by Mark Henwick
“That’s manifestly not the case with Newyan,” Ivakin points out.
She’s right. Newyan is the most successful of the Margin worlds. It has a population in the millions, a wide diversity of interests, and there are political parties. Or there were, before the Hajnal took over the Equality Party and undermined every other political opinion.
But there was only ever one media channel that people got their information from. That was our weakness.
“It’s not only about Newyan,” Bleyd replies.
“No, we have a huge list of planets accused of being part of this conspiracy with no more ‘proof’ than their inclusion in that list by Xian trading ships,” Ivakin snaps back. “If you were cynical, you’d almost suspect some trade motive on Xian’s part.”
“Our remit is Newyan,” Taha says, stopping a riposte from Bleyd.
“Yes, Newyan.” Ivakin is running off their friendly script now. “Another world oppressed by oligarchs selected by obscure historical family ties, where the people are calling out for democratic systems that will allow them to apply for inclusion into the core of Inner Worlds.”
“So you approve of ‘democratically’ murdering entire families,” I interrupt her. She is sick. I am one of those supposed oligarchs selected because my family was a Founding Family. And the rest of my family was murdered because of their status.
But it’s Bleyd who angrily takes up the thread before Ivakin can respond.
“That is a willful misrepresentation of the political situation that covers a number of the Inner Worlds, including Kernow, and most of the Margin.” He takes an exasperated breath. “All those worlds, including Newyan, were settled not by any governmental effort. Earth lay struggling and exhausted with its burdens, unable to help anyone because it was trying to help everyone. Individuals and groups built and manned the First and Second Expansions. They found and settled planets, terraformed them, made a successes of them.”
“So then they should own those planets forever?”
“They certainly shouldn’t be stolen by murderous groups with the blessing of the Terran Council!” I snap at Ivakin.
Taha stops the conversation again, before it gets any more out of control.
“We know the history. And the Terran Council acknowledges the efforts those worlds made in the Third Expansion and those agreements are enshrined in the Accords.”
Earth and the core Inner Worlds went through a terrible spasm, where billions of people they couldn’t support fled outwards in whatever transports could take them, looking for places to settle. That was the Third Expansion.
Almost all such unplanned and ill-equipped ventures had one hope—that an already settled world would accept them.
But the settled worlds belonged to the people who’d settled them, and those worlds had been chosen to get away from the madness at humanity’s core.
It was a dark time.
Founding Families fought over the policies. Entire systems descended into war and barbarism. The Frontier was born—where the unwanted, the displaced and the desperate fled.
Out of the chaos finally came the Accords. A way for the core’s overpopulation to emigrate out. A way to handle the conflict. An agreement to prevent a flood of unmanageable undesirables.
It wasn’t a treaty so much as articles of understanding, but it recognized the Terran Council and gave them powers through custom and tradition. It codified a structure between Founding Families and immigrants—the Charter of the Accords.
The Accords were a compromise no one believed would work at the time, and yet they had ended the Third Expansion and given humanity centuries of peace, at least in the Inner Worlds and Margin.
And I sit in the conference room, listening to the Terrans and thinking of wind-borne seeds, each seed carrying a full imprint of the source—every good and bad thing all together.
Bleyd is arguing the interpretation of the Accords as it has applied to places like Newyan and Kernow. The Founding Families defined their estates, which remained in their families so long as they wished them to, and these were regarded in law as sovereign nations. The rest of the planet was provided under license to the arrivals, who formed governments and infrastructures for mutual benefit.
“But what if there are no remaining members of the Founding Family to pass the estate to?” Taha asks.
The Charter allows that to vary by planet. On Newyan and Kernow, in that situation, the estates pass to the government.
Which, on Newyan, would also apply if the remaining member is convicted by a properly constituted court of serious crime.
I finally get a glimmer of what the Terrans want. It’s like ice in my chest. They intend to make the theft of Founding Family estates by the Newyan government legitimate. The Terran Council will recognize illegal appropriation of Founding Family assets. That’s their purpose on Newyan. They’ve come here to Kernow first to see if they can gauge my intentions about claiming against Newyan, or to warn me off.
Meanwhile, Bleyd completes his answer to Taha’s question and rises to his feet.
“And I have run out of time,” he says. “So any further clarifications should be sent by message to my adjutant, who is more than capable of answering queries of this nature.”
Taha stands.
Ivakin smiles. “Oh, we may come up with some more, but no doubt we’ll see you at Lady Howriel’s party tomorrow night. We’ve just accepted an invitation to attend. I understand it’s quite something.”
Ndungane looks furious. Even Taha looks embarrassed and mutters about the mission to Newyan looking like a long posting, and taking the opportunity for a last social gathering.
Bleyd shakes his head. “I’m flying to the Delkys Islands tonight,” he says.
He’s about to tell them I won’t be there either, but I’m quicker than him.
“I’ll see you there,” I say to Taha.
At least Gaude will be half pleased.
There seems nothing I can do for Newyan, but there’s no way I’m going to allow the Terrans to foment problems behind Bleyd’s back in Kernow.
Chapter 6
Newyan
One more dead Syndacian. One more of the Goddess’ children to die by her hand.
Kattalin slumps against a tree. She’s sickened at herself, but she’s too exhausted to vomit, too exhausted even to drink from her canteen.
She wants to die. Anything for it to be over. She doesn’t know why she keeps fighting. She doesn’t even know how long it’s been. Two days? Three?
No sooner had she fired her great-grandfather’s rifle for the first time in anger than orders came down from Commander Benat. The plans had changed. They hadn’t been able to get enough separation from the forward units of the Syndacians, and the pass was too wide.
The new plan was for the first line of the ambush to leapfrog back past the other two and dig in to cover, then repeat. As evening fell. In a forest.
It became a living nightmare. She’d been shot at by her own side more than the Syndacians. And rather than being slowed down, the Syndacian skirmish line seemed more on top of them every time she turned around. Only night and the forest had saved Training Company Bravo from being massacred in those first few hours.
Through the next day and night, there had been no pretense of any plan, no semblance of an orderly retreat in phases. The thicker the forest got, the more the lines broke up and lost contact, until the battle degenerated into a confused rolling maul, a scatter of desperate individual fights, long, lung-bursting climbs and descents broken only by moments of sheer kill-or-be-killed terror.
Over the pass, through the next valley, up and up again. Without supplies, without orders, without hope and while death slithered through the forests.
Still, Training Company Bravo fought.
The fourth Syndacian she killed, or maybe it was the fifth, had a pocketful of stim tabs. She chews another every time she feels herself slowing down. The pulse rifle she’s using belonged to the second Syndacian she
killed. Her collection of vintage ammunition for her great-grandfather’s rifle had run low, and she wouldn’t find any more up here.
She has to keep moving. The cooked meat smell of the Syndacian she’s just killed may bring others.
She knows she’s well behind their forward line. She knows that because she’s shot most of her victims in the back. That’s why she’s been successful.
She’s on another steepening slope and the forest seems lighter ahead.
A short climb and she emerges, blinking, into a scene of carnage. Dozens of burned and bloodied Syndacian troops lie dead among shattered, fallen trees.
A minefield? No. Explosives planted in the trees, triggered by someone watching. Followed by devastating fire poured into this narrow section between cliffs.
She can’t remember any plans that suggested that. It would have taken time to prepare.
She had heard firing and explosions in the night, but the forest distorted sounds until she couldn’t tell which way they’d come from.
Here?
What is this place?
At the sides and top of the slope she can see gun emplacements.
Emplacements? A plan for a real ambush here? What about the ambush below she thought she was involved in? Was it no more than part of the lure to get the Syndacians here?
From a dead comrade, she has another scrap of red for safe passage. She pins it to her front and begins the climb. There is no challenge from above. No sound at all but the wind and her labored breath. Nothing stirs but the scavengers, circling above or creeping out of the brooding forests. They will feast today.
She shudders and keeps climbing.
At the top, the emplacements contain actual plasma cannon. Carrying them into this remote place must have taken weeks. They’re useless now. All the charge units’ LEDs are dark, indicating they’re expended. Many have been destroyed.
And when the last cannon had ceased to fire, the line had been overrun.
There are Syndacians who made it through the hell below and lie here, mingled with...
Mingled with the officers of Training Company Bravo.
She’s found the last stand, and in that moment, she realizes that she’s also found Commander Benat.
He’s lying alone, staring at the sky. His chest is a raw mess, but chance has left his handsome face whole.
She collapses onto her knees beside him.
The horror of the battle and the scale of the sacrifice finally hits her then, breaking through the numbness of the stim tabs, and she begins to cry: for her dead commander, for her friends, for herself, and for what she has become.
“But we did it, though, didn’t we, Commander?” The words fall from her lips, between sobs. “We did what they asked us to do. We kept the Syndacians away from Cabezón. The Resistance’s main force will have entered the town. All Newyan must know the truth of the Hajnal by now. Because we did our duty.”
She covers his face with his beret.
“They will build fine statues of you,” she says, wiping at her cheeks. “There will be one in the Plaza Mayor in Cabezón, with your arm lifted, pointing up at the hills. It will tell the story of how you led Training Company Bravo, how raw cadets lured the mercenaries into the forests... how we killed them. How we died, so our planet could be free.”
She knows there must be some shovels here, to dig those emplacements.
“I’ll bury you, Commander,” she says quietly. “Like they build one statue to stand for all of the company, I will bury you in honor of all of us.”
There will be more Syndacians than have died here. They will come, and find her, and kill her. She doesn’t care.
I have embraced my death. Only my duty remains.
She’s completed her duty. Surely? Please, Goddess. Once she buries him, there’s no reason to go on any more. She senses the spirits of Training Company Bravo gathering around her, waiting for the moment she will join them.
One last task.
But as she rises to find a shovel, she hears a cough, and among the bodies she finds Lieutenant Ohana alive.
The side of Ohana’s face has been burned and hastily bandaged. One eye remains, but it is dull. Her leg has been sealed in stabilizing foam.
“Don’t bury him.” Ohana’s voice is weak but clear.
Kat is shocked, but before she can speak, Ohana hurries on.
“Hush, Kat. Listen to me. He wouldn’t have wanted it.”
Ohana pulls herself upright painfully. “Look!” she says, pointing up.
Kat looks. The sky is a great dark spinning-wheel of scavenging birds.
“We called the Goddess.” Ohana coughs and spits. It’s bright with blood. She looks at it indifferently and closes her eye as if to sleep.
“Not in Her gentle aspect,” she says. “For She is in all things and everywhere, even in War. Benat knew this. We called and She answered. This, too, is Her work, and those gathering around us are Her children. It’s right our bodies remain as offerings to Her.”
Ohana clears her throat and spits again. “You must go.”
“No! Ohana, I swore an oath. I have embraced—”
“Stop that and listen to me, child!” Color returns to Ohana’s face, and her eye clears a little. “Yes, all of you did your duty. Now I absolve you of your oath. Go! Run, before the Syndacians come. Be our witness. Someone must live. Someone must tell what happened here.”
“All Newyan knows by now, Ohana. We diverted the Syndacians and the main force—”
“Shut up! Shut up!” A paroxysm of coughing brings more blood.
Kat holds out the canteen and Ohana takes a sip, refuses more.
“Benat’s step-brother worked for the Hajnal,” she says.
What?
Kat worries the woman is becoming delirious. She’s had medical training, but not for serious head injuries.
“From him, our spy, we knew. You were all, every one of you, every cadet we recruited, on their lists. All declared Enemies of the State. A conviction that allows no recourse to any court. No hope.”
She coughs again. It’s weaker now.
“You should rest, I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing for me, Kat.” She shakes her head. “Except listen. I loved you all, like you were my own children. I thought that my love gave me a right to choose for you. That was terrible hubris. Only the Goddess has a heart so deep and pure, a vision so clear.” She sighs. “You were all due to be executed. All we did...”
Her voice fades. Her remaining eye swims in tears and she scrubs them angrily away, smearing dirt on her cheeks. “All we did was delay it.”
Kat knows that a head injury can confuse you. They didn’t just delay things, the officers of the company are all heroes, and it feels important she keep reminding Ohana.
“No. What you and Benat did was strike the blow that will win Newyan—”
“It won nothing, child. Nothing!” Her voices catches and trembles, then strengthens again. “We wanted to keep you safe out here in the wilds until the Terrans arrived. But they’re not coming, Kat. They’re not coming.”
Kat rocks back in shock.
“But they must come!” she says, then anger boils in her, driving everything else out. “Or not. We will do it ourselves. Newyan will rise behind the Resistance. The High Command will—”
“Oh, my poor Kat,” Ohana’s shoulders heave with sobs and she shakes her head again. “There is no Resistance. There is no High Command. There was no main force poised to march into Cabezón and start an uprising. There was never anyone else, not even a Training Company Alpha. There was just us. Training Company Bravo. We made up the name, Benat and I.”
“But...”
“We just wanted to keep you safe. Then, when we learned the Terrans weren’t coming, what could we do? Tell you we’d been lying about the Resistance and send you back to the cities where the Hajnal would execute you?”
Tears roll unchecked down her cheeks now.
“Goddess forgive us. We t
hought there might be a slim chance that news of your sacrifice would leak out to others and make them question the government. That was the best we could do for the rest of Newyan. For you, we gave you the only thing we thought we could. A way to die well. A cause. A chance to die under Newyan’s bright sky, with hope in your heart, not despair. Hope.”
Kat cannot speak. Her world has torn itself apart.
“But it was a false hope, and you didn’t die, so now you must live.” Ohana pats her clumsily. “There are places you can go. While we were a group, we were a threat and they had to chase us. But if there are just a few of you left, and you go deep into the wilderness, they won’t bother to follow. Live. And when you can, bear witness.”
She struggles up onto her feet, using the immobilization casing on her leg to balance herself.
“Go now,” she says. “Take supplies and go. Head to the high plains. Better old ghosts than new ones.”
Kat opens her mouth to refuse when a sound reaches their ears.
An aircraft, still many kilometers away, flying low over the forest. She can just see it, a tiny glint of light as it turns. Again. It is flying a pattern of long sweeps over the thick forest. Searching.
“They’re coming.” Ohana picks up a plasma rifle from a dead Syndacian. “Go now. I’ll delay them. Run and hide, girl. Run where they will not follow. Hide where they will not look. The Goddess of Mercy guide your steps and hold you in Her hands, Kattalin Espe Aguirre.”
Chapter 7
Kernow
After a curt farewell to the Terrans, Bleyd leaves immediately to get to the airfield while I wait impatiently for Hwa.
There’s a coldness in me that won’t go away, and my grandfather won’t go back to sleep now.
If you won’t fight for it, you don’t deserve it, he says.
The odds are stacked against me. I can’t fight the Terran Council.