Unconquerable Sun

by Elliott, Kate

  “A rout? How is that possible? High Admiral Choki Ne Styraconyx was in charge … I have kinfolk pledged to his syndicate…” The officer catches herself on a bulkhead, takes several calming breaths, and straightens back up. “We are all destined for death. Now what?”

  “As I said, Commander, the Rider Council always has a backup plan. I want this gunship decontaminated and demolished so it can’t be traced to the raid on the lab.”

  “Already in progress,” says the commander.

  “Any sign of pursuit?”

  “None showing up yet. It’s likely to take them days to track us, given everything else going on.” The officer looks Zizou’s way. “What about that one? He’s a wild card.”

  “He’ll obey. That’s why we purchase them from their home fleets, so we can leash them via their neural systems as needed to fit our purposes.”

  Purchase? Banner soldiers are chosen through a strict regimen of training and testing. It’s a momentous and consequential honor to leave home to protect those left behind. When recruits leave their homes they know they likely will never return, that their duty lies in service far from their kin. But for the first time he wonders how the Phene see soldiers like him: As people with lives as valuable as their own? As valued allies? Or as expendable purchased tools that can be replaced with each new set of recruits? He’d never thought to question these verities until now.

  The Rider produces a wand and flicks it on. A hum vibrates in his bones. His nerves tickle as if they’ve been charged with electricity, and the sensation disgorges half-forgotten memories of training when he was run through mazes with his limbs not under his own control. Nausea swells in his gut, not bile but revulsion. He breaks out in a sweat.

  “He’ll be passive now,” says the Rider. “I’ve leashed him.”

  He tries to move an arm, but it doesn’t move. He tries to move a leg, but it doesn’t move. The Rider watches him strain, then nods at the soldiers.

  “Bring him. But keep him restrained as a fail-safe.”

  Two soldiers undo the cage’s door. They have to wrench it open, and the torqued hinges grate. As if he’s a slab of meat they transfer him to a hover-stretcher, strap him in, and push him outside with the lifepods. Again he tries to twitch his feet and wiggle his fingers, but nothing happens.

  The wind picks up, dust stinging his face when he cannot even turn his head to shield himself from the worst of it. Lights flash at the tops of the distant towers.

  The Phene crew efficiently unloads the gunship, cleansing it of telltale organic markers. Charges burn through welded seams, leaving it vulnerable to scavenger mechs who will pull it apart to recycle its valuable metals and ceramics.

  The Rider walks through the ranks of lifepods, pauses to study him, tunes the wand a bit higher. His tongue stings.

  “Blink,” she says.

  He blinks.

  “Again.”

  Again he blinks. The dishonor rankles. His mouth still works, raspy and slow. “I am not a puppet. I am an honorable banner soldier.”

  “You are a weapon we have bought, nothing more.”

  The words explode like fléchettes into his head. “No!”

  “Your fleet councils sell you to us. You’re the excess, the surfeit they have no resources for but which we can use until we’ve used you up. But they don’t tell you that, do they? They stuff you full of honor and duty until you’re gorged on it. I almost pity you.”

  She walks away.

  He isn’t a puppet. He’s an honorable man.

  Sun sees him for who he is, not just what he is. He won’t let her down.

  41

  In Which the Wily Persephone Unwittingly Races up the Charts

  The only person in the Republic of Chaonia who can gainsay the heir is the queen-marshal, and she’s not here. So after the Boukephalas has dropped out of Molossia System into Troia System but before Senior Captain Tan reports in to Crane Marshal Qìngzhī Bō, the cruiser jettisons a shuttle. Sun is on that shuttle, having shed everyone except her Companions. Hetty is piloting, with asshole Jade Kim in the copilot’s seat wearing a ring just like the others and me.

  Now that we’re in Troia System, the beacon we’ve come through is called the Molossia beacon; they’re always called by where they drop you. This particular beacon is anchored to a gas giant. The planet’s swirling orange expanse fills our screens as we race away. The Boukephalas vanishes from visual range.

  “The main action here in Troia has moved to the vicinity of the second planet and the Aspera beacon, on the opposite side of the sun from us,” says James. He’s seated in a crash couch next to Sun, throwing lines of data back and forth with her like a fiery badminton match.

  “Good,” she replies without looking away from the data. “That means no one will be hunting for us.”

  “You seem awfully chill,” I remark, “what with a major battle taking place elsewhere in this system.”

  She shrugs. “My mother is in command of a strong and disciplined military, which she built. And she’s pissed. And although we sustained heavy losses in Molossia, we put a spoke in the wheels of their Troia gambit. My guess is the Phene will cut their losses and retreat to Aspera. Let’s keep the focus on our mission.”

  She unfolds a grid so we can follow Zizou’s ring.

  “I’ve got it.” James tugs his cap to his favored jauntily triumphant angle. “The signal is showing up on one of the moons orbiting the gas giant. They’re grounded. Just as you’d hoped.”

  “Just as I’d planned,” corrects Sun.

  James notices me watching and winks at me, like we’re friends sharing a sliver of delight over the predictable way Sun corrected him. The way he includes me worms a cautious sense of belonging into my stony, untrusting heart.

  “There are six inhabited moons,” he says to the shuttle at large. “I can never tell them apart.”

  Tiana lifts her chin. “There are seven inhabited moons, named after seven auxiliary ships attached to one of the old Argosy fleets, the Mopsos Argosy. The moons are Ekwesh, Peleset, Shardana, Shekelesh, Teresh, Tjeker, and Weshesh. May I see the grid you have there, Honored James?”

  “Please, just call me James,” he says with a flourish immediately spoiled by a blush. His shyness makes me like him. He’s kind of a jerk, but he’s our jerk. And he’s really good at what he does. He expands the grid to show the gas giant Colophon and its thirteen moons.

  “The signal’s on Tjeker.” Ti glances at me, where I am seated beside her with nothing to do except snark. “That’s where I grew up.”

  “How well do you know the moon?” Sun asks.

  “There’s one major city. It grew up around an old Phene military compound that’s now a Chaonian staging point, training ground, and industrial park. There’s a huge refugee camp there. It’s the only place Phene can go more or less unnoticed.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There are always Phene refugees sheltering in or near the hostel administered by the saints basilica in Repose District.”

  “Useful for Phene fugitives and spies,” says Sun. “Hetty, take us in.”

  We descend into a swirl of clouds that look like vomit ice-dried to grit and being run through a planet-sized fan. Being buffeted by winds makes me think of Alika’s song “Turbulence.” The handsome and talented winner of last year’s Idol Faire is seated in a crash couch, plugged into the comms console. Ignoring me, thank goodness.

  Waves of comms traffic cascade out of the battle in progress by Aspera beacon, spilling over each other like too many notes roaring past. He flicks his fingers through invisible threads, untangling the massive river to find what’s useful for Sun. It’s weird to know there’s a battle going on at the other side of the system, while here it might be any ordinary day.

  Hetty pilots the shuttle with the same skill she showed with the boat when we escaped Lee House. Her calm expression never wavers as winds buffet us, pitching us up and then sideways. She’s got game.

  As alwa
ys, Jade Kim can’t keep from commenting on the performance of others, which is never up to toppest of top cadet standards. “Have you considered—”

  “I know what I’m doing.” Hetty’s shoulders tense as she keeps her attention on her task. Notably she doesn’t seek backup from Princess Sun, who is in the third row, tapped into the intelligence feed.

  “Fuck off, Jade,” I say softly.

  Jade offers a quick two-finger gesture in my direction that might be insult or invitation. Hetty casts me a grateful look. Sun glances up, gaze touching on each of us in turn, but says nothing as she goes back to her feed.

  Troia System has no habitable planets; two are gas giants, one is a toxic hells-scape, and the other two are burned-out shells lacking atmosphere. Colophon’s habitable moons became famous for all sorts of black market activity here where, for generations, the systems that make up the Hatti and Karnos regions bordered the territories under the rule of the Republic of Chaonia and within the zone of influence of the Yele League.

  Two hundred years ago the Phene absorbed Troia into their empire. They used the system as a staging point for their invasion of the Yele League, a war they were winning for decades before they shockingly lost the battle of Eel Gulf. After the defeat instigated a rumored bloodbath within the Rider Council, the empire had to retreat. Of course even after they lost to the Yele they still controlled Chaonia for quite a long time. Naturally the Yele didn’t lift a finger or risk a single ship to liberate the Republic of Chaonia from Phene overlordship. We had to do that ourselves.

  On archaic beacon maps the Troia system is listed as Ilion, but after the Phene took over it began to appear on maps as Troia. A troia is an entertainer, a person who offers their services in a wide variety of capacities. Once the Phene installed military bases there were a lot of personnel temporarily barracked on one or the other of the moons. Since temporarily barracked personnel use a lot of services, the name Troia stuck. Maps changed. Refugees whose lives in orbital habitats or planetary domes were disrupted by war began migrating to the moons. In the last twenty years the bulk of the refugees have been required to settle on Tjeker, because it has a gamma-class breathable atmosphere, which means it kills you slowly and thus gives the government plausible deniability with respect to cause of death.

  We get clearance to land at the Tjeker military base.

  The clouds part as we come in, offering a view of a semiarid plain sprinkled with rows of windbreak trees and carpets of tough plants being seeded into the dusty soil. I’m too nervous to remember the names of the flora even though I aced the semester course on terraforming strategies. The round ponds of a waste treatment plant dot the northern flanks of the conurbation. We fly over the central city with its sealed domes and gleaming cylindrical towers. The military base is huge, with ten landing strips and a small city’s worth of sealed buildings and connecting roadways.

  So as we make a wide turn to come around to our designated runway, the sight of the hectares upon hectares of tent city shock me. We didn’t learn about these in class. The uncovered paths and roads look disturbingly naked. People are out and about in unfiltered air. Instead of solid, seamless floors, walls, and roofs made of ceramic, the refugees live in big rectangular fabric tents. The tents line up in row upon row upon row upon row. Intersections become ganglions of market and admin and medical tents, swollen up as if they’re infections. Open ground is scarce inside the barrier fence. Outside spreads a debris field that extends to distant hills.

  Then we bank around, losing the view. A wind hits us crosswise. Wings rocking, the shuttle lands with a few staccato bumps. That roll of the eyes is classic Jade Kim, but fortunately no words leave those perfect lips. Hetty’s cutting side-eye toward her copilot confirms I have a new ally in Jade-hating.

  Isis has been in the back with Solomon, prepping a set of mini stingers suitable for concealing about the body. As we unstrap she nods at him. “You know your weapons, Cadet.”

  “My thanks.” He holsters a pair of stingers and slings two small rail guns over his back.

  We all unstrap.

  Sun says, “Jade, you stay with the shuttle.”

  “But—”

  “I want her ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

  I catch Jade’s eye and waggle my eyebrows mockingly. It’s petty but satisfying.

  In a stiff tone, Jade says, “Yes, Your Highness.”

  A royal attaché and a puzzled Guard captain await us as we disembark. They’re both wearing filter masks while we cough into the rough air. My lungs feel hollowed out after only fifty steps. A merciful door offers entry to a long, low admin building where we’re shown into a chamber furnished with a strategos table and chairs.

  “How may I help you, Your Highness? I got no word you were coming.”

  “I’m on a classified mission. If you’ll guard the door, Captain.”

  He takes the hint and goes out, taking the attaché with him.

  James sits at the strategos table. Its glossy black surface measures five by five meters. After he taps a keypad and the surface lights up, he builds a topographic model of the conurbation, a remarkable simulacrum of the view we saw from the shuttle. Sun swoops the view down and down, zeroing in on an unblinking blue light that marks Zizou’s position. It shines in an area that seems to bridge the gap between the refugee camp and the main city.

  Sun studies the map. “This is a low-regulation market area. It should be easy to get in and out without being noticed.”

  “If I may, Your Conclusiveness.”

  Sun’s eyes crinkle up and her lips quirk. She’s about to smile, but she doesn’t. Instead she nods to indicate Tiana has permission to approach.

  Ti slides in beside the princess. She finds a pointer stylus hanging from the table, unhooks it, and uses it to delineate an area. “This is the low-reg market, yes. But that’s not where the ring is. This area here isn’t part of the market. That’s Repose District.”

  “Give me more information on Repose District.”

  “Can you make the map bigger, James?” Ti irradiates him with a brilliant smile.

  He blinks as if he’s been blinded. “Of course.”

  She uses the stylus to guide us on a circuit around the rectangular plaza and side streets of Repose District. One narrow end of the plaza is entirely taken up with an ancestors’ hall and, behind it, the Temple of Celestial Peace. Facing it, at the far end of the plaza, lies a spacious repose garden whose green foliage and bright flowers stand in stark contrast to the barren ground outside the domes. As for the rest, the builders of the district have made sure there is a respectful sacred place for almost everyone. There’s a lion of Al-lat, a colonnaded Bel temple, a house of healing marked with twinned holy snakes, and a saints basilica with the proper sixteen alcoves. Shining golden walls painted with a border of bright flowers marks a theatron dedicated to the Great Mother Queen of Mishirru, she whose names cannot be numbered; the entrance is flanked by images of her sister gods Fire and Splendor. A complex henge in the Hesjan style rises in stately majesty, paved in mown grass and split into three sections by the two main entry paths that fork like a snake’s speaking tongue. There’s even a shifting maze, wreathed in a glaze of shadows, in which the brave and reckless can walk perchance to dream or if they are unlucky even to meet Lady Chaos.

  Ti speaks. “The air on Tjeker is breathable, but it will scour your lungs if you breathe it for long periods unfiltered. It’s a slow and grueling death. The tents that house the refugees are sealable, as long as they’re in repair. If you can afford it you can get better air pumped into your personal tent. If you can afford it. Usually several families share an air line, either because they share a tent or because they share the air between several different tents. There are also filtering masks you can wear for outside work, or even inside if you can’t pay for an air line. Refugees can’t go into the domes, which of course have the best air. Breathable air is a perk for citizens.”

  “The domes don’t use refugee
labor?” Sun asks.

  “Dome and tower jobs are set aside for citizens. As you know, all citizens receive a basic allowance of air, water, medical, and shelter. Refugees have no such rights, so they pay for every metered delivery and every service.”

  James looks shocked. “They make people pay for medical care?”

  Sun waves him to silence and turns back to Ti. “What does Repose District have to do with this?”

  “The Phene established Repose District when they ruled here. In fairness to them, the empire observes a strict policy of religious tolerance. But I’d guess they like shoving the temples cheek by jowl into a single district so their administrators can keep an eye on the temple establishments. The thing about Repose District here on Tjeker is many of the temples offer free services to the refugees. Different ones specialize in different offerings.”

  Sun nods. At the heart of the Republic of Chaonia’s social compact with its citizens is that our love and respect for our ancestors must translate to care for the living, so the living can properly honor the dead who are still with us.

  “For example, Repose District has good air, and it’s free to enter,” Ti says.

  “So refugees without access to good air can become very devout, is that what you’re saying?” Sun asks.

  “That’s right. They can get free clean air for an hour a day.”

  “That’s where Zizou is? Why that frown?”

  “You have to pass full-body security scans to get in. The thing is, however long the lines are, the air is good even when you’re standing in line. So no one minds long lines because they can breathe. But if Zizou is still with the Phene—”

  “I think he is.”

  “—then the Phene will have agents watching the entry.”

  “I’ll get military access.”

  She laughs. “No offense, Your Certainty, but the temples have real power here. There is no military access to Repose District. It’s part of the deal on the moons. The cooperation of the religious leaders keeps the gears greased and running smoothly. If you don’t believe me, look here.”