by Ehsan Ahmad
The big man stopped. “What?”
“Based on what I’ve picked up from the guards. Did you know there are no more than six thousand of us left in the mines? Maybe less.”
“And?”
“The Vitaari are only constructing one more new mine. The reserves of terodite and aronium will be gone within two years, the malkus within three. They will leave. We must do what we can to preserve those of us that remain.”
“You think you’re the only one that listens, Sonus? I listen, too, and I know what they did to the people of the other worlds they conquered. Has anything you’ve seen of them suggested to you that they are stupid enough to leave us alive—so that we can rebuild and one day take our revenge?”
“They are not all the same.”
“The others said you wouldn’t listen. Have you no honor?”
“I believe so. And more sense than some.”
Tanus muttered an oath and left.
Sonus leaned back against the chilly rock. From the shaft and all the others connected to it came the endless, familiar buzz of the drills.
For fifteen years, he had labored here. At first, they had been working just twenty yards beneath the surface. Now, he was half a mile down, and what he coughed up in the morning had gone from gray to brown to black. The pain in his lungs was getting worse, too, though it had been partly eased by the medicine he’d requested instead of extra rations. Tanus wouldn’t care that he’d given most of it to his neighbor for his ailing son. Nor would he care that it was Sonus who had persuaded the governor to allow the workers to take pure air canisters down to breathe during their breaks. Or that his pleas had saved the life of a man who’d dared insult a guard.
Because Tanus listened only to his heart. Sonus knew it would be easy to do the same. Every last man and woman left alive on Corvos had the same collection of sad tales, the same burning desire to be free. Tanus was now left without a single member of his family since his daughter had perished the previous year.
Sonus could create a weapon, perhaps even kill one or two Vitaari before they killed him. But men had tried before, and all they had achieved was to endanger those closest to them and make life harder for everyone else. Sonus listened to his head.
He had his gloves back on and was about to recover his drill when the com-cell pinned to his sleeve beeped. The Vitaari needed him.
It took him half an hour to reach the surface: twenty-five minutes of walking, then five in the elevator. The colossal main shaft was almost empty; everyone was working below. Sonus trudged slowly toward the light, giving his eyes time to adjust.
The guard on duty was sitting on a metal pallet, bulky rifle laid out beside him. He was shorter than average but very broad. The dot tattoos across his face were red; most of the others were blue or green. His fellow guards called him “Faraway” because he came from some remote, isolated region of their home world. Sonus had seen them laughing at him and playing practical jokes. And because he often seemed to take his frustrations out on the workers, Sonus kept his distance and waited for his permission to pass. Without looking up, Faraway waved one huge hand toward the light.
The compound was almost as quiet as the main shaft. Eyes still narrowed, Sonus drank in the sweet first breath of air. He hurried on, walking alongside the conveyor that took the largest and hardest chunks of ore to the warehouse. He passed the guard barracks, the infirmary, and the armory. The only sign of activity was two cleaning drones scrubbing the wheels of a trailer.
The tower loomed over all else, bulbous head blinking with red and orange lights. At the bottom were two guards on sentry duty, rifles cradled across their chests. They wore identical plain black fatigues with wide belts and enormous boots. Two administrators were also there, clad in their gray robes, both poring over a data-pad. One of them was Kadessis, the Vitaari who gave Sonus his assignments.
“Ah, there you are.”
Sonus nodded cordially and looked up at him. “Sir.”
Like all the invaders, Kadessis had protruding bones in his cheeks that seemed to be pushing at the glittering skin. When he was anxious—as he was today—they twitched and looked as if they might burst through. Sonus found Kadessis more even-tempered and approachable than most of them and respected his intellect; the Vitaari had picked up trade in a matter of months.
“Another problem with a drill motivator. It’s over in the maintenance yard. The drones aren’t getting anywhere, and all the engineers are occupied. Have a look, would you? I’ve assigned a team of four to help you with the labor.”
“Yes, sir.”
On his way to the yard, Sonus passed two women. They were carrying trays loaded with steaming food, probably for the staff in the tower. Sonus knew them both by name and greeted them. One replied coldly; the other said nothing. He had become accustomed to such treatment.
There was only a single guard on duty at the yard, and he ignored Sonus as he approached the heavy drill. The big machines usually ran well enough, but occasionally the motivators got clogged up with aronium dust. It was usually a case of removing the affected parts, then cleaning and replacing them; a task that seemed beyond the drones. Two of these white cubic devices hovered, dormant, close to the rear of the drill.
Also present was the work crew. All four were from Sonus’s shift; men he had worked and lived with for years. He was delighted to find that one of them was Karas. Sonus smiled, but his old friend barely looked at him. The others seemed happy to escape their usual work in the mine.
“Let’s get the cover off.”
Karas hung back as the other four began work.
Sonus gave some instructions, then walked over to him. “Are you all right?”
Karas could usually be relied upon for a story or a joke. Sonus had always admired his ability to raise the spirits of others. But he still hadn’t spoken.
“Is it Qari?” he asked. “I thought she was feeling better.”
Karas gripped his arm, fingers trembling. He whispered, “Sonus, she is with child.”
Sonus held on to his friend, but now he could find no words. It was hard to believe there had been a time when such news was greeted with joy.
2
Troop Captain Erasmer Vellerik had his hand on the small container’s handle when the wall-screen flickered into life. The voice came a moment later.
“Sir? Captain Vellerik?”
“Accept.”
Leaving the container, he plucked his sleeping tunic from the bed and pulled it on, then wandered in front of the screen. Officer Kereslaa looked as annoyingly fresh and eager as ever. Could it really be that another three days had passed? It was so hard to keep track of time aboard the ship.
“Yes?” Vellerik wiped his sore eyes.
“The update, sir.” Kerreslaa examined his superior’s clothing, or rather the lack of it. “Should I call back?”
“No. Go ahead.”
“We’ve just finished the cycle. There are five issues worthy of discussion.”
Vellerik nodded wearily and wished he’d stayed in bed and turned off coms.
“Firstly, an incident at Mine Two. A worker claimed illness, but the infirmary confirmed he was suffering only from a minor ailment. He returned to work, but a small group of others protested. The duty officer ordered two jolts for each. Production was not affected.”
“Two? Was that really necessary?”
Kerreslaa paused. “Clearly the duty officer thought so, sir.”
Vellerik had never heard of jolt-rods before he’d been assigned to Corvos. He had now seen the punishment delivered numerous times. The Planetary Administrator claimed the permanent damage was minimal, but the smoke that rose from the natives’ skulls suggested otherwise. Vellerik was amazed that any of the poor little bastards ever dared put a foot wrong.
“Perhaps you might suggest to Governor Varrata that one jolt is probably sufficient.”
“Yes, sir.”
They both k
new it wouldn’t make any difference. Technically speaking, all such matters came under the jurisdiction of the Administration. Vellerik—who led the small but well equipped Colonial Guard detachment—was kept informed of anything related to security but usually only required to mobilize his force in the event of a significant uprising. There hadn’t been one for months—a brief, bloody affair at Mine Six—and he hoped it stayed that way. There was, however, a price to be paid for this peace. His twelve-strong team was almost as bored and depressed as he was; there were only so many drills you could run in a cargo bay.
“Secondly, Mine Ten reports more sightings of primitives.”
Vellerik peered at the footage now running in one corner of the screen. It showed around ten barefoot natives in rudimentary clothing. One man was shaking a spear, having presumably noticed the observation drone.
Vellerik almost laughed. “Is Governor Sekithis worried?”
“They did damage those water pipes last month, sir.”
Theoretically also a member of the Colonial Guard, Kerreslaa acted as a liaison between Vellerik and the Administration. But he spent most of his time on the planet and consequently saw things from the governors’ point of view.
“When Sekithis sent out a squad, they gathered in significant force before eventually retreating,” the officer added.
Vellerik sighed. It was all so pathetic. The natives had barely advanced beyond bow and arrow. His unit, when fully armed, could muster enough firepower to conduct a small war.
“Tell him I’ll bring the troop down to scare them off. It’ll do them good to get some fresh air.”
“Very well, sir. Thirdly...”
And so it went on. The next three issues were even less interesting, and Vellerik was glad when it was over. Afterwards, he gave serious thought to returning to bed. Instead, he changed the wall-screen to a mirror and looked at himself.
His skin was pale and dull, his eyes lined with yellow; all sure signs that he was in poor condition. He tried to tense his body and was unimpressed with the results. Much of his tall, broad frame now lacked definition, and his hair, which had stayed so black for so long, was at last showing signs of gray. Vellerik shrugged. A man of one hundred and nine was permitted a bit of gray.
He glanced over at the container, which had remained buried under some spare uniforms since he’d arrived all those months ago. He’d tried to keep himself busy—the drills, exercise, games with the troop, more drills, more exercise. He’d even made an ill-fated attempt to learn the local language. But, like a prisoner, he was marking time. His chosen one—Seevarta—was on the other side of the quadrant, and he wouldn’t see her until he completed his seventieth (and last) year of service.
He’d heard a rumor that the ship was due to receive an important visitor in the next few days. But until he was called upon, Vellerik had nothing to do.
He walked back to the container, typed in the code, and watched the lid ease open. At the bottom was a transparent cube strewn with fake greenery. Vellerik was relieved to see that the status light was on, which meant that the insect was still alive. Also still functioning was the small but essential device that regulated the air and provided sustenance. The Almana soarer was a rather beautiful creature, its narrow body dwarfed by the broad, delicate wings. Vellerik reckoned the poor thing must miss flying; it had been in the cube since he’d bought it from a dealer on Deskalon V.
He picked up the cube, checked his door was locked, then sat on the bed. Refusing to allow himself second thoughts, he clicked one of the capsules in a row attached to the side of the box. It would take about a minute for it to fill itself with the substance known as Almana’s Breath.
Vellerik lay down beside the box, hand on the capsule. The trick was to concentrate solely on the visions you wanted the narcotic to augment. The effects varied, but some of his best sessions had seemed more real than the most convincing dream. He closed his eyes and thought of Seevarta.
The capsule beeped, which meant it was full. He detached it from the box, removed the cover, and put it in his mouth.
An hour later, Vellerik rose slowly from the bed, mind still awash with her. Wondering why he hadn’t indulged sooner, he replaced the cube in the container and hid it. He would limit himself to one session every few days.
Vellerik washed his face, then put on his uniform. He knew now that he would never get used to the dark blue of the Colonial Guard, having worn the black of the Imperial Legions for most of his career. He left his decoration bar on his bedside table; it was so heavy now with rings of various colored metals that he found it uncomfortable. There had been a time when he wouldn’t leave his room without it.
“Captain Vellerik.”
This time, it was Deputy Administrator Rasikaar.
“Accept.”
Rasikaar did not look happy. Behind him, others were rushing around.
“Count Talazeer is already here.”
“What? I thought—”
“So did we. Just prepare yourself and your troop. I have already notified your second-in-command. Ceremonial dress. All personnel will assemble when the Count is ready for us.”
“Very well. What—”
Rasikaar had already gone.
It took Vellerik a while to find the glossy red band used for such occasions. He hung it from his right shoulder to his left hip, then clicked his sidearm onto his belt. Still feeling slightly dizzy, he threw water on his face again and checked himself a final time in the mirror before leaving.
As the door slid shut behind him, he marched away along the corridor. To his right was a long, narrow viewport; outside, the endless oblivion of deep space. The Galtaryax was on the far side of Corvos from its star; there was only the single planet and its two moons orbiting what the natives called the “Wild Sun.” He rather liked the name, though he had no idea of its origin.
Two elevators and another long walk took him to the loading bay allocated to his unit. The men were lined up outside and snapped to attention when Troop Lieutenant Triantaa gave a shout.
“Morning, all,” said Vellerik quietly, walking down the line. Triantaa was a good man; conscientious and well organized. Consequently, Vellerik could find no fault in the troop’s appearance. He could have invented an imaginary stain on a boot or blemish on a uniform, but what was the point?
“Excellent. How’s the arm, Vaterann?”
The trooper’s combat shell had malfunctioned five days previous, throwing him into an airlock door. The surgeon had already done his work, but this was the soldier’s first day back on his feet.
Vaterann’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He was looking over his superior’s shoulder toward the elevator. Vellerik turned and saw Deputy Administrator Rasikaar approaching. He was a small man—barely two-and-a-half meters—but immaculately attired, red sash vivid against his gray robes.
Vellerik assumed he had come down to fetch them. “Are we late?”
“No, Captain. It appears there is to be no formal ceremony. His Excellency has decided he wants to begin work immediately. He is currently meeting with the Administrator.”
“Ah.”
Vellerik turned. “Well, men, I suggest you get changed and pre-pare yourselves for another maneuvering drill.”
Noting that Rasikaar hadn’t left, he spun around again, rather too quickly in fact. He had to put his hands out to steady himself and hoped no one had noticed. “Was there something else?”
“Yes, Captain. Count Talazeer would like to see you, too.”
Administrator Danysaan was standing outside his own office, star-ing blankly out of the viewport. He didn’t hear Vellerik approach.
“Administrator.”
Danysaan looked like a man who had received some rather unpleasant news. “Captain. The—His Excellency—said you can go straight in.”
“Are you all right?” Vellerik couldn’t have cared less; he just wondered if he might get some warning of what was to come.
“Yes, of course.” The Administrator looked out at Corvos. As was often the case, most of the surface was obscured by swathes of white and gray cloud. A solitary shuttle was approaching the Galtaryax, navigation lights flashing.
Vellerik approached the office, thankful that the walk seemed to have cleared his head. The doors parted and he strode in. The sight that greeted him sent his hand toward his gun.
The man smiled, his slit of a mouth showing small, jagged teeth. But it wasn’t really a smile, and he certainly wasn’t a man.
He was a Drellen, one of a handful of survivors from a planet the Vitaari called Kan Arle’s World. Most had been wiped out by the Legions during the five decades it had taken to subjugate them. Their tough reptilian skin and remarkable resistance to pain made them a formidable foe. Though they hadn’t advanced beyond basic firearms, their devotion to bladed weapons had served them well. Masters of stealth and ambush, they had slaughtered so many soldiers that The Domain had been forced to bring in conscription for the first time in ten generations. The Drellens’ preference for skinning the invaders alive had not helped with recruitment.
Vellerik had always felt grateful that they’d been defeated before he left the academy. He’d seen a few here and there but—like most of his people—he harbored a deep distrust and fear of the breed they called—
“Skinner,” said the Drellen, his voice an oily hiss. “The captain is thinking—what’s a skinner doing here?” His head was a smooth green dome, his eyes dead yellow globes.
Vellerik’s hand was still on his gun. He only removed it when the Count appeared from an anteroom. He wore a military uniform not unlike Vellerik’s, apart from the fact that the red sash was woven into the lustrous material. At the shoulders were the golden stripes that marked him as nobleman, a member of one of the twelve families that ruled The Domain.
“Ah, Captain. I hope Marl didn’t alarm you.”
“Not at all.”
“He has been my bodyguard for several years now. It seemed a wise move, once my posts took me out to the colonies.”