by Ehsan Ahmad
Vellerik thought it more likely that—like many of his class—the Count considered an exotic, imposing bodyguard a status symbol. It certainly made an impression.
Talazeer added, “What he lacks in manners, he makes up for in other areas.”
The Drellen scratched his teeth together, then withdrew to the wall, wrapping his black cloak around his freakishly slender frame.
Vellerik strode forward and bowed. “Excellency. It is an honor to meet you. Welcome.”
“The honor is mine, Captain. I was quite thrilled when I heard that you led the Colonial Guard detachment here. Thrilled—and a little surprised.”
“Sir?”
“Come, let us sit.”
Beside a triangular viewport were two couches and a table. As he followed the Count, Vellerik noted a stack of cargo containers in the anteroom.
“Would you like wine?”
Talazeer gestured to a jug. Judging by the smell, it wasn’t particularly strong, but Vellerik was in no need of further intoxication.
“No, thank you, sir.”
Talazeer poured some into a glass for himself. “Space travel disagrees with me. I hope it will help me sleep.”
Vellerik was surprised he didn’t have an attendant or two. The last time he had seen him, Talazeer had been little more than a boy, watching a victory parade with the rest of his family. Now he was a muscular and rather striking young man, though the perfectly symmetrical features of his face suggested surgery. A lot of the younger nobles went in for such things.
Talazeer glanced at Vellerik’s uniform as they sat down. “Your decorations, Captain?”
“I don’t often wear them, sir.”
“You? The hero of Akaari Prime? I remember asking my father to recite tales of the Fourth Legion until I knew them by heart. The defense of the High Ridge? The assault on the Skartan capital?”
“All a very long time ago, Excellency.”
“‘Sir’ will suffice. ‘Excellency’ is such a mouthful.” The Count sipped his wine. “Why Corvos, Vellerik? What chance of glory out here at the edge of it all? Someone in the general staff must have it in for you.”
“To be honest, sir, actually I called in a few favors. I wanted something... quiet.”
“Seeing out your final months in peace, eh? Well, understandable, I suppose—for one who has given so much.” Talazeer adjusted the shimmering bangle on his wrist. “But I should warn you—this is no flying visit. I am here to stay.”
Unlike Danysaan and most of the others aboard the Galtaryax, Vellerik hadn’t been particularly concerned about the prospect of the Count’s arrival—until now. He had assumed it would be the usual token visit to improve morale.
Talazeer put down his wine and leaned forward. “I have not shar-ed this information even with Administrator Danysaan. A civilian’s word is of little worth when it comes to matters of state. But we are both military men. I know I can trust you.”
“Of course, sir.”
Both military men?
Vellerik doubted if the Count had ever shot at anything that wasn’t small, slow, and guaranteed not to fight back.
“You have heard of the Red Regent?”
“Only the name. And that she is believed to be immortal.”
“Intelligence-gathering is proving difficult, but we know now that her forces were behind two attacks on our ships in the last year. Intercepts suggest that, while not particularly advanced, her vessels number in the thousands. My father has been ordered to construct a new run of class IV destroyers to reinforce the Third Fleet.”
Vellerik knew that Lord Talazeer was second-in-command of the Imperial Navy. He was old, and his was a hereditary position that would be passed to one of his sons. The Count was the youngest of the three, and the other two had made names for themselves in the political sphere. He had been known in his youth as an irresponsible rogue; why had he now acquired such obvious ambition?
“How is Lord Talazeer?”
“Ailing, sadly.”
So that was it: a bold, if belated, move to impress his father might allow the young nobleman to see off his brothers and secure one of the most prestigious posts in The Domain.
Talazeer continued: “The construction of the new ships means we need more materials than ever, particularly terodite and aronium. Corvos is not producing enough. I aim to increase our contribution by a quarter.”
Even with the little he knew about the mining operation, Vellerik imagined this would be difficult, if not impossible.
“There can be no half-measures, Captain,” continued the Count. “I was able to secure a few additional mining drones, but our laborers must be pushed like never before. All must give their absolute maximum; the females, any child of sufficient age. And I was disturbed to hear that acts of revolt continue, even now?”
“Hardly worth bothering with, sir. They are a broken people.”
“I don’t see how that can be true, Captain. A broken people could not—would not—resist. I think it likely that your troops will be seeing a good deal more action over the next few months. I can rely on you, of course?”
You greedy, arrogant, ruthless little bastard.
“Captain?”
“Of course.”
3
Cerrin was already counting the days. The governor hadn’t told her exactly when she would be needed, but she longed to be out of the mine: free, if only for a few hours.
Along with about a dozen other women, she was working inside a dank, moldy cavern close to the main shaft. They were standing in a line beside a slow-moving conveyor, their job to remove patches of unwanted fungus stuck to the precious terodite. Cerrin picked up a hand-sized chunk of rock and cut away the growth with her chisel, letting it fall at her feet. She then chucked the rock back into the container, the clanging impact eliciting yet another head shake from the woman standing next to her.
They had been working for three hours, so no one was speaking. But no one had spoken to Cerrin anyway, even though she’d been out of the cage for a week. Some of the women were Echobe—forest folk, like her—but they weren’t about to associate with a known troublemaker, even though the guards only checked on them every hour or so.
It was Stripe who looked in on them next, and the hulking Vitaari had to bend his head to avoid the bar lights hanging from chains above the conveyor. He walked along the other side of the rumbling machine, pretending to be interested in the passing lumps of rock. Cerrin was close to the middle of the line, and he stopped opposite her, the misty yellow light making his tattoos seem more green than blue. Cerrin hacked at another bit of fungus.
“Morning, Longlegs,” said Stripe, who had his translator turned up loud. “How’s the ankle?”
She said nothing, kept working.
Despite the noise of the conveyor, she could feel the tension gripping the other women. They had mastered the art of working with their heads down and doing absolutely nothing to draw attention to themselves.
Stripe tapped a colossal gloved hand against each container as it passed. “You know there were a few wagers made. On how long it will be before you try and get away again—and what the governor will have to do to you next time. We have some of our own ideas for punishments. I came up with quite a few—very imaginative, even if I do say so myself.”
Had it been just the two of them, Cerrin might have replied; she’d traded insults with him and the other guards before. But the truth was she didn’t want to make herself even more unpopular. She would be out in the forest again soon. Until then, she had to avoid trouble as best she could.
“Not talking today?” added Stripe. “Makes a change.”
Cerrin pulled away another handful of fungus and dropped it.
The Vitaari picked up a lump of rock. “Maybe you’ve finally caught up with these others. Accepted how things are. Accepted who’s in charge.”
She lowered the chisel, looked across at him.
His
head was cocked to one side, dark eyes unblinking. “I’ve served all over, me. Fought the Dal Karaar, the Black Ghosts, every bloody creature the Jedna threw at us. They all lost in the end. But even when they should know they’re beaten, there’s always the odd one who just doesn’t get it. Who just doesn’t know when to give up. They never last long.”
Stripe threw the rock into the container passing Cerrin, showering her with black dust.
She grabbed it, pulled her arm back ready to throw.
One of the women cried out as she and the rest of them scattered.
Stripe, who didn’t appear to be armed, leered at Cerrin.
She put the rock down.
“That wager,” he said. “I bet you would last another forty days. But you know, I don’t think I’ll see any of that back. I doubt you’ll make another twenty. See you around, Longlegs.”
With that, Stripe sauntered out of the cavern, heavy boots crunching on the rocky floor. The women didn’t need telling to keep at it; they were already back at the conveyor.
Cerrin felt her hands shake, her teeth grind. She would have loved nothing more than to jam her chisel into that freakish, glistening face. She tried to breathe deeply, let out the anger as her father had taught her. He’d always told her she needed to be calmer: more thoughtful, less impulsive. It was a lesson he had never quite managed to teach her, and it was far too late now.
Returning to her work, Cerrin forced herself to think only of the forest: the wind in the branches, the softness of moss underfoot, the cool, clean water of the Crystal Lake.
“Excuse me.”
Cerrin moved aside. The young girl came along every few minutes to collect the fungus and place it in sacks. The women looked after her: giving her some of their food, warning her to stay clear of the conveyor. Cerrin looked down as the girl expertly gathered the detritus with a sweep of her arm, then stuffed it into the sack. She didn’t look more than twelve or so, though it was hard to judge these days: there were so few children around and they didn’t grow as they had before. The girl stood, then looked up at Cerrin, eyes bright in her grimy face.
One of the women stepped out of the line. “Come away, Yarni.”
Yarni grabbed the sack but didn’t take her eyes off Cerrin. “I thought you were going to throw that rock.”
The closest woman grabbed the girl’s shoulder and turned her around. “On you go, girl.”
Yarni did as she was told but walked backwards, watching Cerrin every step of the way.
At dusk, they were ordered to the landing strip. Wincing at the pain from her ankle but determined not to limp, Cerrin joined the scores of others from the day shift marching past high stacks of bright blue barrels. She was surprised to see the night shift already lined up on the strip; she couldn’t remember the last time the governor had gathered the entire workforce.
A grunt and an extended arm from a guard directed her and the rest of the women into the sixth and last line. Cerrin inspected the gun hanging from his shoulder and thought of the first time she had seen one used. The tongue of fire had arrowed right past her, scorching a vine and burning a hole in an Echobe warrior’s chest.
As the women shuffled to a stop, Cerrin glanced over at the wall. Even though she knew better, she sometimes felt as if there could be nothing beyond it. But to the south was the Great Forest, to the north the Empty Lands. The sun—now a brilliant orange disc—had almost disappeared from view. She mouthed the prayer of farewell and wondered how many of the other Echobe still bothered to do the same. Noting movement to her right, she saw Yarni peer at her, then straighten up and face the front.
Governor Yeterris stepped onto a cargo pallet and examined the workers. Cerrin wasn’t sure why he needed the stage; he was at least three feet taller than all of those he was addressing. She heard a snatch of the invader language before the translator cut in.
“An announcement. You would be wise to listen and listen well. These are the words of Excellency Count Derzitt Kan Talazeer, who is now in charge of our operation here. Greetings, loyal subjects of Corvos. Be assured that The Domain remains appreciative of your hard work and peaceful conduct. Due to urgent need, it is essential that we increase production within all installations. That will mean a reduction in breaks and an improved yield from every single one of you. We are confident that you will work alongside your supervisors to achieve this improvement.”
Reduction in breaks? Cerrin wasn’t sure even the Vitaari would manage that. Both shifts worked for twelve hours straight with only half an hour for a midday meal and two water breaks. There was barely enough time to get the food or drink down before a siren sounded or some guard shoved you back to where you were supposed to be.
Cerrin had picked up the odd bit of information while working outside the mine with the invaders, but she had never heard of this Count Talazeer. In fact, she didn’t even know what a count was, not that it really mattered. He would be just like all the rest of them.
The governor offered his own words. “I share Count Talazeer’s confidence in you. I am proud of the productive, peaceful record I have established here at Mine Fourteen. With the exception of a few… isolated cases, you have all done well for me. I do not wish to hear complaints or see malingerers at the infirmary. You will work quietly, and you will work well, and we shall all benefit. Now, we are wasting time. The night shift will leave first.”
With a gesture toward his chief guard, the governor stepped down off the pallet and strode away, accompanied by several administrators.
Block A was an enormous cargo container—a hundred feet long and thirty high. Large though it was, it never felt that way with so many inside. Divided into two levels, the forty compartments housed the entire day shift.
Cerrin waited patiently for the queue to clear, then took a last breath of vaguely fresh air and went inside. It took a while for her to reach her ladder, during which time she watched the weary workers cast off their filthy clothes and lie on the rusting metal beds with their thin, holed mattresses. She looked on as a mother and father helped their exhausted son out of his clothes. Cerrin had seen him around; the Vitaari used him to retrieve bits of fungus that got caught in machinery. The lad could barely lift his arms. Considering his work, Cerrin reckoned he was lucky to still have both of them.
Trying to ignore the blisters on her fingers, she gripped the rungs of the narrow metal ladder and climbed up. She shared her compartment with two sisters: Palanians, from the hill country to the far north—a people who seemed convinced that they were somehow better than every other tribe on Corvos. The sisters had long since learned to keep such opinions to themselves and had only made one ill-fated attempt at admonishing Cerrin for encroaching on their half of the cramped space.
They were already under their covers and talking quietly when she crawled to her bed. Once her boots and overalls were off, she pulled her blanket over her and sat back against the wall, just grateful to be still. After a while, she summoned the energy to look out the window she’d made by pulling out a long-dead ventilation unit. It had been a wonderful moment when she realized she could just see over the wall. Some nights she saw moonlight glittering on the river, but tonight there was too much cloud. Only by craning her head could she see the edge of the forest, the endless dark mass that symbolized everything for her: past and future, loss and hope.
The lights inside the block would only be on for a few more minutes. Cerrin reached into the pocket of her overalls and took out the cutting of creeper she had found just outside the mine. She needed something of the earth around her and had cultivated a few plants in little pots filled with soil. She chose only hardy things that could survive without much sunlight. The creeper was the hardiest of them all and needed only a little water. It wasn’t much to look at, but it would grow quickly and she liked the hard, diamond-shaped leaves. Once the cutting was in the pot, she placed it carefully in a corner with the others.
Cerrin then poured herself some water f
rom the yellowing plastic barrel she shared with the sisters. Grimacing at the sour taste, she looked down at her pathetic selection of belongings. Everything she’d had with her when she’d been captured had been taken by the Vitaari and burned. The jacket, boots, and two sets of overalls were standard issue, as were the hygiene kits handed out every month. (One set of overalls had been given to her at the infirmary—to replace those torn and soaked in blood when Stripe had grabbed her). The latrine was in a separate building and—like every man, woman, and child in Fourteen—she was expected to shower on every third day (in under ten minutes). Cerrin closed her eyes and thought again of the Crystal Lake; she would give anything just to see it again.
Somebody rapped on the ladder, and a bald head appeared. “Dukas, for Cerrin.”
“What is it?” she said, though she had a good idea what he would say. Dukas came up another rung so she could see his broad, stupid-looking face. He clearly thought himself some sort of leader, but to Cerrin the Palanian was a weak-minded fool. He would never have been respected by her people. His idea of leadership was telling everyone how best to avoid antagonizing the Vitaari.
“You heard the speech?”
She even hated his accent.
“This Count Talazeer,” continued Dukas. “They say he is bad as any of them. He visited Mine Eight yesterday and overheard a worker say his name. The man was given three jolts—to the head.”
“You better hope there are no informers around, then.”
Dukas leant into the compartment. “There are no informers here because the Vitaari know they don’t need them. I would like us to try and keep it that way.”
“Sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” she lied. “Your accent.”
The sisters were whispering again.
Dukas sighed. “Trying to escape is futile. And now is certainly not the time. You endanger us all.”
She leant back against the wall. “Sorry, didn’t get that either.”