop bringing gas to the 3rd Armored, route the 12th infantry to push around that position holding up the 2nd, and mention General Kynneng and the 1st Armored positively in today’s dispatch? The ego boost should slow him down in time for the 2nd to catch up to him.” Kammsd observed.

“The 3rd is going to swing for the coast. They’re already ten kilometers ahead of the 2nd.” Halvrek shook his head, “Even if Kesturr wasn’t angling for it, Nattop would do it himself. He’ll probably start with Trisp’s regiment, which will spur Kesturr into overcorrecting.”

This earned a groan from everyone but Bagg, whose attention was skyward- following the sound of a distant helicopter- but to Kammsd it just looked like a man slowly tracking an invisible fly across the wall and ceiling. Ignoring the robot in blue, he turned to his staff. “How do we fix this?”

“Shift the 2nd over to where the 3rd was? Rhus doesn’t have the stomach for fighting that Nattop does, and the most VDF positions are on the coast road.”

“If I can avoid that I’d be a very happy man indeed. I need the 3rd where they are. 2nd engages Odei, 12th and 11th Infantry pull in VDF defenders to the northern positions, then 3rd Armored hits the western approaches and breaks them. I TOLD them when I had all my generals together before Divine Wind kicked off.”

“And I’m telling you, sir, unless we do something- and I am sure Nattop will produce fuel if he is forced to- that the tail is wagging the dog.”

“The 7th wags the 3rd. The 3rd does not wag the 8th Army. Where is Nattop now?”

Spryt leaned over the map and tapped his finger repeatedly against a township twenty kilometers south of their current position. “Here, sir. But the 10th is still mopping up behind him. I can’t in good faith let you go down there yourself.”

“Major Bagg, I could get a ride at the very least, no?” Kammsd asked, turning to Bagg with the expression of a man who already knew the answer.

“All rotary wing assets are tasked. No logistics flights scheduled for the 3rd Armored, either.”

“There hasn’t been a single logistics flight to the entire 8th, Major. I would appreciate less words from you. Hot air has never agreed with my constitution. Brigadier General Rys is working on less sleep than Spryt, and Spryt at least has his… concoction to keep up.”

“Very well. If there’s anything else I think we can call it for now and reconvene at 1600 hours?” Major General Halvrek asked the room, hands folded behind his back.

“If it's all the same you gentlemen I’d very much like to sleep.” Reported Spryt.

“I heard Room 203 didn’t get shat in. Take that one.” Dallant commented.

“Phucking Heeks.” Sighed Spryt as he piloted his body out of the room.

The rest of the 8th Army’s staff filed out of the room, Major Bagg getting dirty looks from most as he strolled away. Eventually, only Kammsd and Dallant were left standing at the table. The 15th Army’s Colonel-General rather shamelessly took the camera hanging around his neck and snapped a photo, mumbling something to himself as he did with a supreme look of satisfaction.

“Kammsd, would you mind uh- One hand in coat, one hand leaning on the table?” Dallant asked, gesturing towards Kammsd and the smart table.

“You want me to take a hand-in-coat picture? What is this, the Usonian Civil War?”

“Of course not. But in terms of the history of the LPA, it very much is.”

“It didn’t work as well in photographs as it did paintings. But on a modern camera?”

“I think you fail to understand exactly… what your whole command is going to be remembered as, Kammsd. The 9th Army? Good boys from the bottom to the top. And that’s it. But they can hardly push out of the mountains- 1st Armored Division passed by their 4th Armored division on its way south. You’ve outrun the people supposed to cover the western approach to the Otnakoh Plain. You are the maneuver element in Kausta. I’ve been to Coral Harbor, you know. I never thought I’d see the base in a state close enough to how it would have looked during World War Two. But you restored it to that state, and made it a modern intelligence gathering and processing wing for Civil Protection. Perspective, Kammsd, is everything, and someday two hundred years from now you will have the honor of being a poorly remembered face in a picture frame. Pose up.”

A real smile spread across Kammsd’s lips, and he unbuttoned one of the middle buttons of his dress blouse, slipping a hand inside. “All these skilled men for subordinates, and my only real peer in the entire 3rd Army Grou- I’m not finishing that thought lest it end up in your book. Colonel-General Yug is a fine officer.”

“Just not as fine as you.” Dallant winked as Kammsd put his hand on the table. He raised his camera, and the commander of the 8th Army rested a hand on the smart table, making sure to put no weight on it. “Smile for posterity.”

Kammsd wound up being immortalized in that moment with a grin on his face.

“Not what I would have gone for, but who’s going to judge the first tank commander since World War Four?”

“I believe that distinction goes to the bastard in charge of their 881st Armored Brigade 'Karab'. First tank victory in a hundred twenty-five years. I’ll accept his pistol. His life if I can find a justification to take it.” Kammsd smiled thinly at the thought, then clapped his hands together as the image of his friend boarding the plane to Follont City popped into his head. “Well, shall we see about finding what the 3rd Armored is up to today?”

“I’ve got nothing else on. Kaustans hardly need the MPs for anything but helping clear rubble and signal traffic.” Dallant shrugged and fetched his peaked hat from a coat hangar in the room, tucking it under his arm.

The LPA officer corps still had yet to settle on a rigid standard for its dress uniforms, save for the shade- an olive green derived from a deep shade of green, the majority of variation was not in the cut- settling on a variation the uniforms worn by Kammsd and the LPA Honor Guard at Vellik’s funeral with folded collars rather than stand-collars- but variation was found instead in the headwear department.

Haberdashers from all over the Federation, especially on the homeworld and especially in and around Takamaugh, however, had settled on two general types- there was Dallant’s peaked cap, with its black leather visor, the colored band around it to denote service branch- Dallant’s was orange-red for military police- and like every other officer’s cap in the LPA it bore gold braid embroidery around the cockade- the star, gear, and globe with backing in the color of the service branch. Aside from shoulder boards, one could tell at a glance a man’s importance by how much oak leaves were on the colored band the cockade was mounted on.

Kammsd, on the other hand, wore a cover that was between a kepi and a ski cap. It was stiff enough to retain its shape, but he still kept a cut paper plate taped to the top in order to keep it sharp. The hat’s bill was made of the same green fabric as the rest of the hat, and service branch was indicated by the piping along the edge of the cap’s top. Two buttons held notional earflaps folded up in place, with the LPA cockade over it. Even with his tailored uniform and shining shoulder boards, Kammsd felt like less of a sniper target than he felt Dallant seemed. The fact Dallant crushed down the sides of his own hat added to the impression that he was a mind worth targeting. At least to Kammsd.

As Kammsd took his hat from the rack, he pulled the bill of the hat low over his eyes and walked out of the hotel with his colleague. Out in the sun, and grateful he didn’t have to resort to sunglasses as his peer did, he waved down Corporal Oroppass, who rushed over to his side. “Bring us a car, and an escort. Nothing big, but, you know, two Colonel-Generals. Take my pass if you get any pushback.” Kammsd produced a folded paper from one of his pockets and gave an impressed whistle as the Corporal sped off on foot to put together his convoy. “Staff cars with flags. I’m going to miss the privilege when we’re in Dschyudija.” He sighed to Dallant.

Dallant shrugged. “The conquering 8th Army, even in all the glory it wrapped itself in during the liberation of Kausta, are distinct in the history of our species as the largest tour group ever made. In competition with the 9th Army, and with the forces of the 15th Army spread out behind them to clean up their and Veyrad’s mess. After rotating to the Dschyudijan Front to save the hapless sops of the 1st and 2nd Army Group, the leaders of the 3rd Army Group quickly realized the nature of modern mechanized warfare- this time against a determined and hardened defensive enemy. That’s probably how I’ll write it out. You know as well as I do that the Republican Guard won’t let us enter Odei.”

“Will Nattop and Kesturr agree?”

“Your conundrum, not mine, Colonel-General.”

The convoy pulled up in front of the hotel, Oroppass driving the staff car. A modern luxury car ordinarily reserved for bigwigs’ chauffeured rides or to those who really wanted one and didn’t mind the pinch of saving up, done up in gray like every other LPA vehicle. On each of the front fenders was a flag, one bearing the emblem of the 8th Army- a red field decorated by golden oak leaves with green octagon featuring a stylized red and white number 8 on it, the other a red field decorated with golden oak leaves bearing three gold stars on it- marking the vehicle as belonging to a Colonel-General.

In front and behind the car were two open-topped all-terrain vehicles with troops from the headquarters pool still tightening the straps of their Type 1 infantry armor and buckling their helmets. Kammsd always enjoyed seeing his headquarters troops suit up- as the men seemed to enjoy it as well. To a degree. There was a terrified-looking private in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, but his comrades- the driver and the heavy machine-gunner were more than pleased with themselves- the gunner wiping down his weapon with a silk cloth and only pausing his ritual to give Kammsd and Dallant a thumbs-up.

“Shall we, then?” Kammsd asked, going for his door handle, stopping in his tracks as he saw Dallant aiming the camera at him. “Really, now, Dallant?”

“The Colonel-General who opens his own door. There’s my photo. By all means, continue.”

With one click from Dallant’s camera, and other from the door’s latch opening, Kammsd let himself into his side of the car. Dallant waited for the assistant driver- the best-groomed private either of them had ever seen- to open the door on the other side for him. The suspension shifted more under Dallant’s heft than Kammsd expected, though Kammsd only realized how shocked he looked as an awkwardly cleared throat was heard from the seat next to his.

“Sorry- I- When I’m as old as you are, you’ll have to hook me up with your tailor. I had no idea you were…”

“So generous in proportion? Cooks in the 15th are out to give me a heart attack.” He held his hands up in resignation, “There’s a reason I spend so much of my time bumming around your HQ. Off to Nattop’s nowhere town?”

“If he’s still there. Halvrek has given him a stop order but we both know his track record.”

“Supposedly the worst communications company in this man’s army. I’m more excited to meet them than see some primadonna with a puffed-out chest.”

“And if we spend the whole day hunting Nattop we’ll miss the 1600 brief. That happens and I’ll make sure he’s on the first shuttle back to New Latvyria in the deepest, darkest Civil Protection office I can find.”

The vehicle with the machine gun took off down the road, the private in the passenger seat struggling to unfold a map as the gunner leaned on his weapon and seemed to try and indicate which part was the top. Kammsd held his breath until he spotted a grateful nod from the helmeted head. Their car followed, and behind them was another armed all-terrain vehicle- its soldiers chatting easily amongst themselves. They set off down a back road that followed the ruins of a major highway, and for the most part the countryside moved past, unchanging. Every village looked the same at this rate of speed. Kammsd tried to ignore the incessant clicking of Dallant’s camera- sometimes pointing at the countryside, other times pointed at him.

Passing by a burnt out Type 1 main battle tank, Kammsd couldn’t help but look. There was still the charred husk of one of its crew hanging halfway out of a hatch. As he looked on, there was that click again. Nostrils flaring, he turned from the window to shoot a glare at Dallant, and for it earned another click. He thought about saying something, but wasn’t about to fuel the historical record with another off-the-cuff remark. He just shook his head.

After three kilometers of silence, Kammsd decided he’d had enough of it. “Something about your posting sits bad with me.”

“What of it?” Dallant asked, shifting in his seat, suddenly interested in the other man inside the car again.

“You seem like the kind of guy they’d’ve slotted into 1st or 2nd Army Groups. Either as one of the honored shovelmen throwing bodies in a furnace to keep General Seidbern’s steam up, or as one of the managers General Makkelln hands armies out to.”

“I told Follontis I believed in Vellik’s promise, and that the only Ursine lives I’d be happy on my conscience were criminals- not uniformed men. I wanted a quiet war, and I thank the stars they gave it to me. But you know who’s having a quiet war?”

“Who? Civil Protection?”

“Absolutely not. FCP is all greenhorns now, and at half strength. No, the Revenue Cutter Service is having a quiet war. Five ships, seventy-five years of obscurity, and since all the smugglers signed onto the LAF and our quartermaster corps- thank heaven for them- they’ve got nothing to chase. I tried interviewing their top guy, Commodore Clarck fan Alastaro, but heard back from his office that the service was ‘engaged in militarily-relevant operations’. Whatever that means for five hulks with guns smaller than a tank’s, I have no idea, but I’d very much like to.”

Kammsd grunted and rubbed his chin. “fan Alastaro. Not a fan of the spotlight, that one. I think I’ve only seen his face once on a screen. But the name feels more familiar than the man.”

“Indeed. To each according to his ability and all that, and fan Alastaro certainly has ability, but he’s got bad blood.”

“Bad blood? I thought you were a Vellikite, Embrosyo. That’s pre-Federation talk.”

“Not when someone’s a direct descendant of the dynasty that possessed a third of Aurdkall’s people in the chains of feudal rule.”

“Not a chance.”

“There’s a direct line from Emperor Char the Fifth to Clarck fan Alastaro. I believe it's technically fan Alastaro-Nederrey after a succession crisis centuries ago, but the man’s blood is as blue as it comes.”

As the road turned, a neat field of tents and tanks came into view, arranged with such precision it looked more like a blueprint than a bivouac. The Kaustan flag was nowhere to be seen here, as it was further behind the lines. No, the only banners snapping in the wind were the blood-red banner of Follontis. Below, only Latvyrian soldiers. The headquarters of the 3rd Armored Division “Speartip” was a sprawling machine complex where men and machines moved in the sort of harmony one would expect only out of space traffic and the roads of a megacity. Dallant shook his head.

“It's all a bit much. Who the hell does Nattop think he is?” Dallant grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting up in his seat. “You actually sought after this guy?”

“That camp is exactly why I sought after him. If Follontis had picked my divisional commanders we’d still be stuck in the South and the Vesyu Range would be solidly Veyradian.” Kammsd’s attention was quickly taken by the launch of a Type 1 MLR next to the camp. Five three hundred-fifty millimeter rockets shot into the sky, leaving white tails behind them as they flew out to punish the enemies of the Federation. Of course the distant, but approaching shapes of the men and machines moving through the camp didn’t even hiccup or pause. This brought a smile to his lips, and Kammsd was still wearing the smile as the car came to a halt. He stepped out quickly, donning his cap and breathing in the air. It smelled of oil and gas and faintly of sweat, with only a hint of the Kaustan countryside underneath it.

Kammsd was glad not to feel the car shifting under him as Dallant’s door was opened and he pulled himself out of the vehicle. He was doubly glad to be in the 3rd Armored’s camp, and not the 11th Armored Infantry’s camp. He never liked their general all that much, but he delivered results. And nothing else.

There was something akin to stress behind the eyes of the Captain who snapped him a salute. Was it fear? If it was, Nattop kept his camp busy enough to mask the smell. “Colonel-General Kammsd, Colonel-General Dallant, we weren’t expecting you. General Nattop is right this way.”

“That was the point, Captain.” Dallant grunted, unenthused about the walk.

The two flag officers followed the Captain through the camp, each man passed snapping a perfect regulation salute- and likely stealing precious seconds from whatever task had the men they passed. A wake of salutes, then hasty returns to task followed Kammsd and Dallant until they reached a tent with a wooden floor, and a flag with two gold stars on it- the sign of a Major General’s presence. Its doors- two large flaps, were folded up to allow the midday sun in, and inside stood General Nattop, hunched over a paper map, surrounded by a gaggle of his officers. It was the kind of camp Kammsd could imagine Striker keeping, if he’d made it to command in the LPA. And he would. He had to, he owed that much to him. But Kammsd’s train of thought was halted by the appearance of Colonel Kesturr. His golden, flowing locks and insistence upon his mustache remained painfully out of place inside, but for once he was wearing a uniform with nothing extra, nothing out of regs or within the grey zone of regs. He found himself speechless and staring as he walked into the tent. A dozen pairs of heels clicked together as a dozen hands came to salute. Nattop only looked up from his map when he heard the heels, and a scowl immediately formed on his lips.

“What’s the bad news, Sybolt?”

“General Nattop.” Kammsd nodded as he came to stand at the opposite end of the table, taking a second to loom over it and look at Nattop’s handiwork. “So it is true. You’d swing to the coast.”

“Of course I’m going to swing to the coast. Kynneng’s not pulling his weight, and I’m not going to let some ring-tailed midget who thinks he’s some kind of knight tell me I can’t take Odei. It's the quickest approach to the city.”

“Jorj, you know I respect you, but that's not going to work. I still plan for your division to be in the van when we hit Odei, but it's a megacity. It's nothing like the rest of Kausta. I need you hitting it from the Northeast, not the North.”

Nattop’s jaw tightened as he heard his first name from his superior officer. His superior officer who was his junior by a generation and a half. “I oversaw five megacities in Vrentaya-“

“Yes, you did. And your record is why I fought for Follontis to give you a tank division. You’re one of the best, Jorj. But I can’t let you fly off the hook just yet.”

Nattop couldn’t let praise pass, even if it felt sideways to him. A smile pulled at the corners of his lips, but he shook his head. “I’ve got those Heeks on the run! I’ve smacked them so hard they’ve learned to run when they see my tanks! If I slow the advance we hand Odei reinforcements and time. They don’t have a ride home, and with backs to the sea they’ll give us the worst fight of the whole campaign.”

The General slammed his hands onto the table, his eyes awash with fire. Just a little farther off from center and there’d be foam at the corners of his mouth. “We’ve got to hammer them! And I’m your hammer.”

He was right, and the smirk at his lips- twitching as he tried to fight it down- was something Kammsd could not argue with. Despite having the worst losses out of all of his divisions, Nattop had done something he thought impossible. He’d broken the Vesyu Range, after all, and had been fulfilling the divisional name of “Speartip” by consistently leading the advance south down the Otnakoh Plain. Kammsd looked into Nattop’s wild, burning eyes, and couldn’t help but sigh. He shook his head slowly, then placed his hands wide on the map, leaning in to observe what Nattop had been working on. Indeed the whole division was to swing to the coast, mop up the positioning pinning the 2nd Armored Division, and then immediately south to Odei. The Colonel-General shook his head and pushed an eraser up from inside his breast pocket.

Kesturr stepped forward as Kammsd began erasing, an arm extended from Colonel Trisp of the 8th Armored Regiment holding him back. “You’ll get the coast road, Jorj, but you’ll hit Odei…” Kammsd began drawing his own line- taking the third from its current position in the middle of the Otnakoh Plain east to the coast, relieving the Second and pushing south ahead of it for a few kilometers, then maneuvering where he wanted them for Odei. “From the Northeast, as planned. See behind this hill here? Camp there. Wait for your regiments to get fresh blood, and I know your tanks need some love, Jorj. But consider the Kaustan idea of face-”

“Face? The Republican Guard is only a hair better than the Veyradian animals I’m crushing under my treads. The Third is their history from now on.”

“I don’t disagree, Jorj, but they’re about to be citizens. Just… be careful. Kausta isn’t Veyrad. Even if there are some similarities. They’re going to be part of the family and that process will only take a year or two. They’ll remember how they were welcomed home.”

Nattop crossed his arms over his chest, then leaned into the map, waving for his regimental commanders and staff to crowd around the table.

“The Seventh and I could make Odei by tom-” Kesturr started, only to have his boot stomped on by Colonel Trisp standing beside him. “Colonel-General Kammsd if you’d just give the gas-”

“Goddamnit, G.A. Colonel-General Kammsd didn’t give you the 7th for you to overextend into the most obvious phucking trap in military history.”

“It’s not a trap if you spring it on purpose!” The cavalier protested.

“No, Colonel Kesturr, if you spring it on purpose it means you’re a retard and your beloved regiment dies in the mud.” Grumbled Major General Nattop. “You’re going to remember what you’ve learned these past few days, follow my orders, and until we get to Odei you are going to follow every crossed-t and dotted-i you see from me. And I’m tired of your radio scheme. There will be written orders.”

If Kesturr was a less prideful man, a degree less egotistical, Kammsd would have braced himself for a look his way searching for support. But the two knew full well that the regimental command was as far as he could pull Kesturr up. Kammsd opted not to look at Kesturr regardless, in the off-chance Nattop had actually managed to find a faultline in the cavalier’s self-esteem. No, Kammsd kept his hands on the table, watching Nattop’s fingers as he spoke with his officers. They were going to swing and swing hard- pin the Heeks on the beach, crush them where they cowered, then pave a trail of glory to the hill Northeast of Odei. Understand? Every regiment was to do twenty kilometers a day, and stay tight- tighter than they were used to. A wall of steel moving at speed. Our Type 1s are nearly as fast as their trucks. Faster than anything Veyrad had with armor. Two days to the coast, two days to the hill. The more animated Nattop became as he spoke, the clearer it was to Kammsd that Nattop actually agreed. Nattop even used the word “wait” when referencing the hill Northeast of Odei, which Kammsd was convinced was not in the man’s vocabulary. Kammsd remained in the tent until the regimental Colonels filtered out. He only stayed behind a beat after them, giving Nattop a brief nod of his head before ducking out of the tent.

29. Clear Skies
When LAF Sapperford became a fighting air base, there were only five Da-100S fighters there. Kassra’s heart soared with every pair of wings that lifted screaming off the ground, her heart beating so hard it made her fingers tremble with each pulse. She’d launched the largest single sortie of aircraft in the largest single air operation since WW4.

She wasn’t sure about all of the pilots. She was right there with the first cadre, but the accelerated pilot training programme was another story. Still, with the number of planes being shipped to or built on Latvyria every day, she could lose half of the sortie and only feel sorry for the pilots. Pair after pair of heavily-armed fighters lifted off- each one, to her eye, little more than engines and radars for carrying Type 3 Long-Range Air-to-Air Missiles. Watching them go felt like being witness to something the best creative minds of a generation would fail utterly to depict in its totality.

The computer-aided aiming for bombs and dumb rockets meant that thirty former cosmonauts could put warheads on foreheads. The rest of the ninety pilots taking off were daredevils and barnstormers, the ones in the pipeline who flew the prettiest and required the least amount of training. The Type 3 LRAAM’s introduction of beyond visual range warfare killed much of the enthusiasm, but immediately put one of them- Captain R.I. Bong- in the running for ace of aces at 6 kills, 3 behind Major M.A. Dschlaje and tied with herself. Even if Bong or one of the other new pilots outpaced Dschlaje’s kill count, none of them would have an intelligence recording like he did of Veyradian pilots calling them “Satan in a cockpit”.

After ordering a few ground attack sorties from the Da-100S, and then having flown one herself, she ceased to see the plane as anything other than an air superiority platform. A joy at medium and high altitude but if you got low in one and lost any amount of energy it started moving sloppy. No. She had the KaO-288 for that. Her most recent acquisition, the subsonic two-seater plane was built around the necessity for carrying up to twenty antitank missiles or forty thousand pounds of bombs up to three thousand kilometers, then loiter and strafe with its 28 mm cannons. Not fun to fly. Like a trainer aircraft without the instability.

“Waiting on you, General.” A voice called from the staircase of the air traffic control tower.

Kassra wanted to stay and watch all one hundred twenty of her children take to the skies, but she was due to join them and wasn’t about to interrupt a meticulous timetable she’d ordered made for the operation.

Her ride was decidedly less “cool” outwardly than the rest of the aircraft involved in Operation Open Season. It was a simple KaO-303 civilian airliner- the LAF exclusive KaO-304- with a large, rectangular radar mounted on top and two ventral bulges containing electronic warfare equipment and a jammer array. Kalriss wanted them in chrome, and there simply wasn’t time in the day for anyone behind the lines to figure out radar-absorbent chrome. The plane was orange, the paint’s radar-absorbent nature also refusing to let the sun shine off the bird. Officially, the color was “Sunset” but everyone called it radar orange. Herself included. But the capabilities inside the KaO-304, to Kalriss, made it one of the “coolest” in her inventory.

Kassra turned to her driver as they passed down the flight line to the awaiting orange monster. “Major, important question.”

“Fire away, General.”

“If I can use the KaO-304 to guide in a missile fired by another pilot, could I count that kill as my own given I would be in command of that aircraft?”

“I believe the kill would still go to whichever crewman of the 304 sends the missile to target. Which is tracked by the computers. And still less impressive than fighter-on-fighter fights, even at BVR.”

The liaison car parked next to the plane, its engines already whining and ready to go. Her driver showed her an easy salute and peeled off. The man driving the mobile ladder gave her a proper one, which unlike the Major’s was only returned but returned in kind. Just as her boot left the last step, the ladder drove off, and she shut the plane’s door behind her, the pressurized hatch whirring softly and hissing shut.

Inside was a row of computer consoles and a wave of raindrop fatigued officers and airmen ready at their consoles, headsets on. She wore the same raindrop patterned fatigues as anyone else in the Latvyrian Armed Forces- olive green lines over a dark khaki. Like anyone else in the air force it had a winged Follontist star, gear, and globe on the upper right chest, her name tape beneath it over the pocket, and on the service branch- AIR FORCE- on the left side just over the pocket. There were eighteen other officers and airmen in the LAF by the name Kalriss. It wasn’t too uncommon. No, the only unique part of her uniform were the golden braids on her shoulders mounted on white boards, bearing a jewel-encrusted image of the winged star, gear, and globe. And just like everyone else in the Latvyrian Armed Forces, she wished it was more breathable. Not that she’d care inside the civilian-grade air conditioning of the AWACS.

A handshake approached in the form of Lieutenant Colonel Gorm’s deceptively strong hand. “Good day for hunting, General.”

“So it is, Lieutenant Colonel. LPA won’t be able to ignore this one.”

“Open Season! Let’s kick some ass!”

“That’s enough out of the Radar Section. We’re the General’s bird today.” Grumbled one of the Fighter Controllers.

“It's quite alright, Captain Kayn. We’ve all worked together before. And with the helicopters, when we do start taking losses, we’ll get the guys home.” Kassra patted his shoulder, then took her seat at a set of monitors on a platform slightly raised above the mission area- displacing Gorm to a jump seat.

“Generals and gentlemen this is your Captain speaking. Please fasten your seatbelts and store your tray tables in an upright position. Today we’re going to be flying nine and a half kilometers above the surface of our beautiful home planet- that includes the colonials among us- and earning our pay close to enemy airspace. Oh, and Free Taured.”

Two of the junior officers in the radar section enthusiastically called back “Death to Veyrad!” to the annoyance of Captain Kayn.

The KaO-304 lifted off. Kalriss hated the feeling, and felt bad for the pilots. The KaO-303, the most produced aircraft in Ursine history, was the perfect civilian airliner. It flew good, better than good- it could cross an entire continent on one engine if it had to. The fuel efficiency was unlike anything that came before it. The smooth feeling of riding in one was almost as good as the smooth feeling of flying the thing- when or if you actually had to fly it. Autopilot on the homeworld had produced so many lazy airline pilots they made up the majority of trained pilots rejected for service. But the KaO-304 felt like the KaO-303 gained weight. Ugly weight. It sagged down every time it lifted off, then again when the wheels came up. It wasn’t dangerous if you had enough runway, and favorable wind helped but wasn’t needed- it just felt bad. But the kind of bad a 303 pilot from Belka or Eureka wouldn’t bat an eye at. Every two, three, or four engined aircraft in the LAF was their domain.

As her ears popped, she worked to get her monitors going, one for each section of the plane’s major mission packages- radar, fighter control and weapons direction, electronic warfare, and the intel feed. She knew better than to edge too deep into the comms station’s domain. If they needed her, they’d tell her. The monitor dedicated to watching the fighters gave her an abstract view of Operation Open Season’s formations heading out.

They were presently outside the Veyradian air defense zone- a sphere of about eight thousand kilometers around the Veyradian territory on the continent- only 56 kilometers at its widest. Operation Open Season was coming in from the North, between the well-protected coastal port city of Dodhsa- Veyrad’s largest settlement in Taured- and the Nalog Heights. There was an exploitable gap there, especially since the 8th Army’s liberation of northern Kausta delivered enough nearby airbases for the rotary-winged element of Open Season to come into the Dschyudija Strip from the south.

You had to give it to Veyrad- with such a small continental presence and living in the worst part of the planet- they had their airspace by the balls. And balls she can twist. Especially with the new electronic warfare suite on the 304. She was going to scramble their brains while she was at it. And eat better than any of the VDF’s air defenders.

It really was a wonder of modern science that good, fried Meatbird could be preserved and reheated without losing its texture. The fittingly-named bird, prize of New Latvyria, was named because it was discovered to be superior to homeworld fowl in almost every way- less intelligent, better texture, better flavor, faster to breed- and they literally ate trash. The eggs were no good, but that only meant more meatbirds to eat. That last part held it back from going big when they were discovered, but nobody in the Federation who has tried meatbird has refused to incorporate it into their diet. A whole bucket of meatbird breast, thighs, and legs, fried in the greatest development of the 11th Five Year Plan- non-fattening frying ingredients that tasted proper. It's what made Usonians the leanest people on the homeworld for the first time in centuries. And thanks in no small part to her own personal bias, half of the air force diet was meatbird, often fried meatbird with the Vyeou spices from Avrenne.

Kalriss hungrily eyed the first reheated bucket of meatbird, but she brought it from the macrowave to the most junior officer on the plane. And then to the radarman who’d shouted “Death to Veyrad” earlier- Lieutenant Baks.

“Are these operations going to be a regular thing now, General?”

“What, I got junior officers missing my company now? Or is it the meatbird?”

Baks’ mouth was too full to respond. Kalriss was off reheating a bucket before he could swallow and lie to her with “both”. She got to most of the nineteen officers, but a raised hand from the intel officer stopped her in her hungry tracks.

“Veyrad’s in the air. Fighters, looks like F-123s. Picking up 15 so far. Probably another ten up.”

“All your stealth could never save you from the people, Usonia. And it won’t save your precious Veyrad, either.” Kalriss whispered, grinning. She cleared her throat before speaking up. “Brilliant. Broadcasting data?”

“Already on it. The 68th are vectoring.”

“Hello, Mr. X. Major Dschlaje’s gonna get to ten today, isn’t he? Are his wingmen giving him these kills or-?”

“No, Ma’am. Does it all on his own.”

“And his wingmen aren’t getting splashed?”

“No, ma’am. Hit, sometimes, but never downed. Their Captain Gurou with the nastiest-“

“I didn’t think a plane could fly with that much damage. I was there, Lieutenant Canne. I’m there for all of it. Remember that and you’ll soar.” She winked. “Fighters, how’re we feeling?”

“The 68th is going to use terrain to close and touch the 123s with IR missiles. They’re not that creative anymore.” Came one of the fighter controller’s cool reply, accentuated by a shrug. “Call me when Bong and the 44th come out to play.”

“Their F-123 pilots got used to the turkey shoot. They don’t know the 304’s radar renders 5th gen stealth obsolete. Once we find the other ten, then I’ll make a call.” Was Captain Kayn’s analysis, supported by the third fighter controller who added, “And they don’t know about the 304 anyways.”

“Oh they do, sir.” Corrected Warrant Officer Khord from his seat at the electronic warfare station. “Hey, why’s that commercial flight at the edge of our air defense zone- why can’t my scopes see anything? It's Veyrad, not Alevanth. They can tell a nut from a bolt.”

“68th have engaged.”

Kalriss moved back to her station to monitor the situation more closely. Fifty fighters shrieking over the countryside while her 304’s EW suite worked to confuse and blind the F-123s. The flight of 15 were forced to use their IR sensors, and the Da-100S was not a cold-running plane. For having entered service some hundred and seventy-five years ago, VDF F-123Vs had, Kalriss assumed, been built and rebuilt so many times they had to be near as good as new, and ran colder on average.

While it was cold in Taured and the surrounding region even in spring, the temperature masking effect of thermal signatures on the ground enabled Dschlaje’s squadron to get in close to the flight of stealth fighters, and far ahead of the formation was Major Dschlaje- Lun 1. Kalriss wished she was there to watch as Lun 1 turned its nose up and fired off four of his missiles before ducking back down to continue hugging the terrain. Two F-123s were destroyed.

“We’ve found the remaining ten, General. And more. Sixty F-116Vs on approach.”

“Vectoring in the 44th and 45th.” Came Captain Kayn’s easy response.

“It’s the kitchen sink! Why’re they saving their SAMs?” Lieutenant Colonel Gorm asked, leaning against the intelligence console.

“Glory, I hope. It’d be a lot less nefarious than them knowing something they shouldn’t. Why people whose religion doesn’t even include some… orgasmic afterlife for great deeds would fight us still eludes me. Die for Veyrad and what- go see your nagging grandmother?”

“It’s a mystery to history. I just know to look at maps and think.” Humbly reported Lieutenant Canne.

As the 44th and 45th began to move on the F-116 formations, then the tactical indicator on Kalriss’ display lit up with hostile blue. Nothing from the Nalog Heights, but the SAM sites on the Isle of Veyrad and from Dodhsa on the continent had begun launches towards the seventy Federation fighters. Friendly aircraft, indicated by red digital icons, began to scatter as the communications officers quickly began to look overwhelmed.

Maybe she was too conservative with the sortie. The 52nd was near full strength. And closeby. At LAF Tokan, in Kausta. The 29th at LAF Anad’dur was also in easy range, and the other KaO-304 was stationed there, as well. It had taken a near monumental effort within the staff to organize this, but if the reinforcement squadrons were kept in the other 304’s wheelhouse…

Kalriss had calls to make.

Three taps on a display and one button press had her headset patching into LAF Tokan. “I need you airborne in ten. Decoys. Go north, you’ll see.”

On the other end, there was no response. Kassra winced as she heard the microphone on the other end smack against the floor. When she heard a klaxon moaning, she moved on to her next call. The station commander at Anad’dur.

“Ahh, General Kalriss, wasn’t quite expecting a call at this hour, is everything quite alright?”

“Wings in ten. All of them. You’re handler for the 52nd and 29th. Wake up faster.”

It was there she ran into material reality. That was all of her fighters. And all of her KaO-288s were in the air. And slow. Hopefully the hairball would be over and Veyrad would hit its SAM allowance. But if she had just another squadron, and a hundred more of those attack helicopters! Kalriss kept her expression neutral, but as Lieutenant Canne and his counterpart in the other 304 communicated over their headsets he kept looking at her.

This crew was going to need a new intelligence officer tomorrow.

The 45th and 44th took only one loss in the first salvo from Veyradian ground defense. In the rugged Tauredi countryside it wasn’t too hard to duck a missile. If it didn’t get above you. And the third salvo, largely from the Isle of Veyrad, shot up farther than the second. Much farther. And the 45th quickly stopped having such a nice time.

Red indicators blipped out of existence in twos and threes as pack after pack of blue missile icons descended on the 68th. Someone in the 44th was picking off F-116s at range, and hitting all but one of his LRAAMs, and another apparently barely passed his BVR qualification- which had been required after the third month of the war. By the time the 45th had found space between desperately notching and hiding to avoid SAMs and engage incoming F-116s, the majority of the Veyradian sortie had surrounded the 68th. Sweat was leaking out of the two electronic warfare officers, and Kalriss assumed it was much the same on the other KaO-304, but from where she was sitting it didn’t seem to be doing much. Outnumbered near two-to-one, the fighters of the 68th were left largely to fend for themselves for five agonizing minutes.

An ugly blue icon jumped one of the 68th’s fighters. Lun 1 scores a kill. Lun 2 scores a kill. Lun 3 damaged and heading to LAF Anad’dur, Lun 4 out of missiles and escorting. Lun 11 downed, ejected. Matchbook 4, rammed an F-123 and successfully ejected- he was getting a medal. Lun 5 and 6 jumped by five F-116s and ran circles around them over the course of a minute- Lun 5 netting a gun kill and Lun 6 becoming an Ace. Lun 8 lost. Matchbook 3 on fire- Matchbook 3 downed. Lun 1 scores his second gun kill of the day. Unidentified is cheering about his first kill. Matchbook 15 lost. Sol 2 lost. Sol 3 lost. Sol 4 lost. Sol 5 lost. Sol 9 scores a kill. Sol 9 scores a kill. Sol 9 scores a kill. Sol 9 scores a gun kill. Sol 9 downed, ejected. Scattered reports of an F-116 shooting at a parachute. Sol 10 scores a kill. Lun 1 scores his third gun kill of the day, RTB. Lun 2 disengaging. Lun 5 disengaging.

And then the 44th smashed in. Kalriss didn’t even notice how close she’d leaned into her screen until she sank back into her seat and sighed, her shoulders sagging. Sol 9… who was Sol 9? She could only hope one of the other poor sods of that element was the one who was shot up in his parachute. But only Sol 9 ejected over that valley… There were plenty of parachutes out anyway. Surely a pilot who got four kills back to back hadn’t just popped her cherry. She’d have to check her on the leaderboard after this, buy her a drink. She flew right. Like a woman should. Sol 9 had to be a she.

Kalriss had little to do as the hairball continued. The EW officers continued to sweat. Her stomach growled, but she couldn’t bear to leave her station for a mere bucket of meatbird. Every station on the plane was abuzz with activity and Lieutenant Colonel Gorm was flitting around between the stations as needed. The rest of the 45th followed after the 44th. The 44th’s Tranquil 2- which scored those four BVR kills- tucked into the hairball to bail out Sol 8. Tranquil 2 scores a kill. Tranquil 1 scores a kill. Tranquil 1 scores a kill. Tranquil 2 scores a gun kill on an F-123, RTB. Green 10 scores a kill. Green 10 downed, ejected. Another report of Veyradians targeting chutes- Tranquil 2 scores a second gun kill. Getting a medal for that if Green 10 makes it home. Tranquil 1 scores a gun kill. Green 1 lost. Green 2 lost. Green 4 lost.

Kalriss watched the tally of Greens tick up, hoping for a repeat of Sol 9, but they simply couldn’t find the skill. Fifteen planes of Green Section lost, five pilots of their number failing to eject for only Green 10’s single kill.

“General.” A voice muffled by her flow state seemed familiar. Kalriss peeled herself away, straightening after hunching over the screen. “Bucket of meatbird?”

It was Gorm! With a steaming hot bucket of meatbird. “What’d I miss?” Kalriss asked, clearing her throat, then bowing her head in gratitude as she accepted the offered bucket of fried fowl.

“The 29th’s decoys are out and we stopped the EW. They fell for it. And they didn’t fire at the second decoy wave. They’re out of SAMs or done for the day.”

“Can we get closer?” Kalriss asked between bites, “I’d like to see it all down there when the 288s hit.”

“Not risking it. None of the decoys look like us on their scopes and the jammers won't stop MANPADS. You’d be fine flying an escorted recon run or another fuel depot stunt, but not in this. And not with us.” Gorm shook his head.

Kalriss held in an undignified groan, forcing a neutral expression and nodding. She wanted to at least see the missile tails- looping contrails and burning wrecks dotting the hills. The only way to know that the downed pilots would be getting any help was to wait on the rotary wing attack squadrons, but the Myr My-120 was a hair slower than her already slow KaO-288s. “Comms, give me LAF Tokan. I need to speak with the helicopter command.” She near-mumbled, her accent darkening.

Sliding the microphone of her headset down to her lips, the microphone just far enough to avoid picking up her blood-red lipstick, she waited for the voice on the other end to come through. “Choppers.” A gruff voice transmitted from what had to be a Kaustan radio, the transmission was clear- a hundred years ago.

“Search and rescue is top priority. If your pilots see someone, they save someone, then complete their objectives. I also want a bird or two diverted to investigate the area around the valley in Operational Grid E-9, do you see it?”

“Moment-” A beat paused as an old voice hummed while thinking, “-found it. Marking now. I’ll tell the boys the bad news.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Woodsman 2 this is Woodsman 1.”

“Go for 2.”

“Reprioritize- see a pilot’s chute, smoke, or flare- pick him up then return to previous tasking.”

“SAR? But we’re- Roger. Prioritizi-”

“Zzzzzzzz tatatatatatatat-” Airman Second Class B.L. Kann could not help himself. The My-120’s 35 mm rotary cannon made the whole vehicle rumble when it shot. He could feel it in his feet, through his hands. Wherever he turned his head, the gun moved. His very sight was a force of destruction, aided by the high-zoom camera and thermal sights. The sighting equipment atop the armored beast’s spinning blades meant he could lob missiles over hills and guide them onto target. Over the course of two short weeks, he had gone from just another airman from Belka, and into the gunner’s seat of one of the deadliest flying machines in the air today.

He had interrupted the pilot’s train of thought, and felt the wall shudder behind him as Sergeant M.K. Buun kicked the side of his cockpit, the signal to shut up when he was on comms. Kann was listening the whole time, of course, but didn’t have permission to transmit beyond his ship. He’d lost that privilege in training. But he rarely missed a shot- even as the 35 mm Type 3 Automatic Cannon in his hands fired at specific areas rather than pin-point. He felt like a surgeon whenever he tore a Veyradian truck to shreds or strafed a trenchline without having a single shot land outside it.

“Woodsman 2, prioritizing SAR and continuing on tasking.”

“2, 1 here. New orders. Peel off and head for Operational Grid E-9, see what you can see. Main objective is SAR, secondary is targets of opportunity. Guide on me.”

“Woodsman 2, copied.” As Sergeant Buun clicked his headset to change his radio channel he let out an annoyed groan. “Kid, when we’re flying where no Federation pilot has flown before, I’d enjoy at least half an hour of clear comms.”

“Where no man has gone before?” Kann’s heart dropped, even though his primary thought was how exciting it’d be to rain hate down on a position that’d never been touched before. “They’d send us into the boonies like that?”

“It's only Veyrad.” Buun muttered, Kann could hear the shrug in his voice. He still didn’t understand it. And he probably wouldn’t.

“It’s only the most fortified area on the planet, crawling with the most propagandized- the most-” Kann’s thoughts were outpacing his mouth as he navigated the stages of something, “No big deal, lets fly down a valley no intel officer has even dignified with a consideration! Sarge, you know you sound insane, right?”

“Did you know you talk too much?”

The countryside was a blur as they flew past it. Kann was happy to be a small part of a big whole. If it was just Woodsman 2 flying to find the poor sods who’d been downed, he’d probably be scared out of his mind, but Woodsman 2 was flying with three other My-120s, and so on up the chain. Rumor had it six hundred were involved in this operation. He wanted to kiss whoever named it ‘Open Season’, as it kept his mental labor entirely on his job. Lead into heads, while moving, while traveling at speed. Pine after pine, that's all there was, and sometimes angry little Veyradian settlements who loved to take potshots at them- rarely ever hit. Though Kann had been bugged by the question of exactly why Sergeant Buun needed a replacement gunner. Nobody had told him how gunners were killed, and neither had he heard of the My-120 being shot down. Though everyone said the first shootdown would be today.

Not a chance. The helicopter was half as well-protected as a Type 1 tank. Better, maybe. When Woodsman 5 took a MANPADS hit and kept flying yesterday, he’d gone from feeling powerful to something approaching godhood. Apotheosis only required a big gun, high tech, and the entire Federation economy. If only the ancients knew what he did.

Kann scanned the ground in front of him, he had all sorts of screens and subsystems, but the best work was done with the gun against a target found with his eye. His was the second ship in a line ahead formation barreling down a rural highway. While Woodsman 1 maintained course and its gunner swore over the comms, Woodsman 2 was the ship that saw the trio of VDF-marked trucks traveling in the opposite direction to them. Just as Kann began to spool up with a “Zzzzzzzz-” over the radio, he audibly pouted as Sergeant Buun angled him away and snapped off a volley of rocket fire. It was fun to watch Veyradians blow up regardless, but Kann only enjoyed it when it was by his own doing.

“Woodsman 1 to Woodsman, entering E-9. Keep it frosty.”

Yes. It was now Open Season on this miserable slice of this miserable country. There was a single farmhouse, a couple of herd animals… But if they could make off with a pilot AND blow something of import up, they’d probably get a medal. Maybe he’d meet General Kalriss. He’d wanted to paint her on the nose of his My-120 but after telling a friend it got out, got up the chain, and he’d been yelled at for like… half an hour. No fun.

“Woodsman 3 to Woodsman, whatever you do- don’t look up.”

“Don’t look up? Why?” Kann asked, looking up. The gun rotated with his head as Sergeant Buun swore over the radio. There was that chunky click he hated as his helmet delinked from the gun.

“Don’t tell all of us that! My gunner- Thanks, Woodsman 3. Alright, Kann, now you’ve got to reset-”

Airman Second Class Kann had stopped paying attention, because what was overhead was the exact last thing he wanted to see. There were fighter jets everywhere, and he couldn’t tell who was who. He could theoretically track and shoot down a plane- even a fighter- if it approached him at the right angle. But his gun mostly aimed down. They were all above him, and he couldn’t tell if the good guys were winning or losing. If all of Woodsman had been tasked with finding pilots in this valley… If all of Woodsman had been tasked with finding pilots in this valley that means air dominance and the reality that so much Veyradian ass had been kicked that even the LAF had taken a few cuts and bruises.

Now confident that the tangle of planes overhead was the heavens keeping him safe, Kann began the process of resetting his sight. He looked dead forward, pressed the second button on the third panel full of buttons, blinked twice into the scope over his left eye, and pressed the uppermost button on the console immediately in front of him. It used to take him longer, but repetition had the process quick. And he knew now to keep his eyes CLOSED as everything turned on. The sequence, pattern, and frequency of lights beamed into his eyeballs were something Ursine eyes were never meant to see. And he had to keep his peepers fresh lest he lose his edge. “Good to go, Sarge!”

“Fastest one yet, but you missed a dugout.”

“Phuck!”

“It’s enemy country, airman. We aren’t barnstorming over Takamaugh anymore.”

“I miss it ther- Hah! I see one! Zzzzzzzz tatatatatatatatat!” Woodsman 2 trembled under the fury of Kann’s gun. He squeezed off a guided missile for effect, giddy at the thought of the ants down there cowering from his shells, only to pop up and eat rocket.

“Hold onto your helmet, kid, I see a flare. Don’t lo-”

Again the Sergeant was too late on the draw. Kann’s head shot up, and again that awful noise. He groaned, moving quicker to reset the sight than he had last time, horrified to think there were Heeks escaping his just punishment. “Back online! Was I faster this time?”

“Slower by a half second. But I need you to tighten it up- we’re going to go in to land and I’ll need you outside. Get the pilot to the ship, get the door open- and phucking close it this time- and then get back inside.”

“You want me to ge-”

“I’m telling you that you are, Airman.”

The freeing thing about being in a separate armored tub from the pilot’s armored tub was that he could openly show his incredulity. Locking his gun in place, he shifted back in his armored chair and shot Buun the dirtiest look he could manage, hand half-raised in disbelief. Sergeant Buun, for the most part, had his attention outward, but Kann could have sworn his disapproval was noticed. With indifference or sympathy he wasn’t sure, but he was hoping for the latter. Turning back front, he unlocked the gun, then laughed. “Sarge! I remembered I don’t have to reset every time I want to look around!”

“Very good. Did you also remember the machine carbine in your seat or are you gonna keep hating your pilot for making you walk ten paces and open a door in enemy country?”

Kann hated how calm he was. Sarge didn’t have to leave the ship. But if the ship was hit on the ground it’d probably be a more fiery end for him. Just picturing climbing out of that- or jumping out and breaking his shins with an exploding helicopter behind himself was cause enough for him to feel a little lucky. At least he was risking the off-chance of a bullet from an angry Veyradian militiaman. He was probably as good with a machine carbine as his Type 3. He’d probably get shot somewhere quick, anyways. He still wasn’t happy.

Kann scanned the ground in front and around the helicopter extra closely as the My-120’s nose pitched up, and began to sweep around. He didn’t see much of anything as he felt the landing gear whine to action behind his seat. No trenches, no dugouts, no bunkers or holdouts. He locked the gun in its landing position, unplugged his helmet, and began fingering the straps holding the gun to his seat. Ten paces. Open the door. Shut the door.

“Yeah, stop overhyping it. These are a defeated people. They’re just coming to grips. Ten paces. Open the door. Shut the door. Then it's Open Season. You’ll be fine, kid.”

He wasn’t happy. Kann took a deep breath, staring out the window in his door at the aviator waving his hands and a smoke grenade. He looked like one of ours- fighter pilots wore those grayish-khaki flight suits with the big pants. The leather jacket and silk scarf had to be one of ours. There wasn’t a fighter pilot alive who knew the meaning of “humility”. Ten paces. Open the door. Close the door.

He had two ways out. The lever, which would drop him and his seat into the open air. Or the door on the lefthand side of the cockpit. Kann didn’t choose the lever. Propeller wash beat down on him as Sarge kept the engine running, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Shouldering his machine carbine, he crouched down to avoid being butchered by the spinning blades and began to move. Ten paces became nine. Nine eight. And so on. The fighter pilot speed-walked toward him, blood dripping from his right hand.

He opened his mouth to say something, and by the confident look on his face- which was clearly forced- Kann wagered it was probably one of those utterly insane, out-of-touch statements you’d only hear from a fighter pilot. He simply pointed at his head, then the blades above before gesturing with an open palm pointed downward for the pilot to duck. Grateful when the pilot complied, he put a hand on the man’s back and guided him to the door on the side of the ship behind the ordnance-laden winglet. Once they’d reached it, Kann grabbed the armored latch to the door and grunted as he actuated the lock and slid the door back. He didn’t hear the shot, but he saw the paint on the door chip. Kann jumped and looked behind himself, but saw nothing. Another bullet missed the pilot by an inch, smacking into the interior of the helicopter and tearing a hole into the sound-dampening lining.

Someone was trying to kill him. Had they been shooting at him the entire time? There was no room for thinking. He grabbed the pilot by both arms and shoved him up into the belly of his beast, and while he didn’t hear the pilot’s cry he certainly felt him flinch. Kann tossed his rifle inside and shrugged for a half second when he saw the pilot looking at him as if to ask “What did I do?” before slamming the door shut. Another pockmark in the paint. Next to his head. Kann double-checked the latch, then ducked down again as he ran around the winglet and into the waiting open door of his ride. Seconds after shutting his door a bullet impacted its dense window of armored glass.

“Sarge, can we please go?” Kann shuddered, plugging his helmet back in. But as he shut his eyes to avoid the agony of the startup sequence, he felt the ship already lifting off. “Oh thank Heaven. You saved my life, Sarge. They were aiming for my head!”

“It’s-“

“So who are you chaps?” The pilot interrupting Sergeant Buun had clearly found the headset plug back there.

Kann was immediately annoyed. The man was Sudric. Not just Sudric but a kind of Sudric he was led to believe no longer existed. Or at least were oddities living out some strange fantasy on his native Belka. But it was the most Sudric-sounding Latvyrian he’d heard maybe in his life.

“Woodsman 2, part of the 2nd Attack Helicopter Squadron. We’re out of LAF Tokan. You’re in for a long flight, sir. I’ve still got warheads and Veyrad’s full of foreheads. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course. I’m from the 44th Fighter Squadron, Green 10 at your service. We took the long way over the big lake, camels met us twice on the trip. We’re really giving them a thrashing up there. And it's a good thing, tooOOO-“ The pilot’s voice trailed off as he, Kann assumed, slid across the passenger bay unbuckled. The sound of a headset being suddenly unplugged confirmed it. “It’s a good thing, too. Those jammy bastards are shooting men in parachutes now! Heaven only knows what they’d do to a couple of helicopter pilots who’ve been savaging their behinds?”

Kann sniggered and quickly felt the thud of Sergeant Buun’s boot on the side of the cockpit. He muted his mic and laughed, locking his gun in place to throw his head back. He found himself so overtaken by laughter he was slamming his fist into the window to his left and slapping his knee. Then another kick, and a bloop from the console in front of him, [TIGHTEN IT UP KID]. Unable to stop, he removed his breather, folded his scope up, and pushed his visor back to wipe the tears from his eyes, trying to pull himself together. The scope was now up, and he felt right when the scope was down. The scope made him the most dangerous thing in Veyrad. The scope was the most dangerous thing in Veyrad because it controlled the most dangerous gun in Veyrad on the most dangerous helicopter in Veyrad flown by the most dangerous pilot in Veyrad. And all of it was useless without the most dangerous gunner on the whole planet. Breather came back on, visor slid down, and the scope clicked back into place.

Unmuting himself, there was an audible click through the system, earning Kann three gentle kicks on the side of the cockpit.

“-found it?”

“Ah, you see, I had your passenger compartment all backwards. It’s oriented to the front- I figured by the seats- anywho yes, I’m doing up the bandage now.”

“How’s it looking down there, kid?”

“Cold as ice. And dead. If we could fly a little higher I could try and hunt that sniper-“

“We’d be SAM food. And the pilot’s actually worth his pay. Man shot down an F-123-“

“Well I’m not exactly sure, Sergeant, it all happened so-“

“Man shot down an F-123. I’m bringing him home.”

“You’re bringing me home, too. Right, Sarge?”

“Undecided.”

Kann laughed. Sarge would bring him home. He had to. The sky was his, after all, but the ship was Sarge’s. And he’d- To the left, a group of thermal signatures around a building- Was that man carrying lumber or a MANPADS? Switch off thermals, make sure he’s not Tauredi- Nope, all dressed like Heeks. Back to thermals.

“Zzzzzz tatatatatat! Tatatatat! Bzzztatatat!” Three bursts of 35 mm Type 5 High Explosive Dual-Purpose rounds blew the man apart, blew the people next to him apart, and did in the building behind them.

Back to scanning for targets. “How’re we fixed for lead, kid?”

Kann ignored the interruption as long as he could, he figured fifteen seconds as he scanned the area for more targets. There were. “Uh… HUD’s telling me yellow green, but I’m feeling green. Wait one- Zzzzz tatatatatatatatatat!”

It was a truck and two cars, one of them might’ve been military, Kann frankly didn’t care. Veyrad stole or destroyed all the trucks and cars from the Tauredi like sixty years ago. Anything with an engine and wheels was fair game. When the whole state economy is war, the whole state economy is the enemy.

“Woodsman 1 to Woodsman.”

“Woodsman 2 here. Baby in the cradle, he’s hot for a rough ride. Couple minor targets of choice.”

“Woodsman 3, zip. Investigated a chute, pilot and chair were shot to dschit.”

“Woodsman 4, nada.”

“Form back up on me, V formation, we’re going to engage Opportunity 89.”

“Oh phuck yeah, that ammo dump, right, Sarge? They said it was in too deep!”

That got him three taps. Kann liked it when he got three taps.

“Woodsman 2 to Woodsman 1. We will hit bingo fuel… two thirds of the way back if we engage Opportunity 89.”

“Don’t sweat it, 2, we’ll hit 89, swing out over the Chavraaf, refuel at the lilypad station LAF Tollima behind the lines, and we’ll be back at Tokan for dinner.”

There was nothing left in the valley to shoot except for that sniper. Probably “those snipers” since no soldier fought alone. Killers did, and Veyrad IS killers, but… they’ve got a proper army, and that means soldiers. With a bored sigh Kann lifted the scope up and removed his breather, reaching into the cavernous pocket in his pantleg for his meatbird sandwich. Looking to the front and locking his gun in place he looked out his window as he bit into the layers of bread, fried meatbird, Belkan mayonnaise, Aurdkallic lettuce, and butter.

“Huh, how’d we end up fourth in the formation? The other gunners are gonna bank more tallies than me now!” Kann grumbled, looking back at Buun. This earned a laugh from Green 10- the sound of his laughter making him even madder to be laughed at.

“Right-o, lad! That’s the kind of thing I expect to hear from our fighting airmen!”

Ignoring Green 10, Buun cleared his throat over the mic. “You’re complaining about being in the most dangerous part of the formation? Slot 4’s where Woodsman 5 got hit.”

Doctrinally, Kann was taught, it was actually the lead ship in the most danger. But Sarge had a point. Woodsman 1 had never even had its paint scratched. Woodsman 4, when flying in the fourth spot in the V, had- well something happened once to Woodsman 4 there but nobody seemed to want to tell him. Or the other gunners. And there they sat in the fourth position in the V.

No big deal for the most dangerous man on the planet.

Between Operational Grid E-9 and Opportunity 89 was about fifty kilometers of the awkward middle-ground where pine-clad mountains met wild steppe. Wild steppe where, just thirty klicks west, the big army that’d gone nowhere was dug in against the even more dug-in Veyradians. They were lucky to have him flying even close to the pig-sties he’d heard they call trenches.

The best thing about Opportunity 89 was that they had intelligence on it. Ammo site. Keeping the guns on the Nalog Heights supplied, fueling an entire VDF corps or something. Supremely camouflaged, supremely visible to the Overwatch satellite network. So for him the job was looking out for SPAA and shooting into a forest. That he could do. They also had three guided missiles left and… Kann squinted at his HUD- 244 unguided rockets left.

“Hell, Sarge, we could solo this. And Green 10’s got our rifle- we have more weapons operators than the rest of Woodsman.”

“Terribly sorry, chap, but if you want a door gunner it seems you forgot to give me your spare ammunition. Some use thirty shots fired single-handed by a wounded pilot would be to Open Season.”

“Afraid he’s right and you’re wrong, kid. Besides, we need the team out there to cover us covering them. Nobody flies alone. Approaching target- tighten it up, gentlemen.”

Kann put his breather back on and slid the scope back down, clicking it into place. He unlocked the gun and looked this way and that, the gun following his sight perfectly. Through the scope, he could see through his whole cockpit- making his perception the whole world of targets below him in white-lit thermal sight or in crisp, clear digital camera. As long as he looked ten degrees up or lower.

Kann scanned the area of Opportunity 89 for targets, looking around to his left, then to his right. “Come on come on come on come on… show me the goods… Hah! Zzzzzz-“

“Going hot!”

And then the helicopter shook. The whole thing. Like a giant grabbed it by the tail and held it. The My-120 halted in midair, the engine keeping it aloft and starting back to its thankless job of moving the ship forward, but they’d- They hadn’t been shot down. Obviously. And the scope had blacked out. It was only supposed to black out to protect the eyes from a flash. And his helmet’s sound-canceling headphones had broadcast a frequency to render him momentarily deaf. Lifting up the scope, what was in front of Kann was a mushroom cloud and the rear half of Woodsman 3 falling to the ground uncontrolled.

“Sarge- Wha-“ Kann was breathless.

“Get me off this graceless contra-“ Green 10’s voice cut out.

“Neat. Just learned I can mute passenger bay. You okay, kid?”

“Th- Woodsman 3- Th-“

There were no words to express what he’d seen. Woodsman 2, now gaining speed, did a ninety degree turn and made for the Chavraaf.

“They’re gone. And so is the depot. Job well done.”

“Bu- The-“

“Corps’ worth of artillery ammo. We flew in too close. Are you okay, kid? Are you hurt?”

Sarge put enough emphasis on the word “hurt” that for a moment Kann remembered he was an Ursine person who had just lucked out of not dying in what could have been the biggest non-atomic explosion ever- he wasn’t sure but that sure looked like it. “I… yeah… Uhh… Yeah. Yeah.”

“You still got those missiles? All three of ‘em?”

“Yeah, they’re… they’re still on there.”

“Wanna see if they still work? You know I hate landing with ordnance.”

“O-okay.”

“We’ll make for Opportunity 111, easy hit, fuel up at the lilypad, and then eat our fill of that Kaustan curry they have back at LAF Tokan. You’re alive.”

Yeah. He was. And it would have been poor Woodsman 1’s call whether to thunder run or engage at range. Kann couldn’t imagine a single pilot flying in Open Season was going to pull his shots. So it goes. He guessed. Nobody really knew how war went. Not until now, anyway.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Opportunity 111, wiped by Woodsman 2.”

“Good for them. Wait, 111? 89? Those were for the 288s.” Kalriss asked, making a double take at her tactical readout. “What were My-120s doing that far from Tokan?”

“Couldn’t say, ma’am, too low down the chain to call up.”

“We’ll land this truck in Tokan, then. Woodsman were the ones who went out to E-9, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kalriss nodded. They were definitely going to LAF Tokan. The helicopters had hit first and hit savagely. Of 1,532 Opportunities, 800 had been destroyed for the cost of a measly 67 My-120s. She’d make that difference in 22 days. Double it in a month. That was a hundred and thirty-four pilots and gunners maybe dead. One of them had even rescued a fighter pilot.

It was in her cursory analysis of the aftermath of the rotary-winged attacks that she realized she’d made one of the most elementary errors of her career- she’d been intensely bothered by how quickly the My-120s had attacked Veyrad while her precious KaO-288s lagged behind. Unloaded and with minimum fuel, the KaO-288 was indeed faster. At maximum fuel load and maximum weapons load, a fully loaded My-120 had a slight advantage over the 288. And they didn’t need three midair refueling pauses over the Great Tranquil. With the fighters of the 68th, 44th, and 45th flying out to different nearby bases to rearm and refuel, the 29th was remaining in the AO to cover the light bombers, with the 52nd having just started to take off from LAF Tokan again after rearming with Type 3 LRAAMs.

Double tap. She should have written that somewhere into Open Season’s plans, but as she watched the red icons for the KaO-288s begin to creep onto her map of the AO, her mind raced. It raced to Dodhsa and Let Veva, receiving reports of the helicopter attacks and the defeat of the VAF over some unnamed valley. It raced to the VDF troops on the ground coming out of bunkers or racing to relieve what intact rear area sites were left. And it raced to the thousands of bombs about to fall on them all. All except Let Veva, the heart of the monster. A heart she hoped was racing under the fury of her wings.

Each KaO-288 carried more bombs than two of the famous 12-crew four-engine bombers of the Second World War could. Each of them had enough munitions to strike three targets, and with each bite taken from a meatbird thigh or wing happened to coincide with a blue tactical marker winking off her map. The first wave into Northern Veyrad was shallow. The second, a little deeper. Apple 15, in the third wave, through careful deployment of his payload, managed to take out three targets, then a fourth, then a fifth, then a sixth before heading for Anad'dur. He was to be an instructor. Apple 15. And so they went- wave after wave of KaO-288 mopping up what the My-120s had left, or double-tapping the ruins left by the horde of attack helicopters.

Kalriss slid down in her seat as she felt the plane turn toward LAF Tokan, taking a wide berth around the Veyradian Air Defense Zone and maintaining it until the course to Tokan demanded their entry into it. Almost the moment they crossed the blue blob on the tactical readout, there was an angry bleep as Veyradian radar on the Isle of Veyrad locked onto the plane. This caught Kalriss’ attention, as she wasn’t about to be caught lacking with a missile headed their way. But just following the hostile, steady tone, the EW officers immediately began punching buttons, flipping switches, and turning dials. And then the horrible, steady tone stopped, and Kalriss went back to slouching.

Where the KaO-304 seemed unhappy to takeoff, and perfectly content to fly once in the air, landing it was another story. As it neared the ground, the heavy and sensitive military systems grafted onto the liner wanted to drag it down. Flaps down and locked for landing, the airframe sagged into its own weight. The autopilot and pilot assist computers, reprogrammed to account for the change in handling characteristics from the 304 to the 303, still did little to fully cover the displeasure of the airframe- and Kalriss could feel the slight change when her pilot shut off the system. The port wingtip dipped, and the plane sagged in the air- desperately wanting to return to the ground, as all that defy gravity do, deep down. All except Kalriss. Were it not for the debriefing she needed to do, she would have preferred to stay skyborne a while longer.

She found LAF Tokan churning with ground crew and machines. The Da-100S fighters of the 52nd, bearing their squadron’s emblem of a sword over a black and red shield on their tails, were returning home in pairs, landing on the airbase’s second runway. Quite a bit of the nose art she wouldn’t have personally okayed, but after Open Season it was hard for her to convince herself they hadn’t earned it. Even if it was generally the most base smut she’d ever seen, especially on the helicopters. My-120s were returning in twos, threes, and fours, mostly in flights of five that had left the base. None of them had anything left under their winglets. Rocket pods had been jettisoned, guided missiles had all been fired. Her KaO-304 pulled up to what used to be a passenger terminal, stopping at an old jetway. Grabbing her overseas hat from a pantleg pocket, she pulled it tight over her head, and operated the heavy pressurized door. Two airmen greeted her with crisp salutes, returning it in kind.

“How’d we do up there today, ma’am?” One asked, voice shaky with surprise.

“Your next twenty-four hours of sweating over helicopters will be forever remembered in songs and statues, airwoman.” Kalriss grinned and patted the woman’s shoulder as she passed.

LAF Tokan’s passenger terminal was no longer a passenger terminal. All of the shops were empty, and a good few had been ripped up to serve functions needed by the squadrons based there. The lion’s share was in the concourse, where sergeants and officers of the ground crews had moved tables and benches out of the way to set up desks overlooking their duty stations. Federation propaganda and advertisements had been plastered over original Kaustan ads. There were slogans like “For the Final Unification!” or “An Airman’s Sweat Saves A Soldier’s Blood!” and art of grotesque, sharp-nosed Veyradians committing atrocities against noble-faced but terrified Tauredi, or a stern-faced Latvyrian pilot pulling a downed Veyradian pilot from his cockpit with a hand around his neck. She liked the one depicting her in her dress blues, arm extended in command, with a flight of fighters rising in front of her- “Fly, my children!”.

Kalriss breezed through the concourse, passing by subordinates where they stood, but few of them were actually inside. Every single jeep and truck at Tokan was busy, and the few remaining little diners and fast food joints in the terminal staffed by heavily vetted locals lacked anyone waiting around for food. Nearly every pair of boots was on or driving on tarmac. Unlike a purpose-built airfield, finding the way out of the concourse and onto the airfield proper was not a simple task. There were doors everywhere, and the station commander had been kept far too busy to cover over the Kaustan labels. She walked in on a corporal filing paperwork in what had been a cleaning closet, interrupted a sergeant dressing down an airman in what probably used to be some kind of chapel, and walked in on a young Lieutenant and a local Kaustan woman kissing. The fourth door she tried led to stairs, which went down a story and led her to a set of double doors, held open by a set of spare wheel chocks.

She did not like this. Kalriss scowled at the sight. The hydraulic mechanism that the doors swung open and closed on had locks- it was universal- even in Kausta. The Kaustans just would have built them somewhat- She had to stop herself. She’d already found all the people she needed to handle acquisitions for things like doorstops. It was somebody’s fault that there weren’t doorstops here, but not her job to figure out who and why. And it’d be a good few minutes until the debrief- the pilots and crews needed to eat first and eat well.

With the late spring sun beating down, she squinted as her eyes adjusted and winced as the sound of a hundred or more turbines and jets whined and screamed around and above her. It was that very reason everyone in the LAF carried spare earplugs, and Kalriss always carried three pairs in the hidden holster compartment in the left side of her battle dress uniform. After slipping them in and rolling her neck as the foam filled her ears, she started walking down the line. Her My-120s were not pretty things. Big and heavy and capable, terribly loud, they were all of the best things someone of her job description could ask for. They weren’t the Da-100S with its classic lines, and while looking as rugged as the KaO-288, they lacked the charm of a twin-boom jet. Just big and ugly, the stepped cockpits making it look like a lumpy, malformed dragon leaning its head down to drink water from a pond or bite into prey.

It was walking the flight line that required her to ignore her immediate visceral reaction to at least sixty percent of the nose art on the gunships. Curves and nipples, muscles and erections spilled out shamelessly on the noses of the helicopters wherever depictions of gore, slogans, or cartoonish paintings weren’t. If half of the beefcakes painted on the gunships at least had boxers on she wouldn’t be too perturbed, but so much of the smut her chopper crews enjoyed was just… disproportionate. Though Kalriss did stop to chuckle at the helicopter where the excessively buff man painted under the pilot’s area was posed as if the pilot were riding him- complete with a nicely curved bottom half of a woman painted atop the man. It was clever, at least, which was more than the majority could say.

The majority of the six hundred choppers involved in Open Season had already landed at LAF Tokan or the small “Lilypad” airbases in its orbit. Still, every now and then one or two could come in from West-Northwest, some in better states than others. A pair of damaged My-120s came in low, wobbling and wavering in the air, their engines grinding and whining. Another with an image of a lumberjack on its belly passed directly over her, the wind beating down on her threatening to knock her cap off. She held onto it with a hand, pressing the rear of it into her bun as she watched. The angry-looking lumberjack pitched up as the chopper carried out a maneuver to kill its speed, its pilot looking to and fro as they looked for a spot to land on the packed tarmac. Once the chin gunner pointed somewhere she couldn’t quite tell- and somewhere that seemed too full to park- the pilot gently guided the ship over and gently set it down. It was heavy with fuel, far heavier than the majority of the attack helicopters. Save for those who overextended into Dschyudija and were forced to refuel at lilypads near the front. Woodsman did that. Woodsman was also the flight sent to check what she had decided would be called The Valley of Glory. Or something like that. She knew there was at least one poet on LAF payrolls.

Kalriss nodded to, saluted, high-fived and fist-bumped the steady stream of gunship pilots and gunners passing her by. A good number of the gunners were too awed to return the high-fives with sufficient force to make an audible clap, but little things like that were more on mood and disposition than discipline or training. If she hadn’t organized this whole thing, she’d probably be in a similar state. But she felt energized. Doubly so now that Open Season was over. As right as it felt being driven around an airfield collecting turned heads and watching paces picked up as she went by, it was like a different form of flying for her. Fun, fulfilling, but only about a half, she hoped a third of her life. No, she walked to the helicopter with the angry lumberjack icon, stopping in her tracks as she saw the pockmarks on its left side. Plenty of choppers came home pockmarked, riddled with holes or even missing critical systems, but these ones- around the rear passenger compartment- were aimed. Intentionally. The bullet in the lefthand gunner’s cockpit door was proof enough these guys had been sniped at. As the blades slowly stopped rotating the door to the compartment slid open, and a mustachioed fighter jock climbed out using only his left hand.

He snapped a quick salute, which Kalriss returned, but the moment he started talking she stopped paying attention. This was not Sol 9. She didn’t fly like a Sudric fop.

“-anyways, General, I was wondering if you’ve heard of any of my wingmen, you see I-“

She walked away from him as soon as the engines shut off and the helicopter’s pilot began to climb down from his cockpit. “Sergeant, report. What’d you see down there?”

Sergeant Buun hopped off the ladder and snapped to attention, which Kalriss quickly waved away. “At ease, Sarge, I’m not here to make sure all my fliers look as good as I do, anyways.”

“Humbly report, General. The pilot we picked up in E-9 was Green 10. Man shot down an F-123. We lost Woodsman 1, 3, and 4 when we all hit Opportunity 89.”

Kalriss’ brow furrowed and she nodded along as Buun spoke, her focus only deviating when she saw the chin gunner stagger out of the cockpit. “What’s his malfunction?”

“Kid saw the explosion. Well, I saw the explosion, he’s just- He’s adjusting to war as we all are, ma’am.”

“Were there any other pilots in the valley?”

“Not intact, ma’am.” Buun shook his head.

“I wouldn’t quite call an armful of shr-”

Ignoring Green 10, which was all she had the mental capacity to do, she turned to Buun, her eyes soft, her frown unshielded. “I- Fly it aga- Excuse me, Sergeant. You’ve done well today. Write to your commander to see your gunner gets a medal, or at least a mention in my dispatch.”

The gunner looked over at her, his eyes distant and weary. His jaw didn’t drop. He just looked sad. She must have, as well, because the young airman second class made eye contact with her and held it, then bowed his head, looked away, and began kicking at an imaginary rock.

“Come on, kid. If we don’t get you fed it may be years until you get to try Kaustan food. Not like they have real curry rice back- where were you from, again?” Buun asked the gunner, bowing his head to Kalriss before walking after Kann, putting an arm around his shoulder.

“Belka, sarge.”

“There’s not a Kaustan alive who’d be caught out near the Big Sandy. You’d have to come back to the homeworld for curry like this.”

“I- I’m from New Slyp, not New Dynnsmark, but… yeah, you have a point.”

Your bright ideas always burn me! Yes, you should…

Fia frowned as the group of men entered the hut that served as the village’s semi-private gathering space, closing the door behind them with enough furtive glances to tell even a stranger that they clearly didn’t belong. Beside her, Tara sipped her customary liquor – some human recipe sure to kill her early – and snorted derisively. “No need to sneak about, boys,” she said loudly enough to draw the whole building’s attention. “We’re hospitable enough if you’re honest.”

The men froze, spooked by the attention. The one in front chuckled sheepishly. “That obvious, are we?” he asked.

“Given that we’re a village of women at the moment… yes, very,” Fia replied. “Take a seat and I’ll get you a drink. And then you will tell us who you are.”

Oddly enough, the mildly threatening tone in her voice seemed to calm the stranger down. “I’ll take that drink,” he agreed, motioning to his companions to find seats of their own. “Maybe you’ll tell us where the men went while we’re at it.”

Fia got to her feet and headed for the small side table against the far wall, stocked with what few drinks the village had access to at any given time. A quick count of heads saw her revise how much liquor went into each cup; she had no intention of running dry because of the gluttony of surprise guests. No one grumbled at the half-full measures when their cups were placed, however, and Fia returned to her table to give the last two to the strangers that had come to join her and Tara, the apparent leader and another who shared his coloring and features. “Now,” she said firmly, as the whole room seemingly leaned in to listen, “tell us who you are and why you’re here.”

The speaker for the strangers took a sip of the alcohol and almost coughed. “By Uhlek, that’s strong,” he wheezed. “I didn’t realize we warranted your best, madam.” Fia’s stare made it clear that she wasn’t interested in a tangent about the local spirit – though she took note that her guests were familiar with local gods but simultaneously unfamiliar with the most common drink within a day’s journey in every direction – and the man gathered himself again. “My name is Harsi,” he began. “My men and I work on behalf of a big dealer, called Ailos, a Bajir from some distance away. We were hoping to meet with your village headman, but, as you say, he is somewhat absent today.”

“Our headman is Oulta,” Fia replied. “I am Fia, his wife. What you would say to him, you can say to me.” The implied ‘or else’ was lost on no one.

Harsi, to his credit, merely nodded. “I’m glad,” he said. “Ailos has reason to believe that the villagers here are unhappy. Maybe with the lord-Bajir. Maybe with Mankind. Maybe with the neighbors. I’m here to ask if he’s right.”

“What does he care?” Tara asked in turn.

“He’s a supplier,” Harsi answered. “If a village wants to change its circumstances, Ailos is the one to ask. He has weapons; he has trucks; he has fighters, even. He is happy to help.”

Fia leaned forward with narrowed eyes. “You’re in the wrong village to be stirring up trouble like that,” she snarled. “We have enough to worry about.”

“But that’s what I mean,” Harsi argued. “I’m here to alleviate those worries. I want to solve problems, not cause more. And I promise, solving problems is what we do best.”

“You’re only offering violence,” Fia snapped. “That won’t solve anything.”

Tara, though, motioned her friend to silence. “What are you charging?”

“Tara! What – ”

“The bill has been paid,” Harsi answered easily. “Your issues are shared by others, and they’re happy to pay to solve them.”

Fia snorted. “You want us to be someone else’s pawns, then?” she demanded.

“I’d rather think that we’re acting as yours,” Harsi replied. “We all have the same goal – ”

“You don’t even know what our ‘goal’ might be,” Fia reminded the visitor sharply. “And that alone tells me plenty. Your Ailos just wants us fighting – doesn’t matter who. You’re here to cause chaos. Even if we could fight now, I’d tell you to take your ‘generosity’ elsewhere.”

She’d said too much and realized it almost immediately; her jaw clenched in anger as Harsi latched onto her slip. “Why can’t you fight now, then?” he asked. “Is it because your men are gone? What’s that about, then?” He leaned forward intently. “They’re already fighting, I take it?”

“It doesn’t matter – ”

Tara laughed bitterly and finished her drink. “It matters plenty,” she said, slamming her cup back on the table. “Damn right they’re out to fight, out on Lord Risos’s orders to bring a whole planet-full of trouble down on our heads, and no matter how much pretty Fia here wants to deny it, no one here is happy that we can’t just tell him and all of his backers to jump straight into a mine shaft on fire. Our men should be here. All the men of Mesana-te should be here. Without them it’s just us, waiting and wondering when the consequences are going to catch up with us.”

Fia’s glare was vicious, but Harsi beat her to it: “Let us deal with the consequences. Just give us the word.”

“No.”

Tara pushed her chair back and leapt to her feet. “Fia says no,” she said loudly, her gaze falling on the six other tables of women in the room. “But what do you all say?”

Harsi hid a smile behind his cup as the hut erupted into vocal support.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Oulta hefted a new Seyda-built heavy machine gun out of its crate and gave it a thorough inspection. Dismantling the weapon was almost second nature by now; Lord-Bajir Risos had put them all to the task from the moment they had landed in Suran, in an attempt to compromise between his eagerness to strike a blow against Seyda and the Assembly and his distrust of the Seydanese citizens making this opportunity possible. Oulta, some years older than his new and inexperienced lord-Bajir, could have advised him that there was no point in taking a risk offered by untrustworthy benefactors, but Risos, son of Dera, had not asked for the advice of his subjects. Thus Oulta, joined by almost all of his village and the vast majority of two others, unloaded crates in a warehouse on Suranese soil, far from home and help, awaiting word of an impending attack against Seyda or its assets that would only succeed if Seyda’s own citizens played along.

“Seventeen,” he murmured to himself as he put the weapon back in its crate and set it onto the stack of sixteen others he had already inspected that day. Seventeen inspections, seventeen guns torn to pieces and reassembled to factory spec, and not one hint of sabotage, not a mark or a scratch or a misplaced pin to indicate that these weapons would not perform exactly as promised: provided by Man to slaughter Man, to the glory of the Bajirli that wielded them.

“They’re perfect,” said Sueta, putting a crate aside from the stack next to Oulta’s. “Better than perfect, even. I see improvements to this design that weren’t even used on Veiron.”

“You’ve been back from Veiron for five years,” Oulta pointed out as he brought the next crate over to open. “That’s long enough for improvements to make their way to the field.”

Sueta scoffed. “I would ask Boret if I could,” he said, his enthusiasm immediately waning.

Oulta sighed and nodded. Sueta had been fortunate to return when Dera, then-Lord of Mesana-te, had chosen to send home his first wave of soldiers from Veiron in favor of a fresh crop from Banthros after it became clear that the fighting would continue for many years yet. While Sueta had come home, Boret, his eldest son, had gladly led the charge back to the killing fields. What became of him, as with any individual soldier under the banner of Mesana-te, was left to the imagination after the slaughter of Edris Vale, easily lost under the weight of the massacre as a whole and the death of the lord-Bajir. Lord Risos proved to be a competent leader in his father’s place, but his interest in the future – and his preoccupation with his father’s bloody death – consigned news of anyone else at Edris to oblivion. Whether Boret still lived aboard a Seydanese cargo ship bound for uncharted space, or had suffered the immolation of his rotting bones upon the final decision of the careless Assembly, remained a question without any answer.

“When we have Seyda in our hands,” Oulta said, “we can see what they know about it.”

“If the lord-Bajir cares to look,” Sueta replied, already turning to the next crate. “If his friends do right by us when the end comes, no matter how hard we fight for them. These guns may be perfect, but they won’t stop a rocket or a tank. We’ll need more powerful weapons than this if we’re going to survive, and the Seydanese will hardly want to give those up to Bajirli. We will have to depend on them fighting each other. Will they do it when the time comes?”

Oulta nodded grimly. “I heard rumors of a potent guarantee,” he said.

Sueta nodded back. “I heard rumors of Al-Esh on Sadrith coming to rescue us,” he said back. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Halt!”

Both men’s heads shot up in alarm, looking across the crowded warehouse floor to find the source of the megaphone-amplified shout. It quickly became clear to them, and to the rest of Risos’s Bajirli in the warehouse, that the unrecognized human voice had not been directed at them; it was clearly a guard outside, whether employed by the lord-Bajir’s friends or totally ignorant of the plot, who now shouted, “I said halt! Authorized access only! Stop or I’ll – ”

There was a gunshot, and the voice went abruptly quiet. Oulta immediately wrested an already-inspected heavy gun from his stack of crates before turning to another box behind him and grabbing enough ammunition to suffice for two hours of continuous, inexhaustible fire. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded as the rest of the Bajirli stood frozen in confusion. “We’re not dying here like this! Get ready for a fight!”

Immediately there was pounding on the warehouse doors. “Who’s in there?” demanded a new voice, evidently using the guard’s megaphone. “Come out with your hands up!”

The pounding continued as the Bajirli raced to find decent cover and set up their weapons. Oulta knelt behind his stack of inspected crates as he sighted the front entrance and prepared to fire at the first sign of movement; meanwhile, Sueta set himself up behind Oulta and faced in the opposite direction, scanning the blank walls in case of an ambush bursting in from that direction. This was the influence of the Veironi experience, Oulta assumed, as others who he recognized had been sent to that hell and returned were evidently just as cautious about unorthodox entryways as Sueta, scanning the ceilings and floor in addition to sweeping the walls. However, the vast majority of the Bajirli in the room had set their sights squarely on the front door, where the pounding never stopped and the megaphone-assisted shouting became, if possible, even more threatening as the moments passed: “We’ll breach this door if you don’t open it,” followed soon after by, “You will comply or be killed! You have ten seconds! Ten! Nine!”

A shot rang out, punching through the reinforced door. Shocked by the sudden noise in the confined space of the warehouse, a dozen startled and deafened Bajirli fired in sympathy, blasting the door to pieces and punching holes into the warehouse walls. At least one of the bullets aimed at the door had hit its mark, given the shrill screaming on the other side; few if any of the Bajirli could properly hear that screaming, however, as they fought through the ringing in their heads, shuddering in pain as they tried to wipe the stars from their eyes… and all the while, the rest of the party outside was preparing to put an end to this resistance with extreme prejudice.

The door came down in a barrage of gunfire; it was accompanied by three separate breaches on two other walls, enough of a pyrotechnic display to blind and deafen the whole Bajirli contingent once again. Oulta fought through the pain and raised his gun again, blasting into the nearest new hole in the wall. “We need to break out of here!” he shouted at Sueta, but his closest companion was flat on the floor, either stunned or hit, and did not answer. “Come on, we need to break out!”

Sueta stirred, raising his head in confusion and disbelief. “I…” he mumbled, before another burst of gunfire jolted his mind. He blinked hard, shook his head slightly, and redoubled his grip on his gun, which had fortunately never left his grasp even as he lay prone. “Right,” he said. “Breaking out, right – ”

The floor churned with bullet-spray, and Oulta ducked back behind the dubious protection of his stack of crates as concrete shrapnel gouged into every surface nearby. Sueta screamed in agony, and then fell silent; Oulta didn’t dare to look at what was left of him. As soon as the besiegers’ burst of fire stopped, Oulta poked his head out from behind the crates and sprayed bullets in the same direction, forcing his enemies to duck back out of the hole they had created in the wall and wait him out. He didn’t give them the chance, instead continuing to fire even as he ran out from behind cover and charged the open hole. It was a shame, he thought absently, that he couldn’t have gotten anyone else’s attention over the noise of the gunfire; with a large enough group, at least some of them might have been able to break through whatever encirclement was waiting for him out there.

But even knowing that certain death awaited him on the other side of that wall, Oulta refused to be pinned down like prey in a corner. He would not die with his back against a wall –

Another burst of fire from behind him, his own neighbors aiming wildly at the hole in the wall, shredded Oulta’s back into scraps of sharp chitin and goo. Oulta spun around from the force of the impacts, his gun flying out of his spasming arms, and took another burst of fire to the face; his body slammed into the ground and skidded the rest of the way to the hole by momentum alone.

_ _ _ _ _ _

“Combat confirmed in Kummu, Telasero, Indoranyon, Nabia, and Hairan. Our team leaders report Bajirli with sporadic human support. They don’t look official.”

“In Suran?” Haedor scoffed. “Not likely! I think we might have found our missing Marandan villagers.” He glanced at the time and growled in frustration. “Two hours from Banthros and we’re caught in the middle of someone else’s coup. Outrageous.”

Solla Daiblon glanced uneasily at Ailos before suggesting, “We can make common cause with them, bolster our forces.”

“We’re already shooting,” Galter Loic argued from the other side of the table. “Even if everyone stopped now, we’ve already revealed ourselves and them to Seyda. They’d know everything. As it is, no one’s going to fight beside the people they were just shooting at unless their lives depend on it, and at that point they’re more likely to abandon the plan altogether. They won’t trust each other.”

Ailos glowered as he thought about the waste of Bajirli lives this would cause, but he didn’t hesitate to agree. “If someone else is commanding them,” he said, “then they won’t work for us. We have to press on.”

“So this is now a three-party fight,” Haedor said with a nod. “So be it. We’ve been exposed and so have they; what is Seyda doing about it?”

“Panicking, as far as we can tell,” Daiblon answered. “The Council is meeting to prepare options for the Assembly. Beyond that, everyone is waiting.”

Haedor raised an eyebrow. “The 18th?” he asked.

Daiblon’s expression hardened. “Also waiting,” he said. “In Seyda.”

“Damn.” Haedor’s contemplative mood shifted to overt frustration. “We need them deployed if we want the City. Tell your team leaders to move against their objectives immediately. Get the 18th nervous, maybe pressure their captain to jump before the Assembly can ratify the deployment… whatever it takes to get them out of Seyda in time for us to fill the gap.”

“What of the Bajirli?” Loic asked before Ailos could.

“They’re exposed,” Haedor replied. “Their backer will either retreat into the shadows or double down on treason. If the former, they die by their own human support before the Assembly can be allowed to investigate. If the latter, Seyda is thrown into chaos just before our arrival. It’s risky, but we have opportunities either way.”

Daiblon nodded. “I’ll send the order,” he promised.

Haedor turned back to Ailos as the bodyguard walked away. “Accelerate your work in Marandas,” he ordered. “Let’s get Bajirli territory under control while we can. Especially if the lords-Bajir are working with someone else, we’ll want them gone before they become a thorn in our side. If this all falls apart, we’ll need a place to fall back.”

Ailos grinned. “One continent on the right side of history,” he declared, getting to his feet. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you,” Haedor replied, watching the Bajirli’s exit. As soon as he was out of sight, Haedor turned his gaze to Loic, whose eyes had also followed Ailos out of the room.

The other man’s grin was no less vicious than the alien’s as he turned his gaze back to his employer. “Consider it done,” he mimicked.

Haedor smiled. “Thank you too.”

…come on and walk among us!

State of Decay - Chapter Two - The Visit | 13502AH (3500CE) | Location: Tavian, Continuation League

Civilizations Concerned: Imperial Directorate

It had been a long ride to the encampment. Sternov had printed out a little booklet he nabbed from the Continuation League Welfare Department desk during his stop in Mundo Verde. It was the official “Fundamental Needs Index,” a compendium of what a person needs to survive. It was rather basic, failing to account for mental states or the nuances of the human condition. Sternov had seen firsthand how poor the bedside manner of some of the more backwater doctors could be, especially their dismissive attitude. The body could be saved, and a punctured lung kills, but a sorry soul and a shattered mind are merely an inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. That was for the therapists, who are not in the same jurisdiction as the CLWD. When there are problems than stars in the sky, it’s hard to care about all of them, or any of them for that matter.

As Sternov and Olivia approached the camp, he noticed that the line of flat dirt that they called a road was littered with detritus. Cans, shell casings, and what looked like the twisted left wing assembly of a drone sticking out of the ground. Crudely drawn graffiti covered the crumbling walls surrounding the camp. In short, the place was a dump.

The Directorate flag silenced the shouting. Those interlocking rings are a funny thing; they've never even blown up anything beyond a small asteroid as a show of force, yet they’ll know when to move out of the way. The only thing seemingly more terrifying than a human civilization is one with its act together, to which everything else is a xeno. One of the militants pulled down the mask, a laser at the hip, and approached their vehicle. He was jumpy, his left foot tapping against the dirt, breathing heavily as he looked around, visibly in distress, and Sternov was face-to-face with the conundrum that was humanity and the inherent denial of our nature in Post-Contact Humanism.
Mirwelt had been a romantic at heart when it came to his vision of humanity. He studied at Turin, knew Latin, and read classical literature in his free time. He saw the outdated ideas, such as heliocentrism and the idea of an ordered cosmos, as characteristic of medieval period philosophy as still having ideals worth pursuing, even though he saw them for what they were, outdated understandings of physics; the idea of them enraptured him, if that makes any sense. He knew the sun did not orbit Earth, but he wished that it did. For all the ways that “An Ordered Cosmos” had influenced Humanity, very little actually went into detail about making it happen. It was flowery tripe, as one review that Sternov read, and even though it was blasphemy in the academy, he had to agree with the assessment. He pored over tomes outlining utopian societies, picking and choosing what he liked and didn’t, shaping what he believed.

As Sternov and Olivia walked through the camp, he had an idea of what Mirwelt saw in colonies, the journals he refused to publish, because what he saw stood as a blatant refutation to his Weltanschauung, all the little eccentricities that formed his life.

Mirwelt had written endlessly about how it is imperative to save on the moral costs of the war and, more importantly, to further spread humanity’s reach among the stars, as he frequently found himself hitting walls when it came to financing his utopian visions. For him, the only thing that was an obstacle to humanity’s dominance was a lack of will and inspiration, once those two were in abundance, the innate creativity and ingenuity of man would figure out all the rest.

For example, it was Mirwelt that advocated that veterans and refugees displaced from their now-charred worlds be resettled in the outer reaches of human space, that the new frontier would lift their spirits and give them a new purpose in furthering the spread of humanity and its ideals. It was idealistic, but more importantly, convenient for the powers that those veterans of the Katan War now pushed out of society, whether it be through displacement from the economy or alienation by mental and or physical ailments. The embodiment of all those oversights would be Uruval, one of the planets chosen to be prioritized for colonization, to give veterans and their families a fresh world to start over, and then promptly left them to fend for themselves with insufficient support and would then fall prey to the corporations as muscle and workers when the dust and grime inevitable caused the servos of automations made for a sterile orbital factory to seize up. A scene that played out again, again, and again.

He was taken out of his trance as the militants rifled through Olivia’s pass, not reading or caring before being led through the shanty. The guards didn’t follow them inside; they weren’t paid enough to volunteer to go where the two were going. The stench was horrendous; the native carrions had made a nest near a rusting radio tower and had already managed to feast on one human carcass until it was picked clean. He winced as he saw one use its powerful claws to grip a femur and snap it, hearing a sickening crunch as its prehensile needle-like beak probed for bone marrow.

Leaving the vulnerable to die and letting the dead rot.

And as he surveyed the room, overcome with the sight of the wretched dying, it was a reminder that not a thing had changed since.

These are the days, the end complete; a world still turning to the sound of the suffering

“Tell me again.”

Lord Mela Bernona glanced at his emissary-wife Elinir, who frowned in confusion at the sound of Radan’s harsh voice as the lord-Bajir’s brother strode into the great hall of the Bernonspire clutching a comm to his ear. “What news?” she asked, attracting the attention of the hall, its tables lined with Mela’s most trusted companions.

Radan, intent on the voice on the other end of the comm, stumbled to a halt, staring at the emissary of Mankind in obvious consternation. “My lady,” he said haltingly, but then fell silent, uncertain.

Mela’s eyes narrowed as he considered Elinir’s growing suspicion. “Go on,” he said. “What news from our people abroad?”

Elinir’s gaze shot back to her husband. “Abroad?” she demanded. Mela ignored her, motioning for Radan to answer.

Radan gave Elinir a long, distrustful look before reporting, “Our Bajirli are engaging hostiles in the staging area. Humans, no obvious affiliation.”

“Rateran?” Mela asked, already preparing to rally against his ostensible ally.

Radan shook his head. “His people are fighting alongside ours,” he replied. “Someone else is interfering.”

“Interfering in what?” Elinir demanded, clearly leaning on all of her training to maintain most of her composure. “Radan, explain this.”

The lord-Bajir’s brother took great pleasure in replying, “It is the lord-Bajir’s business, and his concern alone.”

Elinir turned sharply to her husband and opened her mouth to insist on an answer –

In a flash of motion, the emissary’s throat opened into a fountain of blood; before her head could so much as wobble, Mela grabbed her hair to steady her before plunging his table knife under her chin. Her eyes widened in shock for a single moment, and then relaxed in death.

The warriors of the court leapt to their feet in surprise, reaching for weapons as they looked for any threat to their lord’s life. Venu, Mela’s heir, proved the quickest-witted; while others searched in vain while struggling to understand, Venu pointed straight to his father. “Murderer!”

Mela, Lord of Bernona, threw Elinir’s corpse to the floor of his hall and declared, “Thus ends the tyranny of Banthrosian Man. What say my companions?!”

The shock wore off, replaced by wonder. Three-quarters of the hall erupted in a cheer, either simply to appease the lord-Bajir or in genuine excitement at the prospect of overthrowing Mankind. The rest stared at the emissary’s body in horror, or else looked to Venu, her son no less than his. “She is your wife!” Venu snarled. “Traitor to your family!”

Mela glared and made a quick decision. “I disown you,” he declared shortly. Turning his attention to his other sons and his court, he pointed to his erstwhile heir and ordered, “Dispose of this Seydanese puppet!”

Venu’s fury faltered in the face of this new shock. “Father!” he cried in horror, but already Siro, Mela’s fourth and last son, had leveled his pistol at his older brother and pulled the trigger.

Three men from the tables were already racing forward, but Venu’s strangled scream caused two to falter; the third kept coming, shoving past Siro and stumbling over Venu’s writhing body in his haste to reach his lord-Bajir. He had forgotten Radan, whose own pistol barked to bring him down; then Radan fired again, and Venu’s panicked crying finally ceased. “Who else?” Radan demanded, glaring at the stunned court. He turned his attention to the two others who had run forward. “Do you challenge your master?”

“I thought to aid him, sir,” one insisted, bowing his head. “He called for us, and I went!”

Radan turned his eyes to the second; he blew air through his teeth in frustration but said nothing, merely bowing his head in submission. Radan raised his pistol again, but Mela called him down: “He will see the righteousness of our victory, Brother, and he will know.”

“Or he will turn on us in our vulnerability,” Radan argued.

Mela shook his head. “What will it gain him to side with a vengeful Mankind?” the lord-Bajir asked, his gaze firmly on the dissenter. “We are tools to humanity, and now we are defective. You are not of my blood, Gula Heavystep; the Bernonspire shall never come to you, though all of my line were dead. To betray me, you would submit yourself to the Assembly’s feeble affection, and would doom your people while achieving nothing for yourself. To stand with me… You will be free.” Mela swept his eyes over the hall. “Free, perhaps, even of me, if that is indeed your desire – but free, for certain, of Seyda.”

There was no real choice; Gula’s hesitance had cost him any hope of success. “You will doom us whether I join you or no,” the warrior said. “So be it: I will stand with you, now that no other refuge remains.”

Mela cast his gaze over the rest of the hall, taking note of the eager looks, the frightened stares, and especially the reluctant grimaces. Satisfied that no one else was prepared to challenge his authority, the lord-Bajir turned to Radan once more. “Ready our guard for departure,” he said. “Send word to our allies that we are on the move to the first objective.”

Radan lowered his pistol and nodded. “Companions,” he said with pointed emphasis, “with me.”

Mela let his brother work, turning his eyes briefly to the spreading pool of blood under his feet. His wife and his first born, his prizes and his pride, companions for all the time of his lordship… he had killed them both, the one after long deliberation, and the other at a moment’s notice. Too much was going on for him to truly feel that pain, but Mela knew that he would feel it soon enough: the hole left from their absence, and the guilt for the fact that he had carved it himself. In the course of five minutes, everything had changed for him, and for Bernona.

‘Makaria,’ he prayed silently, ‘let this all be worth the cost.’

_ _ _ _ _ _

In the lord-Bajir’s study of his gloried Keep, Cota Thoreses disconnected from the comm and gritted his teeth. “Bernona is moving to the first objective,” he reported to the room at large as he dialed in the lord-Bajir’s frequency. “We can’t support them while our forces are pinned in the staging areas… Mela knows that. Is he hoping to usurp all the glory?”

Lord Gauna’s voice came through the comm. “What news, Brother?”

“My lord,” Cota answered, “news from Bernona: The emissary is dead. Lord Mela’s retinue moves against primary targets in Suran.”

Echoes of screams and gunfire followed Gauna’s muttered cursing. “We can only do so much here,” he said. “If Mela throws his life away, so be it. Will he have our guest’s assistance?”

As one, all eyes in the room – from Cota to Deru, third son of the lord-Bajir, to Aiara, Cota’s daughter – turned to the only human residing in Thorec Keep. Lucen Rateran shook her head. “If my father is assisting him,” she said, “he didn’t tell me.”

“Nor did Lord Mela mention it in his report,” Cota added. “I assume we can’t reinforce?”

“You assume correctly,” Lord Gauna answered flatly. “Who else received this report?”

“Bernona is telling everyone,” Cota said.

“Then our allies will reinforce him if they can, and wish him well if they can’t.” Another blast interrupted whatever Gauna wanted to say next; when his voice was audible again, Cota sighed grimly at the frustrated, “– stuck like we are, they’ll be no help.”

“I will report with further news when –”

News interrupted Cota timely: A guard burst into the room, startling its occupants. “Sir!” he shouted. “Villagers at the gates, armed! I think they mean to storm us!”

“What villagers?” demanded Gauna from the comm, but for once the lord-Bajir was ignored as the Keep suddenly shuddered from the rattle of heavy guns on its walls, followed by the unmistakable blasts of impact – oncoming fire. “What villagers?” Gauna shouted again. “I brought them all with me!”

“How did they obtain heavy weapons?” young Deru demanded in turn, running for the door as he reached into his pocket for his pistol.

“Sir,” the guard called in alarm, “please remain here while we deal with –”

“We’re heading to the armory,” Cota interrupted, taking the comm with him as he shouldered past the guard and followed Deru through the door.

Deru disappeared immediately in the corridor beyond – reduced to mist and slivers, his feet still planted to the once-fine carpet, his life erased in an instant switch from ‘yes’ to ‘no.’ Cota barely registered the unrecognizable sight before him, having time only to stumble to a stop and ask, “What?” before half of his torso followed his nephew’s example. The rest of him fell, body gaping and eyes wide, spilling out his life in warning to the Bajirli behind.

The culprit stood at the end of the corridor: a firing line, an even mix of mercenaries and the lord-Bajir’s own retainers, armed with blast weapons forged on the assembly lines of Kummu, whose bloody work had torn the Keep’s gate asunder and ripped into the inner spaces of the inadequate fortress as easily as they had ripped away the lives of Lord Gauna’s kin. The next blast dropped the guard following Cota out of the study door; he had had the presence of mind to shoot back, but his panic sent the shot harmlessly wide, and the Seydanese shields of his opponents would surely have deflected the weak local weapon anyway. The last bit of resistance having been crushed, with Aiara prostrating herself on the floor and begging for mercy, the firing line turned its attention to the other woman that had emerged from the lord-Bajir’s study: Lucen Rateran.

The human eyed the mass of hostile Bajirli in front of her for a long moment. “You’re hesitating,” she said eventually. “You know who I am. Do you want to treat with my father too?”

For a moment, the Bajirli seemed frozen in indecision. Then one of the men out of uniform asked, “Your father? You’re not an emissary?”

Lucen fought a grimace as she recognized the opportunity she had just unwittingly squandered, even as one of the traitors answered for her, “House Thoreses hasn’t had an emissary in generations. I’ve never seen this woman before.”

“Interesting,” a third man said, this one also without the House uniform. “What about the girl?”

Aiara twitched on the floor as the traitor answered grimly, “She’s of the House.”

“Please…” Aiara whimpered, daring to glance up at her possible executioners. “I’ll be a commoner, I’ll be your prize, I’ll take whatever name you want to give me, just please –”

Another shuddering blast echoed throughout the Keep; the time to decide was dwindling. “Well,” the mercenary leader sighted, “I won’t argue as long as she’s out of the way.” He said this to the traitor, but the glance he gave to his own men was telling.

The traitorous retainer missed the byplay. “You have nothing to fear,” he said to Aiara, grinning slightly as she began to relax. “We’ll have some fun, you and me – ”

Two high-powered shots cracked into Aiara’s forehead, shattering her face and pulverizing the flesh behind it. The traitor blinked in shock as his would-be prisoner’s corpse collapsed back onto the now-filthy floor, before turning furiously to the mercenary leader and shouting, “Lying sack of –”

“That wasn’t me,” the mercenary answered with a smirk, eyeing something over the traitor’s shoulder.

The retainer swung around, and was immediately confronted with the smoking pistol responsible for Aiara’s messy end. In such close quarters, the man wielding it showed all the skill that his uniform implied by aiming precisely under his former comrade’s chin, firing so that the bullet blasted up through his victim’s head, away from the rest of the group standing around them. Job done, the second retainer pushed the body of the first away to clear the area. “I’m not dying for his greed,” he said flatly. “If you want the House gone, we’ll kill off the House.”

“That’s greatly appreciated,” the mercenary said with a nod. Glancing back toward Lucen, who had watched the drama unfold in disbelief, he added, “I don’t know what she was here for, but I imagine she’ll appreciate not having to live with the Thoreses any longer than necessary, too.”

Lucen lifted her head in challenge. “So what then?” she demanded. “You’ll take me instead?”

Another mercenary shuddered violently. “Don’t be so disgusting,” he snarled.

The leader gave the speaker a sharp glare before answering Lucen, “I’ll take you out of here, for one. Don’t hold us up, or I’ll just bring your head and let the boss guess at what you were here to do. I think we’d both much rather have you alive to answer that question yourself.”

Lucen gave a shaky nod, her bravado falling away as the immediate threat to her life receded. “Then let’s not waste any more time,” she said with a deep, fortifying breath. “Shall we?”

_ _ _ _ _ _

“Order.”

The Victorious Marble almost echoed with Neovo Lonassa’s pronouncement; every seat was filled, almost every citizen in the City was taking part from home or work or even the street, but no one had dared speak in the face of the grim, silent calm exuded by the councillors, the veterans of Veiron, and the older citizens who remembered the difference between political victory and national security. Like the others ‘lucky’ enough to have gotten into the Victorious Marble while it still had room, Draccus Morcina watched the moderator silently, tension building in his shoulders as he considered the upcoming session and its implications. Seyda’s preeminence, or perhaps even Banthrosian Man’s survival, was at stake… but his survival in particular relied on the instructions he had been given ahead of time, and he would fulfill them, citizens and Bajirli be damned.

Lonassa nodded sharply. “Thank you,” he said. “Citizens, we are short on time. Approximately an hour ago, the Council received reports of armed Bajirli on Suranese soil, specifically in urban and industrial districts of populous settlements such as Kummu, Indoranyon, and Telasero. Further observation has seen additional Bajirli movement toward Banthrosian military sites whose locations have hitherto been deemed secret from the public.” This brought about a low murmur from Lonassa’s audience, but the councillor ignored it. “Captain Padar Estilon is present to report what details are known to the 18th Autonomous. However,” Lonassa added sharply, “given the immediate danger, the Council has decided to put one question to the Assembly before any other business. Does this Assembly authorize the 18th Autonomous Corps to confront and eliminate the Bajirli threat against Seyda within Suran? The responses are yes or no. I will end the voting at the end of a full minute.”

Morcina grimaced. He had a maternal uncle and two cousins serving in the garrison in Indoranyon – outwardly a bastion of Banthrosian might, but in reality an understrength posting for those whose days on the march were far behind them – and other aunts and uncles, cousins, and more distant relations lived outside of Seyda’s protection in the Periphery’s other urban centers, metics whose ancestors had abandoned the City in favor of opportunities that voting rights and tax exemptions couldn’t replace, and the occasional citizen (particularly on his mother’s side) whose adventures and tours of duty had revealed more welcoming homes in the distant reaches of Suran than in Seyda’s precarious underbelly. These relatives – about whom Morcina admittedly knew almost nothing in most cases, and who surely knew nothing of him – were directly in harm’s way, according to the councillor’s report; any citizen’s first duty should have been to vote to protect his family from danger, and the course of action to do that was clear. But those citizens who had departed Seyda’s protection, and those metics descended from them, had fled the system that still chained Draccus Morcina to his fate, and that system was ruled by others whose decisions could destroy him as an individual and scatter his wife and children to those same peripheral wilds now overrun with Bajirli invaders. Morcina’s duty to distant blood could never compete with the urgency of his patron’s command; with regret but no hesitation, Morcina voted ‘No.’

Twenty-one seconds passed before Councillor Lonassa looked up from his console. A citizen in good standing, with a long voting record and a career of four appointments to the Council, Neovo Lonassa had both skill and experience in keeping his emotions in check; nonetheless, in this moment of emergency, his anger crept through. “The votes,” he announced sharply, “are twelve thousand nine hundred eighty-eight for ‘Yes’” – he took a breath – “and four hundred eighty-four for ‘No.’”

The vote wasn’t even close; whatever plan Morcina’s patrons had intended to employ had been broken at the first hurdle. But that was irrelevant to the outrage that swept through the Victorious Marble in that moment, with dissonant screams and audible cries of, “Traitor!” flying through the air. Morcina quickly bent with the wind, raising his voice to add to the cacophony, proclaiming his patriotism for the eyes of the crowd. He had never sat on the Council – the lot had fallen his way twice already, but a man of his limited means could never hope to give up his job for a full year to take on the thankless duty, and he had always turned it down – but Draccus Morcina was a citizen nonetheless. He knew how the game was played.

Councillor Lonassa, however, had little time for games today. “Order!” he shouted again, throwing a claxon into the fray for good measure to shock the Assembly into silence once more. “The motion is carried,” he snapped. “Captain Estilon, you have your authorization.”

Screens hovering above the gathered citizenry lit up with the image of a man in military uniform, blood seeping through the cloth above his left shoulder where a ribbon-festooned pin was stuck. “Thank you all,” the officer said. “We’re moving now.”

Lonassa nodded. “With that out of the way,” the councillor said, “we will hear your report, Captain.”

Captain Estilon bowed his head in respect. “Of course. At approximately seven o’clock this morning, Seyda Time, the 18th Autonomous was alerted to gunfire in three separate warehouse and transit hubs in the settlement of Kummu. Initial reports stressed Bajirli involvement. Further investigation discovered concurrent gunfire in four similar locations in the settlement of Nabia, three in Telasero, two in Indoranyon, and two also in Hairan. The fighting appears to involve a mixture of Bajirli and humans in common cause, against local security forces and a large number of unaffiliated humans who are attempting to cooperate. I regret to inform the Assembly that both groups have acquired Seydanese heavy weapons and military equipment – in particular, those humans and Bajirli with no known affiliation. Where official security forces fight the Bajirli alone, they do not fare well.”

Councillor Lonassa’s glare silenced the murmuring of the Assembly before it could grow to a roar. “What of the military bases we understand to be under threat?”

Captain Estilon nodded firmly. “Those belong to the 18th, Councillor,” he said. “Our defenses are more than a match for these attacks. Now that the 18th has the authorization to properly counterattack, those bases will shortly be the launching points for operations to rid the Periphery of the threat.”

Lonassa nodded. “I open the floor to questions,” the councillor announced. “Solla Daiblon, your question?”

The screens above the Assembly split to reveal another face, and Morcina raised an eyebrow as he realized he had seen it before. Solla Daiblon had almost never participated in Assembly debates in years past, but had nonetheless been a more common sight at the sessions attended by his employer and patron, Busir Poln. Like Poln, Daiblon had departed Seyda entirely several years before, but unlike his employer, he had retained his right to participate and vote. This was the first time he had been seen since Poln’s exile… but this was, after all, a national emergency.

“Captain,” the questioner asked, “what do we know about the humans assisting the local security forces in the Periphery?”

Estilon’s brow furrowed. “Little,” he answered bluntly, “except that they’re armed as heavily as Seydanese units in the field, and that we have yet to identify any citizens among them. The vast majority are certainly metics.”

The Assembly murmured again, and Morcina considered that piece of unsettling news as the next questioner was called up. Well-armed metics fighting well-armed Bajirli in the immediate vicinity of the City, without the Council’s or the military’s involvement, threatening the economic bedrock of Seydanese dominance? The greatest mystery of all, perhaps, was their hostility to one another; they would have done better to fight side-by-side, unless there were different motives afoot than merely to overthrow Seyda’s authority. Perhaps there was some connection between this unforeseen ‘ally’ and the voting instructions that Morcina had received.

When Morcina had the power to demand answers from his patrons… well, that would be a day when the fabric of Banthrosian society was unwoven to the last thread. It would be far better, as it always was, to live ignorant under the proven security of patronage.

“…regret that we cannot disclose the details of our battle plans for reasons of operational security,” Captain Estilon was saying as Morcina returned his attention to the present. “But the broad overview is simply to hold our bases to allow for ease of counterattack, and then to strike against the threat where our forces will do the most good.”

Councillor Lonassa glanced down at his console and called, “Dorrod Tirst, your question?”

‘Perfect timing,’ Morcina thought to himself as the venerable Tirst appeared on the debate screens. From the image it was clear that the old man was not present in the Victorious Marble, his usual peacetime habitat, but was instead attending the session from his study at home – a room, it appeared, filled with the trophies of past glories, given the vast number that could be seen in just the glimpse afforded to the rest of the Assembly. His message was clear enough before he even opened his mouth: Dorrod Tirst was a commander of genius, and the Assembly would do well to remember it.

“Captain Estilon,” Tirst began, “I am certain that your fellow captains and senior strategists have long considered what must be accomplished in the event of an invasion of Suran. I have no doubt in the skill of the 18th and its leadership to weather this storm, as the 18th weathered so many others during my own service.” Morcina fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I must ask what illustrious captain has been given the honor of overall command in this crisis, if only to know which banner and spirits to honor in my prayers in the Temple of Banthrosian Progress.”

“We appreciate your confidence and enthusiasm, Master Tirst,” Estilon replied evenly, though his narrowed eyes suggested that he knew exactly what the other man wanted from this exchange. “I know you have more first-hand experience with the strategies and forward planning of the 18th Autonomous than most other citizens, as you took part in many planning sessions yourself. So I’m sure you will be pleased to know that command has been entrusted to Captain Olneri Foss, who attended every one of those same sessions and has much practical experience in operations across Banthros and Veiron. Banthros is in good hands.”

“Captain Foss?” Tirst replied in a surprised tone. “I –”

Tirst’s face disappeared from the screens as Councillor Lonassa’s voice cut in, frustration evident. “Order,” he snapped. “I call on Daivis Bictol.”

Bictol was an unknown name in Assembly debates; Morcina knew that a Bictol ran a successful merchandise shop in the Stoa of Arnot the Red, but whether that was the same person as the fresh face that appeared on the debate screens in response to the moderator’s call was a mystery. His inexperience in politics was no hindrance, evidently, as Bictol firmly demanded, “How did coordinated military action from two separate, competing even, groups of non-citizens completely escape the notice of the 18th, whose purpose is to guard the safety of the citizenry against just this kind of danger?”

Captain Estilon’s expression hardened as the Victorious Marble seemed to rumble with the Assembly’s collective agitation. “As of this moment,” the captain said, “we simply don’t know. We will conduct thorough investigations to discover the answer to that question once the danger has passed.”

Bictol’s face disappeared from the screens, visibly unhappy, but Morcina could tell that the Assembly’s mood had permanently shifted in response to his pointed question. Where before the 18th had the full support of every citizen that had not been explicitly ordered to obstruct it, now there lay a shadow of doubt. The 18th Autonomous Corps was the sole military unit permitted to operate in Suran, and by convention its leadership had to be consulted when any other element of the Banthrosian military needed or wanted to operate anywhere on the homeworld. The same legislation that had reconstituted the 18th Autonomous in the aftermath of the War of Mora had entrusted the City’s protection in its hands, due to its nature as the only unit comprised exclusively of Seydanese citizens and its unique capabilities of planetary and space-based deployment. But now that trust, which could be afforded to no other unit, was potentially broken at the very moment of crisis. What would the Assembly do now?

“Cusal Ulano, your –” Councillor Lonassa interrupted himself. “Question withdrawn. Ibessa Heta – question withdrawn. Ra – question withdrawn.” Lonassa grimaced as he looked over his console for a moment, before raising his eyes to the crowds in the stands of the Victorious Marble. “Any further questions?” There was no response.

Lonassa waited another long moment before turning back to his console, his face then appearing beside Captain Estilon’s on the debate screens. “Captain Padar Estilon, thank you for your time. We wish you good hunting.”

Estilon nodded once again. “Thank you for your attention,” he replied, before his face disappeared from the screens.

Only the councillor remained. “Does this Assembly have any further business?” he asked. There was a moment of still silence; then Lonassa’s lips thinned in concern. “I call on Dorrod Tirst.”

Tirst’s face reappeared beside that of the moderator, his expression grim. “Citizens,” he began, “I propose a motion.”

Morcina couldn’t help but scoff, and was gratified to hear others do the same – not anything close to a majority, but at least enough to prove that he had company. What good was legislation in the face of armed insurrection? The 18th had its authorization to act; now was the time for the Assembly to get out of the way.

If Dorrod Tirst heard or saw any of the feelings in the Victorious Marble from his home study, or if he was already aware of the absurdity of his position and believed that his proposal had enough merit to press on with it anyway, the old man gave no sign of hesitation or defensiveness. “We have heard enough, and simply know enough, to understand that we have been misled,” Tirst declared. “For more than a century, we harbored a false confidence in our dominance over our nearest neighbors – the ever-present threat that stares at our City and seethes in hatred and defiance, no matter its outward submission! We believed that the Bajirli were beaten, friendless, and properly supervised by the intelligence of the 18th Autonomous and the close observation and prudent advice of our emissaries in the highest circles of their courts. We believed that the metics were wise enough to hold on to the promise of our protection for fear of drawing our ire, a lesson taught to them already in blood. We believed that nothing could happen on this planet that was not known to us at the moment of its inception. Very clearly, we were wrong about all of this! And from now on, when we consider the matter of our neighbors on Banthros and just what allegiance they profess toward us, we will always wonder: Just what are they really doing that they have hidden from us?”

Yes, that sounded reasonable enough, and fairly self-evident too. Morcina’s private derision took on a more curious tinge as he considered that Tirst obviously knew that. Nonetheless, by pointing it out aloud, he had garnered the audible murmurs of agreement from the majority of the Assembly that he had been hoping to hear. And if the citizenry understood the basis of the situation in the same way that Tirst understood it, it made the politician’s upcoming argument based on that understanding much more difficult to refute, now didn’t it?

“Seyda is the emotional heart and the physical center of our civilization,” Tirst continued, “and none of us alive today can imagine an existence without it. Perhaps that can even be said of those who seek to tear it down, but even so, blind to the future they seek to create, they nonetheless push forward with their short-sighted plans. The benefits brought to their lives – the Bajirli and the metics alike – by Seyda’s protective umbrella mean nothing to them. We cannot appeal to reason with such neighbors. Historically, therefore, we have appealed to force… every time. And with history as our guide, we know that any further appeal will also be to force. Seyda, our home, can only be kept safe by violence, so long as our neighbors exist to threaten it.”

Morcina took in a breath as Tirst’s inevitable conclusion came to his mind, a moment before the man himself demanded, “So why should we allow these neighbors to continue to exist, when their presence is a threat to everything we do and everything we are?”

The Assembly’s constant, underlying agitation was broken by shouts, as hundreds of citizens, Tirst’s usual opponents and moralistic would-be philosophers alike, voiced outrage at the proposal’s murderous nature before the moderator could enforce his will. “Order!” Councillor Lonassa shouted. “Order! I will have order!” Claxons and sirens blared throughout the Victorious Marble, drowning out the objectors, while the rest of the thousands-strong crowd hunkered down to withstand the councillor’s wrath. Morcina could barely think as the noise echoed in his brain; perhaps that is why, in a moment of weakness, he took a look at the console in his hands and impulsively hit the button to call for the floor.

“I move to require the Seydanese Army and all other elements of the Banthrosian military to make the purification of our homeworld of Banthros their highest priority,” Tirst continued as the Assembly’s objections were quashed into sullen silence. “Our military forces have plenty of other duties, yes: planetary governorship, anti-piracy patrols, exploration, and the like. I acknowledge the importance of these duties, but I think this Assembly will agree that the permanent safety and security of Seyda is far more important than the temporary setbacks incurred by distracting the military from its duties abroad. By such coordinated and willful action, we will learn once and for all if our enemies are as weak as we have always believed, or if they have been accumulating power in our ignorance for all this time. If the former, we will be through with whatever fruitless struggles they may hinder us with in the future. If the latter… we will meet their challenge in the field, and ensure that we are never again attacked when we least expect or desire it. With that aim, to prevent any further attack like that we have learned about today – and to protect future generations from the perils we and our ancestors have been made to confront – I submit this motion to the Assembly!”

Still reeling and subdued, the Assembly in question barely reacted as Tirst ended his proposal, perhaps blunting the effect that cheers and applause would have given to his speech, though the man himself seemed unbothered by it. Councillor Lonassa looked over his consoles as he declared, “I will hear questions. Brolia Vostor, your question?”

Vostor’s face appeared next to Tirst’s on the debate screen, though she had gotten to her feet near enough to Morcina’s place in the Victorious Marble that he could just as easily pick her out with his eyes. She had been appointed to the Council that year, and had surely been part of the meeting that had determined that an emergency Assembly meeting was necessary in the first place; despite that, Vostor wore a tasteful but otherwise unremarkable gown and jacket, rather than the uniform of a councillor, conforming to the precedent that only one member of the Council could appeal to its authority during any given session, that being the uniformed moderator elected for the task by his or her councillor colleagues. “Master Tirst,” Vostor began, “I require clarification. Do you mean to kill every metic and Bajirli on Banthros?”

The blunt delivery of the question sent a shiver down Morcina’s spine even as Tirst answered, “I wish to give some latitude to the captains of the Seydanese Army and the 18th Autonomous on this matter. There is the possibility that we can remove many, if not most, of the City’s neighbors without resorting to large-scale bloodshed; we have other worlds on which there is room to move them. But I am proposing to authorize our military to kill any non-citizen that objects to or resists deportation. One way or another, Madam Vostor, they must be removed.”

Morcina’s lips thinned in… distaste? Was it more than that? Was it disgust? Was it even fear? Brolia Vostor seemed unmoved by Tirst’s answer, however, nodding her head and sitting down as her face disappeared from the debate screens. Councillor Lonassa allowed for no time to deeply consider the matter: “Haedor Meteri, your question?”

Once again Tirst was confronted by a young man who had taken every opportunity to needle him for the last several years, whose sharp rhetoric had managed to embarrass Tirst more than any other opponent despite its failure to move the citizenry from its stalwart support of Tirst’s policies and general leadership. “I wish to remind Master Tirst that almost 75% of Banthrosian agricultural and industrial output can be credited to the good labor of Suranese metics,” Meteri said bluntly. “Purging Kummu alone would bankrupt even the wealthiest citizens in Seyda. The Stoa would be empty of goods and services, and the vast number of metics and even Baijrli who frequent the place as suppliers and consumers alike will simply disappear. The very military being tasked with such a purge would find resupply and rearmament impossible without the Works and the factories like it that would simply cease to operate. Knowing this, and knowing that the Assembly now knows it too, will you reconsider your open-ended plan to simply eliminate the vast majority of the population of our homeworld? Or do you envision citizens taking up the labor on their own?” That last sentence was said with a scoff.

Tirst, to his credit, didn’t hesitate in his answer: “Sacrifices must be made for our safety and security. Some hardship lies ahead, that is true, but it is nothing that Seyda cannot weather. Where there are shortages, import from off-world will alleviate them; where there is no labor, our own hands will make up the difference, as you yourself suggest. We are not incapable children, Master Meteri; we are citizens, the heirs of our ancestors’ labors, and we will persevere as they did in the face of whatever challenges our fight for security will bring us – so long as we remember that the reward for our struggles will be a future free from the awful surprises and deadly attacks that have awoken us today!”

If Meteri had anything substantial to say about that, he didn’t have the chance as Councillor Lonassa took his face from the screen and raised his voice once again. “Draccus Morcina, your question?”

Suddenly Morcina saw himself on the screens above his head. His eyes widened; he blanched and shuddered. His mouth opened, then closed again fruitlessly. What had he been thinking?

In plain view, the Assembly saw his distress. The rumble began again in a wave of discontent and derision: an unknown, a commoner regardless of his citizenship, asking for the floor and being unprepared to deliver, wasting better mens’ time…

“Draccus Morcina!” Lonassa shouted again, glaring – at Morcina himself or at the unruly Assembly, no one could be quite sure. “Your question, Master Morcina?”

The rumble grew regardless, audible laughter breaking out in pockets as Morcina’s mortification played out on the screen. A shout – “Yield the floor!” – became a localized chant that began to spread throughout the stadium: “Yield! Yield! Yield!” Councillor Lonassa’s unsympathetic expression only added to Morcina’s panic; the moderator’s hand motioned toward his console to cut his time, and Morcina knew that it was now or literally never.

Forcing out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Morcina called out the first thing that came to mind: “My cousins!”

It was nonsense on its face, but it cut off the chant and the murmuring and gave Councillor Lonassa pause. It gave Morcina time to regain his composure, to organize his thoughts, and to remember just what mad impulse had prompted him to press that damned button in the first place. “My cousins,” he said again, slightly calmer; “they serve in Indoranyon. My uncle serves there too. I have so many relatives outside Seyda’s walls… some of them are serving in garrisons in the Periphery, but to be honest, Master Tirst, most of them are distant relatives I’ve never met in my life. They gave up their citizenship, or some garrison-serving grandfather did decades ago, and now they’re out there, in the firing line. They’re my blood, Master Tirst, and you propose to drive them out or murder them for convenience! And my blood isn’t alone!” The Victorious Marble was murmuring again, but Morcina had his head of steam, and he refused to be distracted now; it was too late for regrets. “The councillors, the captains, the headline politicians like you, you all tell us again and again that Seyda protects the metics and they willingly serve the citizens in turn, but the metics have never had a choice in it, and for that matter most citizens have no choice either! My ancestors watched many of their children escape the City for the Periphery, trying to escape the demands of their patrons by taking on a different kind of yoke. You propose to kill them, Master Tirst, who only wanted to escape people like you in the first place.” Morcina shook his head, gritting his teeth against the temptation to ramble too far afield. “I have a question,” he said firmly. “When you empty the Periphery, what will you do with it? It’ll be empty for a while, but someone will fill it up again soon enough. Will ex-citizens be leaving the City for a new life in exile? Or will blue-striped citizens just expand the City so that it covers the whole world, and the only hope of a new life for a citizen of the underclass simply dies in Seyda’s shadow?”

The murmurs had died; the silence of shock had fallen on the Victorious Marble. If any citizen had ever said aloud the things that Draccus Morcina had spat at Dorrod Tirst, it had certainly never happened in the midst of an Assembly session. Tirst himself stared in astonishment, wondering just how to respond to a challenge he could never have planned for, aimed perhaps less at him and his proposal than at the foundation of Seydanese society. But finally, with a glance at the waiting Councillor Lonassa, Tirst took up the gauntlet, and chose to throw down his own: “I propose to protect this City and its citizens from those who have proven not to love them. If you do not love Seyda, Master Morcina, I must ask if we should protect it next from you, and from those you think might agree with you.” The Victorious Marble erupted, but Tirst roared in answer, “If you object to our society, by all means leave it! Take passage freely now that I propose to offer it; be gone and trouble no one! Seyda stands, and I mean to keep it standing in the face of those who would wish to tear it down. I will not appease those who would join with them!”

Morcina’s pale face disappeared from the screens, even as Councillor Lonassa called for order once again; but Morcina himself did not disappear. The whole stadium was aflame with outrage, but at whom he could not say. All he knew for sure was the reaction of the portion of the crowd surrounding him: disdainful sneers and one particularly-obnoxious wad of spit at Morcina’s feet, but likewise concerned and fearful looks from others who looked askance at Morcina and his detractors alike. Then, as Lonassa shouted another name to bring to the floor, a heavy hand fell on Morcina’s shoulder. Startled, the man whipped around to see two men in the uniform of the Victorious Marble’s organizers and staff, eyeing Morcina with equal parts exasperation and concern. “Come on,” said the first, his grip on Morcina’s shoulder unyielding. “I think you’ve set off enough fireworks today.”

Morcina stared. “I – I don’t understand,” he said.

“You’re coming with us,” the second man said bluntly. “Come on.”

“But I didn’t –” Morcina stuttered. “It’s not illegal – I mean –”

“We’re not arresting you,” the first man interrupted. “But you can’t stay here. Come on, we’re taking you to the door.”

Fearful and disoriented, Morcina took one halting step to climb over his bench and join the men in the row above. Then his sense kicked in one more time, and he planted his feet again. “Why?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter –” the second man snapped, but the first one waved him down.

Looking straight into Morcina’s eyes, the man said, “If we don’t get you out of here now, there will be a riot when this session ends – either spontaneous or prompted. If you don’t come with us, Draccus Morcina, many people could end up dead, and you certainly will. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Morcina swallowed down a new bout of panic. “I… understand,” he answered.

The other man nodded. “Come on then,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

Haedor Meteri set his console aside and leaned back in his seat with a sigh. “That was unexpected,” he said blandly.

Galter Loic gave the console a wary look. “Are you voting?” he asked, noting the moderator’s timer ticking downward.

“Now that the 18th is out of Seyda?” Haedor responded. “What’s the point?” Turning to his comm, he asked the pilot, “How long until we arrive?”

The response easily restored Haedor’s mood: “Fifteen minutes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Haedor grinned at Loic. “Fifteen minutes, and whatever the Assembly spouts under Dorrod Tirst will cease to matter.”

Loic flashed a matching grin at his employer. “I’ve got to admit, though,” he said, “I’m curious how the vote will go. Tirst or not, are they really ready to put a gun to the head of every person who doesn’t dye his hair?”

Haedor scoffed and turned toward the disembarkation foyer. “They’re short-sighted idiots,” he said. “If Tirst told them to blow up their own planet, enough of them would be persuaded to make it happen.” He tapped his comm again. “We’re a few minutes away, gentlemen. Are you ready?”

“We’re waiting on you, sir,” Solla Daiblon’s voice replied. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

Haedor chuckled as he stepped out of the cabin one last time. Behind him, his console continued unwatched, Councillor Lonassa’s voice carrying over the rumble of the Assembly as he declared, “The votes are nine thousand one hundred thirteen for ‘Yes’ and four thousand three hundred fifty-eight for ‘No.’ The proposal by Dorrod Tirst carries by majority.”

You are the jury. We are the saints.

ACT I, SCENE I:

The Archivist

Ren-Mai was a historian. As of his most recent victory, he felt it adequate to call himself a very good one.

He’d always had a knack for getting his way. As a child, he’d always been the manipulative type. Ever-talented, praise was practically a form of social currency for the young Ren, who always made sure that - when he was not playing the music he preferred, or writing the poetry he liked - he tailor-suited the covers of opera solos, or the old-fashioned folk songs to exactly the tastes of the adults who were sure to give him the most praise and adoration. Of course, being such a perfidious little suck-up were not exactly suited to landing him in the good graces of his fellow children … but then again, they were not the ones with the influence, and so their opinion had always had remarkably little effect on the young Ren.

That skill transferred nicely to the politics of Zephyri historiography. In millennia past, when material wealth and quantity was very real, these fields were luxuries: They were investments, made by governments, aristocrats, and entrepreneurial types with a real eye for preserving the knowledge of history. Contracts were hard and competitive. But now, with the material abundance of a civilisation so far advanced, history was the closest thing to a necessary business. In his research, Ren-Mai had probably saved the economy of a minor star system - not, as in the olden days, by keeping some university wing operational. Rather, his work into the field of archaeo-manufacturing had uncovered several ancient manuscripts that detailed the inner workings of a specific variety of deep-space mining drone, which then allowed the restoration of some three-millennia-old foundries in the Kelan system, which had previously become unprofitable following the irreparable loss of this technology during the battles there in the Civil War. (He had always preferred this term, ‘Civil War’, even if it was distasteful to some state authorities, who much preferred the term ‘Restoration War’, which in Ren-Mai’s field had always seemed somewhat counter-intuitive as the war had added more work to his restorative projects than it took away …)

This philanthropic and important work was absolutely necessary. And so historians, so underrepresented in less advanced civilisations, had become a vital department of the state. The only thing that could limit their power - other than the time and manpower constraints, both finding the necessary supercomputers to process the documents and the necessarily driven professionals willing to undergo the necessary synthetic upgrades to efficiently utilise these devices - was state policy.

That was the real victory of Ren-Mai’s contract. His access to the state historical archives was a restricted one, previously available to only a few dozen members of the Council of State and their bureaucratic underlings. That was the only real obstacle to his field: That, in an economy where information was abundant, but specific information vitally important, that information could be locked behind a ‘wall’ of state security. It was Ren-Mai’s directives, Ren-Mai’s proposals, and Ren-Mai’s risk-taking that had landed him and his little university wing premier access to the greatest prize they could ever hope for:

Access to the sealed War Archives concerning that very Restoration War.

This was his ticket to not only a career-defining success, but practical stardom in his field. To grab for one’s team access to restricted archives was more than just bureaucratic and political maneuvering: In a society where each individual carried within their bodies such incredible technological marvels as to require the energy production of a mighty fusion reactor, each individual was a walking bomb. Even if equality of power was assured, the real destabilising power was not want or scarcity, but rather the ideas that well-fed, suitably intelligent Zephyri could get into their minds. For, in their ambition to preserve their intellect but to engineer their bodies and brains, the Zephyri had travelled far in crafting each individual to become immensely powerful and useful to their society. But, in their own restrictions, they had preserved alongside their autonomy and consciousness the free will and emotional irrationality that could prove so destructive if an ‘ill idea’ was introduced into the society. Indeed, Ren-Mai knew of many of these individuals, and many more in the Imperium’s history had caused such catastrophic destruction that their containment was absolutely necessary for the civilisation’s continual survival.

That was not his driving force, however. Despite his understanding, it was an irritating fact of life. His superiors within the university agreed. It is why they had pressed so many resources and so much political influence into the acquisition of this highly-prized state contract, in a market saturated with plenty of other universities, research groups, and civic societies seeking the same. It was more than a selfish game: Ren-Mai was no conservative, unlike the state bureaucrats protecting such information. Their motto of history, ‘To learn history, so that we are never doomed to repeat it’, never quite appealed to Ren. It gave the impression that, through the study of historical events, one could learn to mitigate and avoid certain outcomes as if it were a game. His own personal rationale was always more akin to, ‘So that we may know what we are’.

After all, he was not a geologist, studying the natural processes of granite! He was a historian: And although their fields occasionally overlapped, the historian was a sociological animal. He studied people. And the more you knew about people, the more you knew about yourself. And that, in Ren’s mind, was how society advanced forwards. What could this man have hoped more for? Every aspect, every ideal, and every interest in his very large brain, if put in isolation, would have jumped with joy to even hear of such an endeavour, let alone to be put to work on it. So yes, he was very happy to be working on this contract …

-

The Imperial Archives were a vast complex. Located upon the capital world of Aetheria - once upon a time, the seat of the republic and its senate, and now the seat of the Imperial Council and its own somewhat esoteric Imperial Senate - it would have been classified by itself as a megacity if it were located on any other world. Aetheria, however, had long-since been enclosed in an immense urban sprawl that dwarfed the term ‘megacity’. Concrete and steel covered almost every square mile of the planet's surface in layer upon layer of urban sprawl. The once-verdant planet had reduced its green to a catered and well-trimmed series of city parks and forests, or a few particularly pretty oceans. It was an ecumenopolised world well and truly. In this context, the Imperial Archives were a mere ‘district’, and its main towering spire was its seat. By itself it was over three kilometers tall, but two-thirds of this great height was buried deep below the ‘surface’, or the uppermost level of the Aetherian ecumenopolis with an open view of the sky. What pierced into the clouds above was merely the above-surface strata, the area open to the public. It was a great tower decorated in towering statues and ornate patterns, repeated for thousands upon thousands of feet high into the sky. It would have been quite something to work all the way up there, he thought. But his quarry lay far, far into its depths, not into the mere pedestrian history kept on display for the tourists. His was far more interesting, truly … and so a penthouse office could wait.

His specific entrance was the designated ‘Third Story Atrium’, a series of marble-white steps that led up to an enormous plaza designed, once upon a time for, some inaugaration facility. It now served as a staff garden, and was quite a mighty staircase to surmount. But when you had conquered those steps, you were greeted with a brickwork plaza shielded by an enormous transparent dome. Its sides were shielded with greenery and twisting trees, while in the center there stood a statue of a man. He held a pistol in one hand, kept low at his hip, while his other hand reached up into the sky to grasp an unseen hand. At its base, there stood a plaque:

‘GRASPING THE UNSEEN FUTURE’

Below it, in more official writing,

‘THIS FACILITY WAS OPENED ON 31, 20.11.31 RCA BY HER MAJESTY THE EMPRESS.’

As he passed on through, he entered under a towering building with an enormous glass front. Inside, he saw several figures moving through it, although it was difficult to tell if they were real or simply illusions of light at such a great distance. The doorway stood open. He entered into a towering room, the ceiling several hundred feet high, and decorated with elaborate pillars. It was well-lit, with near mirror-reflective floors and a long, blue tiled pathway that led up to an enormous information desk. At current, it appeared unoccupied.

The reception was designed to be ‘appealing’ to organic tastes, and certainly it was in its grand resplendence, but it was quite difficult to ignore the creep of its machinery. From enormous pillars, a veritable cathedral of tendrils and wires rose up into the ceiling. Most wrapped down into the floor and pointed themselves towards the information desk in the centre, but many others spiralled in varied directions: Across the high ceiling, under the marbled floors, through varied doorways and shielded exits. Along the entire ceiling, there was a gap where obvious patterns of circuitry and flat tubing was visible, giving the impression of a hidden technological world laying just beneath. Despite its pragmatic and technical purpose, the design gave the room a feeling of grandiosity and importance that Ren felt it difficult to ignore. Whether it was purposeful, or a legitimate architectural function, the effect was not diminished.

As he approached the information desk, he spoke aloud to the empty space.

“Reni Masime-Rencole, Historical Wing of the University of Saibat. I am a Historical Archivist under the Mission for the publications of materials pertaining to the Restoration War. I am here to collect my level-three clearance pass for access to the second and tertiary levels, and my tier-five classification pass to access all materials relevant to my studies.”

It was quiet for a moment. Reni crossed his arms, patiently waiting.

“INITILIASING MANUAL INTERFACE.”

A moment later, the figure of a woman emerged behind the desk. At first she was a bluish-white, but as the holographic projection steadied, she grew into colour. She appeared as a normal pale-skinned Zephyri woman. Her eyes, closed tightly, opened. She spoke now,

“Doctor Reni Masime-Rencole, we’ve been expecting your arrival.” She said, “A brief security check and we shall issue your passes.” She paused for a moment, placing her hands upon the desk in front of her. Reni was talking to a person, not a machine, but he was under the distinct impression that this was some higher-ranking archivist, likely plugged into some computation machine far in the spire’s depths. She was not going to waste any prolonged processing time on him, and so he did not speak. It was courteous in these places, he had come to learn.

“Date of issue for the contract?”

“7,038, 21.01.31, RCA.”

“Date of birth?”

“5,521, 09.05.22, RCA.”

“Duration of stay?”

“Three cycles.”

“Should we expect any more members of your institute?”

“Six more, to arrive in the coming days.”

“Okay.”

A moment passed.

“Allow us access to your identification series.”

He obliged in the form of a brief thought that eliminated the natural encryptions in his ‘character database’, a collection of all various passes - the expired ones excused - and permissions that he had collected through the one and a half millennia of his life. It was a similar effort to pressing a button, the machine as familiar to him as the biological. In an instant, they were uploaded to him.

“You are granted your permissions. Please utilise the staff elevators. All machinery and items usually distributed to staff are yours to utilise. You have been allocated … three thousand, twenty one hundred units of processing for your calculations. If more is required please make a request to the Facility Administrator in your unit.”

“Understood.”

“May your work prove useful to the Imperium.”

The hologram disappeared, and Ren-Mai wasted no time. With the passes had come a detailed map of the facility, and so without issue, he made his way to the elevators down the hallway to the left.

-

The facility was not navigable by foot. Rather, it was so extensive that it was more like navigating a university wing the size of a large city. Between sections of libraries, processing units, and enormous data centres, there were large tunnels of vacuum-space where magnetic trains could briskly transfer individuals between wings. In a smaller facility, individuals would usually possess multiple ‘bodies’, synthetic or organic, to transfer between wirelessly. However, due to constraints in upkeep and the sheer number of wings, it was logistically impossible to make this the sole means of movement. It therefore remained restricted to frequented locations. The trains filled in the gap.

In the sealed interior of the small vehicles that shuttled staff between wings, it was difficult to tell - without wind or real relative perception - how fast it was going, but he knew enough about these trains to know that he was travelling the equivalent of entire city blocks within mere seconds. Sat down with five other archivists, all seemed to know one another. Two were busy processing their own data, with a hardlight mask laid over their face to notify others to avoid bothering them, two others were in brief mental conversation that could only be gleamed by their slight body movements and the occasional smile on their lips, and one another was busy sitting. Apparently, he was doing nothing.

Ren-Mai understood. In a place of constant activity, it was nice to do nothing.

When he turned to Ren-Mai and spoke, he almost jumped to hear his voice. He supposed it was the polite thing to do, mental speech was quite personal and intrusive, and not frequently done amongst strangers. But he had not been amongst many strangers recently, but rather amongst close friends and colleagues organising this very project. He felt the sudden joy of meeting a stranger, and at once realised how isolated he had been keeping himself.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” He asked plainly,

“Yes.” Ren-Mai replied, “I only arrived here today. A historical mission on the second level.”

“Oh, I know who you are!” He suddenly laughed, and Ren-Mai found himself taken aback by his smile. The man was quite handsome, but he had the kind of face that radiated joy. He could have made a good career in the films. He went on, “You’re Doctor Rencole, aren’t you?”

“You know of me?”

“I’m an archaeologist,” He explained, “The head archaeologist in my department. It’s my job to read the articles you’ve been publishing. Alexas Tai, it’s nice to meet you.” He flashed another movie star smile, “I’m a member of the ‘Xenological Studies Group’, specialising in old humanity. Well, when we can find them. It should be said, it’s also hard not to notice when an important archive is opened to a public professional for the very first time. My facility bid on that contract, you know …”

“How much?”

“Not enough.” He laughed, “Besides, when we learned the true contents, we quickly backed out of it. Our little expedition is political enough with all our little interests - yours, just by itself? Well … I do wish you luck.”

“I suppose a little popularity isn’t so bad …” Ren-Mai mused, “How many people know?”

“Oh, only about half the entire archive’s staff.” He let himself lean back in his seat, looking quite bemused. “But we all have faith in you. Whatever’s in that archive, it’s spent the past seven thousand years hidden behind enough firewalls and encryption keys to bury it for good. Besides, the selection process for this wasn’t random.”

“Of course not. It was based on price, number of staff, proven competence …”

“Allow me to clarify,” He interrupted, “The committee chose you, doctor. These things have a habit of being prodded, you know. Searching for the right person to make heads or tails of this whole thing, serve it up in the correct way. A very delicate process …”

Ren-Mai stroked his chin, analysing Alexas’ face. He was never a people person, but he’d be quite ignorant to miss the look of foreboding knowledge on the archaeologist’s face. “You’re quite experienced at this, aren’t you?” He said, almost coyly.

“Oh, only about 4,000 years on the job,” He replied, “You pick it up, the way this all works. Scratch my back, you scratch mine …”

The train soon came to a stop. The man stood up,

“Aha. I apologise, I must leave. My stop.” He put out his hand, “But it was a pleasure to meet you, doctor. Really, do step by my office at some point, it’s in the Xenoarchaeology Facility. Archive 23, Hall B. It’s good to have friends in this part of the Imperium.”

Ren-Mai shook his hand, and the man turned and departed without another word. The doors closed and he felt the pull of acceleration as the vehicle resumed its near-supersonic speed.

-

Ren-Mai was the last man standing on the train as it neared its last stop. All the others had departed a few stops ago. He would be in a part of the archives accessed only by service drones and the occasional technician, a part of the archives that had been sealed for, as far as he knew, several thousand years.

He would read the private documents of his heroes.

The reminder made him smile. He felt like a kid again. Over years of dry interest, he had managed to accrue enough knowledge to fascinate himself even with the most mundane of historical topics, but this was truly something primordial. He remembered playing ‘Conquerors’ as a kid on the playground. He, of course, had always played the republicans. He wasn’t physically very intimidating as a kid, so he always ended up pushed onto the losing side. But those were fond memories of fawning over great men and women. Now, he’d get to do it professionally.

What a contract. What a job.

The train came to a slow stop, and he stepped forwards onto a dimly-lit platform. Several glowing strips lit the platform with a dull orange light, as if it were night-time, which it may have been in this part of the facility. It was very difficult to tell night from day on most parts of Aetheria, where the sun did not shine through the steel canopy. In front of him stood a large steel door. Although the train had automatically detected his clearance pass to this level, and so had not refused to move when he had remained on-board, the door he now had to pass through was older technology. So he put his arm to to a small pad on one side and waited until it made a noise that sounded quite positive. The door opened.

Ren-Mai steadied himself, and for the first time in seven thousand years, a historian entered the War Archives.

Chapter 1

Cluster Three, New Hesperia, 5th March 3486
The man looked at his wristwatch only once as he walked down the hallway at a leisurely pace. It was something he could really not renounce to, that watch. Passed down from generation to generation into his family, how many things had it witnessed? The man couldn’t say, though he had often tried to imagine. It was an ancient relic, something tracing back its origins to Old Earth (though, the man had to admit with pride, still perfectly working), something to cherish as a sort of family symbol. Many people in the Hesperides kept relics of a past long gone; and it was a matter of pride for the most ancient Erythean families to show their Old Earth relic. It could be anything, usually trivial objects that, for one reason or the other, had managed to survive unscathed to the passing of time, to wars and revolutions, and, perhaps more terrible of all, to the human tendency to forgetfulness.
Of course, he knew better than to leave such a blatant sign of recognition in plain sight. At the right time, he would have hidden it. And yet, he could not avoid the feeling, one he was very familiar with, that once again the old family watch would have given him some luck. He smiled: there was no such thing as luck, of course.
He crossed a few hallways, casually looking outside the few windows he would encounter, glancing at the distant shapes of the habitats that made New Hesperia.
He finally reached his destination. The armored door was sealed, but otherwise nothing, at first sight, would have suggested the importance of what was behind it. No guard was to be seen around. In other times, in other places, that would have been surprising, shocking even. But not there. There was a certain feeling of complacency, of lack of proper discipline, which had seemingly taken hold of New Hesperia, or so the man thought. Then, he corrected himself: not New Hesperia, but the whole Federation. In that case, it was just more evident, in plain sight.
He shook his head, as the thought crossed his mind. Until less than a few months earlier, the Federation had been at war against an implacable, ruthless enemy. And there he was, on the largest space habitat complex of the Hesperides, in what was classified as a secure facility, with no obstacle in sight.
True, he was no amateur. Also true, that operation had been planned carefully by others who were not amateurs too, for sure.
For the second time in a few minutes, the man smiled. Why all those thoughts now, in that moment? Was he becoming a sociologist? For all he knew, the operation had been planned precisely not to have him meeting any obstacle of sorts.
Enough thinking. It was time to perform.
He approached the door. As he came within a few centimeters of it, a small light appeared on the otherwise plain and empty surface: “Good evening, Dr. Kolban. What can I do for you this time?”
The voice was female, possibly somewhere around the thirties, but the detached, plain tone betrayed its artificial nature.
“Good evening Lea. I need to access storage. Read my biometric signature and proceed. Pass code: sigma-one-three-theta.”
A moment of silence, before the female voice he had called Lea replied: “Very well, Dr. Kolban. Your request is authorized. Please, proceed.”
The light disappeared, and the door seamlessly and silently moved to the side.
Dr. Kolban stepped inside without any further ado. He knew time was of the essence now. He found himself inside the decontamination area. Quickly, with mechanical gestures he had learned through constant practice, he wore the protection suit, then he moved towards another door. A few seconds later, he was finally inside his destination.
The room was completely empty, covered in dark white. It was an almost perfect cube with its angles made round. No object was visible. Dr. Kolban glanced at his watch, still visible under the transparent texture of the suit. He had three minutes.
With confidence, he moved towards the wall on his left. As he reached it, a holographic console appeared just in front of him. His fingers, unhampered by the suit gloves, rapidly operated on the console. A confirmation sound, then a piece of the wall slowly moved forward, revealing a small, hermetically-sealed, box, its neat surface only disturbed by a name: Sarah Hosayaki.
Kolban didn’t even bother reading. He quickly operated again on the console, and the box opened. It only contained a small hole, a few centimeters in diameter. Kolban moved to the side and looked inside. For the first time that day, actually for the first time since a while, he was sincerely astonished.
Empty! The hole was empty. Instead of the sealed cylinder it should have contained, there was absolutely nothing.
Immediately, an intricacy of thoughts began to rise in Kolban’s mind. He began to analyze all possible explanations with the rapidity and efficiency he was so used to.
Clearly, that was no accident. Somebody had deliberately removed the vial from its box. For what he knew, it was unprecedented. So, there was only one possible explanation: somebody knew he would have come. Somebody knew of his assignment.
He looked at the watch: one minute. There was no more time. No alarm had sounded, yet. But now there was the distinct possibility that he could be ambushed. Still, he had no intention of leaving empty-handed. He had to improvise.
He closed the box, and let the wall piece go back to its former place. He moved a few steps to his left. Another console appeared. Without even really thinking, he operated on it. Another wall piece moved forward, another box was revealed. The name on it read: Tamar Mirkelian. This time, the vial was there.
Dr. Kolban smiled again: there really was no such thing as luck.

Eastern Pier Residential District, New Atalanta, 4th January 3501
The apartment was small, but not so small as the crowd of objects of different nature and size filling it could lead a casual observer to believe at first sight. It was not a random disorder. Quite the contrary: a less casual observer, one willing to go beyond appearances, could have noticed that there was a method in that madness. The most striking pieces surely were the two, huge wooden scaffolds covering one wall almost entirely, if it was not for the window separating them. They were filled with books. Real books. Haruno knew there were five other scaffolds like those, scattered throughout the place, and equally full. She was also well aware of the nature and titles of those books. Many of them had admittedly already passed through her hands.
Slightly hidden from sight for whoever would have stepped in from the main entrance, and arguably only for that reason less striking than the scaffolds, came the two small round tables. They were actually something more than tables, but the delicate combination of exquisite craftsmanship and advanced technology. Apparently simply made of wood, at the slightest touch they would have revealed their true nature as holographic emitters, showing an incredibly detailed - and interactive - orbital view of Old Earth and Mars, respectively.
They had been made just a few years before the Cataclysm and, for all they knew, they were the latest and last representations made of those two historic worlds before their vanishing into the darkness.
On the other side of the room, a small door led to a kitchen. A real kitchen, equipped with all the necessary stuff. That was, perhaps, an extravaganza even more than the two table-emitters, or the books. But that apartment was sited in one of those complexes which had been built during the heyday of the old Federation, and had managed to survive almost unscathed centuries of war and drastic changes. As such, its whole structure betrayed a lifestyle quite different from that to which the citizens of the Federation were used to. It had been renovated, it had been carefully maintained, and yet it could not apparently escape its nature of architectural relic. It was also quite colourful. Its walls sported some floral decorations which framed the windows and the doors, giving the place an overall feeling of lightness, enhanced by soft light penetrating through the three windows. From them, the view spaced over the whole Eastern Pier, on one side, and the ocean, on the other. It was a remarkable view, one by which no Arethusan could really stand unaffected.
Julie Maruge was sitting on a velvet couch, laying quite low on the floor. The old woman was not used to standing up to greet her visitors, Haruno knew that all too well. It was just part of the character.
The Prime Minister moved in that room she had visited so many times before: “So, professor” she had never managed to convince herself to call her just ‘Julie’: “You watched my speech.”
“Of course I did” the former President replied. She smiled, her face still quite juvenile: “I would not have missed such a huge step by one of my favorite pupils, don’t you think?”
Haruno maneuvered to put herself in front of Maruge, and between her host and the two small tables-emitters. Her question came bluntly: “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Maruge repeated almost to herself: “I think it is already remarkable you managed to convince old Themistius. Really remarkable. I also think it has been brave. And I also think it has been foolish.”
“Foolish?” Haruno didn’t flinch. She needed Maruge’s honest opinion, she was there for that. And she knew she wouldn’t be disappointed.
“Yes, foolish, my dear Artesia.”
“The speech? Or the project?”
“A bit of both.”
“Wouldn’t you mind explaining, professor?”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind. You see, Artesia…” Maruge’s eyes were now fixed on the young Prime Minister: “It was about time, in all honesty, for this Federation to be shaken up. I always said the same, remember? We have been licking our wounds for the better part of a century. Then, fifteen years ago, we were thrown into a bloody war against an enemy we could never have foreseen. And after that, we have plunged into our isolationism once again. We are making the same mistake all over again: thinking that, as long as we don’t care about the rest of the Universe, the rest of the Universe will not care about us. We were wrong the first time. We are wrong now. And differently from fifteen years, there are forces in the Federation actively pushing for an opening. We can take the initiative, we can start on our terms…with some limits, of course.”
“Of course.” Haruno was still not moving a single muscle: “And yet…why foolish?”
“Simple: because we cannot know the result. Project Hermes is daring and ambitious, more than many people realize, perhaps. It means opening ourselves to what is left of Humankind…and more. It is thus a challenge to the true core of this Federation: the ideal of unity.”
“You fear that this opening may…harm the Federation?”
This time Maruge didn’t reply immediately. She raised from the sofa - with an agility which always surprised Haruno - slowly moving towards one of the windows. She looked outside: Erythea, with its brownish shape, was rising from the ocean just then. When she spoke, her voice was somewhat lower than before: “Look at what Taribia did to us, Artesia. And that is just in our backyard.”
“The war has been devastating, sure, but…”
“Not the war, Artesia. Not the war.” the former President was still looking outside the window, her sharp eyes perceiving Erythea’s slow rise each second: “What happened later. It has been fifteen years, and we still occupy that world. That occupation has slowly, imperceptibly, changed the Federation. And it will keep doing so.”
“How?”
“By casting us in a role we had not thought of before: that of dominators, of the superior force.”
At first Haruno felt the urge to reply that they were not the dominators, that the federal forces were on Taribia to protect that war-thorn world and to speed up its recovery, and to control the Iskrans. And yet, she stayed silent. She knew, not just instinctively, that what Maruge was saying contained a grain of truth. Perhaps, more than a grain.
The old woman continued: “Now, there are two Federations, coexisting in the same place: one is the embodiment of Kenner’s ideals of unity and ideological harmony; the other, is an interstellar power occupying a foreign world. These two Federations are not necessarily mutually exclusive, at the moment, but at some point they may diverge so much to reach a breaking point.”
“And you think that Project Hermes may do just that?”
Erythea upper half was now over the ocean: “Yes, I think so. There are no certainties in the social sciences, of course, but I think that is a distinct possibility.”
“Then why didn't you tell me sooner?”
Maruge finally turned towards Artesia, her face seemingly a bit disappointed: “My dear, did I also say that I think that to be a bad thing?”
Haruno raised an eyebrow: “You speak in riddles, professor. As always.”
“It is a rather simple riddle, my dear Artesia.” Maruge moved away from the window, putting herself just face to face with Haruno, taking the posture, so usual for her, of the lecturer to the audience: “All things flow, as an ancient Earth philosopher once said. That is true also for political and social systems. The Federation identity will not stay the same forever. It is an impossibility. So, this coexistence of different identities, and their possible divergences, is an opportunity. As in every opportunity, of course, there is a certain degree of risk, of danger. Yet, it remains an opportunity.”
“I see your point…Crisis equals opportunity.” Haruno pronounced the words with a sober tone. She was doing her best to keep the perfect composure and yet, inside, she could perceive a whirlwind of feelings beginning to emerge. Among them arose, for the split of a second, the unpleasant feeling of being a pawn.
“Precisely. Artesia, opening ourselves is unavoidable. Sooner or later, whether we want it or not, we will have to deal with what is left of this galaxy. Project Hermes is a well-designed plan, its implementation seems feasible, well-grounded on our current capabilities. You did well, Artesia. Yet, you must be prepared for all the possible consequences.”
Maruge’s tone of voice was now less that of the lecturer, and more that of the protective teacher. It did much to assuage Haruno’s feelings. When she spoke, she did so less somberly: “There is the risk that, if not managed properly, this process may lead to renewed tensions between Renovationists and Neo-Xianists, even Augmentists.” Haruno admitted: “We know that. There are already contingencies in place, should the need arise.”
Maruge smirked: “A-TLAS, always watching. Yet, do not fall into complacency, my dear.” she finally returned on her velvet sofa: “That’s a risk nobody can afford, least of all you, our youngest and brightest Prime Minister.” Haruno couldn’t tell whether there was sarcasm in those words or not as she continued: “There will be surprises.” a smile appeared again: “Oh…also: don’t forget the Iskrans.”
“The Iskrans?” Haruno looked attentively at her former teacher: “What about them?”
“They are still there, on Taribia. They seem still, don’t they? And yet, it is hard to imagine that’s really the truth. And we know there are others like them, waiting in the void. We know far too little about the Iskrans, as you know far too little about the situation on Taribia, and how these two elements may impact the Federation.”
Haruno nodded, thoughtfully. She had the feeling she just got what she needed: “Perhaps it is time the Prime Minister visits Taribia.”

*
She could hear them scream. But who were they? Pale shadows moving in a dim light. She could not understand what they were saying. Their voices intermingled with other, ill-defined sounds. Sirens? The low, muffled sound of artillery being fired…somewhere? By whom? Against whom? And then other sounds, other voices, inexplicably mixing with the others but belonging to somewhere else. She could hear a thunderous applause, cheering, music played by other shadows…but then the ceaseless thunder of fire appeared again, out of nowhere, and the screaming began all over…
When she opened her eyes, the pain was all too real. Instinctively, she moved the hands to hear head, as to contain it, to control it. For a moment, she had the feeling her head could explode. Then, it vanished.
She looked around. She found herself in a room, on a bed, surrounded by nothing but silence, except for the gentle humming of some equipment in the background. Silence…just a few moments earlier, she was on the verge of believing there was no such thing as silence.
A door opened, and a man entered the room. He was young, tall, and his clothes could not hide what seemed like perfect musculature. His face looked gentle as he looked at her.
“You woke up, at last.” he said, and the tone of his voice confirmed the first impression.
Only now she noticed a mirror, on the other side of the room, just in front of her bed. In the mirror, she could see a young girl with long hairs so dark they looked blue, and a pair of grey eyes that were penetratingly reciprocating her.
She could only mutter a question: “Who…am I?”

Federal Interstellar Communication Center, Thetis Station, 10th January 3501
The colonel stepped in at a leisurely place, firmly holding the cup in his hand. He felt no rush in reaching his chair. Instead, he took a look around: the control room of the Federal Interstellar Communication Center had fallen into silence. The colonel knew it had nothing to do with his entrance per se. His authority was certainly not high enough, and neither was his attitude harsh enough. He glanced at the people stationing in front of the consoles and the holographic projectors. All the officers and servicemen were from the Federal Armed Forces Space Fleet, and their black uniforms with golden insignia starkly contrasting with his green-and-brown camo offered a good reminder of that fact. He was the sole officer of the Ground Corps serving on board Thetis, but now, after three months in service, he had slowly adapted. He felt less like a caged animal for display, as he had felt for weeks, and more like what he actually was: a living, breathing token of good will. General Amsdorf, the commanding officer of FAFGC C&C Division, and his direct superior, had been clear about that point already when he first informed him of his new assignment.
“This is an opportunity, Eduard.” he had said to him: “A first-rate cooperation between the Corps and the Space Fleet.”
To be fair, he himself hadn’t seemed too convinced. But Colonel Eduard M’bare was well aware that there had been pressure, a lot of pressure, from high above. It was time to leave behind the infamous infighting between the Ground Corps and the Space Fleet. And what better chance for showing this renewed collaborative spirit than having him, a high-ranking officer of the Corps, becoming Executive Officer of the Federal Interstellar Communication Center, until that moment an exclusive of the fleet? And, moreover, on the eve of the launch of Project Hermes?
And there he was. He had been treated fairly, he had to admit it, since day one. Somehow, he had even managed to earn the respect of the crew. If it wasn’t for the need to stay on board that station most of the time, Colonel M’bare could have said he was beginning to like the assignment. But he was a history nerd, and that station had seen some of the most important history of the Hesperides taking place in its hallways and rooms. Darn, the colonel had thought the very first moment he had stepped on board, the Federation was literally born there. So, after all, the deal was not so bad.
Also, the challenge ahead of him intrigued the colonel. Now, it was time for the true show to being. He was ready.
The colonel reached one of the consoles, where a rather young officer was standing, looking at the screen: “Is everything alright, lieutenant?”
The lieutenant saluted, then nodded: “All is set, sir, as per mission parameters. When you’ll give the order, we will begin transmitting.”
Colonel M’bare looked at the screen: it was showing a set of coordinates, vectors, and a few other data. It was all rather simple: Project Hermes would have broadcasted an invite by the federal government to all human governments to establish official channels of communication and, when feasible, a diplomatic representation. The challenge lied in the fact that, with the old United Nations gone for good, it had been more than a century since the last vestige of the interstellar tachyon communication network had been used or properly maintained. At least, this was that the Federation knew. So, Project Hermes consisted in the restoration of three network satellites, one installed on that very station, one positioned around Nyx, the other around Taribia. Through complex algorithms, and by exploiting what was known of the ancient network, the satellites would have tried to connect to whatever survived of it, relaying their rather simple, yet potentially revolutionary, message.
With time, as more data flowed in to the FICC, the network could have potentially expanded. The colonel knew that many in the federal government were particularly interested in that part, and specifically that concerning what was left of the ancient Independent Worlds Alliance.
Who knows, he thought, perhaps it will really be possible to restore a semblance of order outside the borders of the Federation. The colonel was a staunch New Federalist, but he also liked to consider himself a realist. And he knew that nothing is ever really easy.
“Hit it, lieutenant. Begin transmitting.”