Kelbee felt a sickening lurch in her stomach.
The cheering started in patches and grew to an all-enveloping roar as the head of the parade came into view. Marines in crisp white uniforms, each in perfect time, rifles held slanted over shoulders, peaked caps pulled down low over their eyes. The other wives were cheering and Kelbee joined in, though she felt like a bird was trying to escape from her chest. They filed past, the red and blue of their armbands stark against the glaring white of their dress jackets. Every dozen or so ranks came bannermen holding gilded regimental crests high above their heads. They all looked so similar, right down to their severely cut hair; all the same height, stern eyes fixed on the man in front. Something about the precise, pendulum-like swinging of those hundreds of arms moving up and down in time made her feel even more nauseated. She swallowed hard.
Following the last row of Marines was a slow-moving skimmer-car carrying a colonel in an elaborate white-and-gold uniform. He held himself steady on a raised handrail and every so often the other arm would flash up in a salute to the crowd, though Kelbee wondered if it was to stop his large round hat from blowing off. As he came closer, she saw that his eyes were bored. Seated around him were his staff members, captains and majors with stern expressions. She wondered how it felt to be there, riding through all that noise. Not one of them looked like they were enjoying a single minute.
Kelbee rubbed at her aching eyes, hoping it would appear as if she were overcome by emotion and not simply tired and irritable. Her vision fogged for a moment, and when it returned it was to a pair of huge, dark eyes staring at her, great black pools of depthless nothing. She tensed, her breath stolen. It took her a heartbeat to realise it was only the screen mounted on the other side of the street. It had been nothing but a dulled mirror but was now filled with a close-up shot of the Venerated Guide herself; as the view pulled out it showed the tall, elegant, bald woman standing in an ornate box, surrounded by generals. She raised a gloved hand in casual salute and the soldiers marching past responded, hands flashing up in salute, never missing a step. The Guide’s face was impassive, her mouth a thin, pale line. The stillness in her shoulders, her height, commanded those around her into subservience – the Seeker’s chosen representative, commander of His armies and holder of His sacred trust. Kelbee wondered what it would be like to meet that adamant gaze in person and shuddered.
She took a breath. For a moment, she could have sworn those bottomless eyes had bored into her, seeing everything she had to hide.
Pull yourself together.
After the Marines came the infantry in night-black fatigues. Their timing was different, their feet moving two steps for every beat. They seemed to bob up and down on the spot, the tramp-tramp of their boots cracking on the road. Women cried out as they spotted husbands, brothers, uncles.
Kelbee’s legs throbbed with fatigue; she wondered how long it would take for the mechanised divisions to make it this far, her husband with them. The sudden thought of him made her stomach lurch again, and the rolling stamp of boots on the avenue rumbled right through her, shaking her inside. The cheers of the crowd assaulted her; the heat was like a physical weight. She shut her eyes for a moment, feeling the vibrations through her eyelids, then forced herself to open them again. She knew she couldn’t risk missing something important. She had a duty to observe. And in the centre of this crush of bodies and noise and heat, she herself was being watched.
The infantry battalions tramped past, and in their wake came war-walkers, each one towering ten metres above the road. Their heavy gun-arms were hung with yellow garlands and the pilots’ heads poked out of the open cockpits between the machines’ hunched metal shoulders. Their legs were reversed like those of a larg and as each heavy foot fell the ground trembled. There were gasps amid the cheers and as the hulking machines came closer Kelbee caught the sharpness of burning fuel and the growling of engines. Pebbles popped under massive metal feet; each step brought a whine as servos fought to keep the lurching tons of metal upright. As they drew level with her, she felt a rise in her throat and that terrible, uncontrollable tightness in her jaw that told her she had only moments before it happened.
She pushed past her neighbours and bolted for the steps; just before she reached them an older woman with mousy hair took a step backwards into her path. Kelbee bounced off the woman’s shoulder, her momentum carrying her on towards the metal stairs that led down the side of the bleachers. She heard the woman give a surprised gasp, but she was already headlong down the steps, her hand clamped over her mouth.
There was a guard on the gate, facing away. Before he could turn she’d ducked under the metal frame of the stand. Underneath, the light came through in dusty beams. The noise from outside was muted. Ordered, well-mannered rows of ankles and heels stared back at her and the air was musty. At the back was a corner with enough room to stand, but her legs gave out and she had to cling to a pole, the metal cold against her palm. There was a great roar from the crowd outside, and then she vomited.
There was mud on her skirts, a dark brown stain on the pale yellow. Her throat felt raw and her stomach felt like she’d been kicked. She stepped away from the foul puddle and sat on her haunches, gasping. Thank the Seeker she’d managed to keep her hair out of the way, and her sash. Through blocked, burning nostrils the stink of metal polish reached up and made her retch again. Outside the parade boomed and trumpeted but all she saw were snatched, washed-out splinters between the steps. She waited for a swell in the drumming and bugle calls to cover the sound of her clearing her nose.
Her dress was stained. Her hair was a mess. She thought of the looks of disapproval she’d get if she climbed the stands to take her place. To do so would be to bring shame on the man she was there to represent – better to risk her absence being noticed than to endure that.
Two hours under the stands felt like a lifetime, until the last troops filed past and the music began to die down. The ankles began to shuffle. Kelbee pushed through the covers at the back of her hiding place and into the open air, then rounded the corner and joined the throng leaving the enclosure, knowing that to pause for an instant would be noticed. A woman walking alongside brushed against her as they went through the gate; a throat cleared. She looked over and saw the mousy-haired woman she’d knocked into. Older, with eyes that looked tired but kind. Kelbee smiled at her, a mute apology.
The woman smiled back. She took her arm as if they were old friends out for a stroll. A little further on, still pressed by the crowd, she leaned in close and spoke.
‘Always takes me by surprise too, the sickness.’ She winked. ‘Gets you at the worst possible time, doesn’t it?’
Kelbee did her best to keep a straight face. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
The older woman covered her smile with a theatrical hand. ‘Oh my! My dear, you don’t, do you? This must be your first then?’
Kelbee shook her head. ‘No, I’m not… I just felt… that’s not what it was.’
The woman patted her hand. ‘You can’t fool me. I’d know that look anywhere. What a wonderful thing to happen, and on such an auspicious day! He’ll be delighted.’ She gave Kelbee a conspiratorial look. ‘They always are, you know. Strong men in their uniforms and medals, they go to mush when they hear they’re about to be fathers.’
* * *
The Major came home in the late evening, well after Ras had passed behind the Tower and below the horizon. Kelbee heard his heels clicking off the polished stone of the corridor outside the apartment before he opened the door. She was ready to greet him as he came in, head bowed. He didn’t acknowledge her as he walked past, tossing his hat off to one side. He walked straight to the living area and sank into his favourite easy chair with a sigh. Still without looking at her, he held out a leg for her to pull off a boot, then the other.
‘Bring food. It’s been a long day.’
‘Your supper is ready, sir.’
He undid his high collar and let it droop open. It was his mo
st formal dress uniform: a black jacket that hung past his waist and was gathered by a wide stable belt, the round embossed buckle polished to a high sheen. The puffed black trousers were split by a thin red line running down the side of each leg to the knee, where they met the top of the high boots. She’d bulled those boots for hours, applying the polish in layers and alternating between brush and cloth until she could see her own face staring back at her – now they were speckled with grime from the parade, grease and dirt dulling the leather. She realised that she’d not seen him pass by with his unit and her breath caught in her throat. What had he looked like? Had he been riding with the head of his regiment? What if he asked? She tried to compose her face, but he saw her hesitation.
‘What is it?’ He sounded more tired than irritated.
‘Nothing, sir. I found some palma-bean at the market, the kind you like. And strip steak.’
‘Bring me beer first.’
Kelbee went to the kitchen to get a bottle of the brown brew the Major liked. As she flicked open the cap, she caught a glimpse of the Tower outside the window. It sparkled against the darkness with the lights from a thousand windows.
Nebn was out there. Eating, drinking, sleeping. Perhaps with a wife of his own, perhaps alone in the secret place they went to be together. She knew so little about him, despite knowing so much.
‘Sky, woman! Stop your daydreaming.’ The edge had returned.
‘Sorry, sir. Coming.’ She returned to him and poured his beer into a tall glass. As the brew frothed up to the lip, the question finally came.
‘How did you enjoy the parade?’
‘It was magnificent.’ The words fell from her like water. ‘How inspiring, to see all the soldiers all lined up like that, going past.’ She thanked the Seeker for not letting her voice tremble. ‘I thought you were wonderful, sir. So handsome.’
He seemed content, even smiled a thin smile. He took the tall glass, draining most of it in one long pull. He nodded, eyes fixed on the tapestry that covered the far wall. ‘A great day. Good to remind the people who looks after them.’
‘We are very lucky, sir. I’m very lucky to have you. I mean… to be with you.’
‘Mmm.’ He took another sip of the beer, then leaned back, closing his eyes. He looked weary, the bones of his face sharp under his skin. After a moment of dead silence, his dark-ringed eyes opened again.
‘I was promoted this morning,’ he said. ‘I am to be a lance colonel of the Intelligence Division.’ His voice was flat.
‘Wonderful news, sir, wonderful. You must feel so proud.’
‘Yes. I suppose it’s… still to sink in.’
‘You’ve worked hard, sir. You deserve your reward.’
He drank his beer. ‘You don’t have any conception of hard work.’
The rim of the glass was half in his mouth. Kelbee wondered what it would feel like to hit the back of his head, saw a ghost of herself do it: one moment, just a little sharp push and there it would be. Maybe his lips would get caught between teeth and glass? Would it shatter? Would he bleed?
He seemed irritated with himself, but still didn’t look at her. ‘That was unnecessary of me. It’s been a long, tiring day. I’ll eat now.’
The meal passed in silence. The darkly sauced steak was his favourite and hers. In the early days, when she still hoped affection might grow, this little bit of common ground seemed the key to more between them, a doorway to things other than brief comings and goings that bookended the day, brusque words and rough, dismissive sex. She’d hoped marinated pieces of meat might be the way in to a loving marriage, but he’d barely responded when she’d told him of her liking for it. She was so new to it all, still young, and had cried without knowing why. That was the very first time he slapped her.
When he was done she took the plates away while he finished another beer at the table. Something had changed in the air: she could feel his eyes on her as she cleaned the dishes in the sink. When she returned to gather the place mats, he took her by the sleeve. It was a firm grip, meant to hold her in place.
‘This means you won’t be able to work any more. You will have other duties.’ He reached up and stroked a single finger along her hair, pensive.
‘If it’s what you want, sir, of course.’
‘And, in time, we’ll have better than this place.’ His hand travelled down to the swell of her breast. She could feel the cold from the beer glass through the material of her dress. Could he feel her heart pounding like it might break free? She battled to keep herself still.
His fingers circled, cupped. Her stomach squeezed like a knot. ‘A man of my rank should have a family.’
‘I wish I could give you it, sir, more than anything.’ The lie came easy. After all this time, was it not obvious there was no chance?
What if it’s true? What if the old woman was right? Will he know? After so long trying, he’ll guess it’s not his. The thought made her stomach tighten, and her vision blurred at the edges.
The Major didn’t notice her discomfort – she could smell the arousal on him.
‘Here.’ He nodded to the table.
‘Sir?’
‘I want you here.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Now,’ his voice was choked. He was on his feet and spun her to face the table before she could move. He crushed close, near enough to swamp her with hot breath.
‘I… don’t think we should… make a mess,’ she said, every muscle in her body taut as wire.
In response he pushed her forwards over the table; her foot slipped and she banged down hard, her face barely missing his empty glass.
The Major didn’t notice the slip, instead held her down by the neck. The wood was rough against her cheek as he scrabbled with his belt, then with her dress, pulling it up over her hips. Her eyes stung, her throat was dry, and she could see herself reflected in the surface of the toppled glass, eyes and mouth distorted. His breathing became louder and his buckle clanged as it hit the floor; then she felt him probing, seeking her out, felt him pressing up against her, a coarse, dry invader, then out of nowhere the words exploded from her.
‘There’s a child!’
He froze. He was so still she dared to hope that he’d died on the spot.
‘What did you say?’ he grunted, his voice still thick.
‘I’m already pregnant.’
His breath rattled in his throat. Then she felt him pull away. The sound of his belt being buckled. She didn’t dare turn around.
‘Why didn’t you… When did you…’
‘I wanted to surprise you, after I’d been to the medicos. I felt the sickness this morning at the parade.’
He was silent. She stayed where she was, feeling the moment stretch thin between them.
Then, his hand on her shoulder, like a pat of encouragement for a favourite larg. No words followed.
Then it was gone, and he was gone, shuffling into the bedroom.
She waited until she heard the door close before she dared to stand. She straightened her clothes, wiping away the moisture that had run down her cheeks. Her breathing was as rough as his had been; she closed her eyes until she felt herself unwind like a coiled spring. She let the tears come.
She touched her belly, thanking the flicker of life inside her. Through her tears, she found herself smiling at the absurdity of it. Then her heart sank again.
What will he do if he finds out?
The Field
Green and yellow from trees in full Bask leaf – a light breeze that brushes the branches and makes them whisper to one another. Aquamarine sky, whitening at the edges of his vision, the brightness contracting his pupils and causing him to squint, washing out the world as though bleached.
Grass smelling of pepper and hay, long and uncut, with a sweetness from wild flowers that speckle the open ground.
Iron and copper of the blood-stench from the body. The funk of bowels loosened by a bullet.
Gun smoke, raw and piquant.
; The corpse lies face down, legs outside the rim of the crater with its trunk following the incline down into the hollow. An old crater from another war, furred with short, scrubby grass, perhaps two metres in diameter. Blood from the shattered skull has pooled at the bottom, a berry-dark soup flecked with white fragments of bone. The smoke from his sidearm has coiled away to nothing, leaving just the ghost of its scent hanging between him and the dead man. Soldiers – his men – shift behind him, appalled yet glad that it is over. Their relief is a thing of mass in the air at his back. Relief that it had been him, their colonel – not them – to stamp finality on that twisted man with the sharp retort of hammer igniting powder. The tongue that had sent their friends to die, that had condemned them all too, was still.
He realises it had to have been him. The sorry story was of his own making.
* * *
The Commissar had been new to the regiment: one of a new wave of political officers brought in to ensure seeds of sedition did not take root. This one was ambitious, connected, an idealist – he claimed his authority from the Venerable Guide herself, bypassing the chain of command.
Lists of prohibited materials were circulated, weekly ‘briefings’ set up: mandatory two-hour reminders of the Hegemony’s might and of the dangers of enemy propaganda. The disaffected and petty-minded that were the boils on any regiment were seduced by calls for ‘right-thinking men to help promote purity’. Given new uniforms and badges, they strutted about settling minor slights and old disputes with the weight of their new authority.
At first, the headquarters staff ignored the Commissar and his growing band; just an upstart, a flash-in-the-pan inconvenience. If he became a real problem, he could be burned out easily enough.
While they turned a blind eye, he burrowed deep into the flesh of the regiment.
The first summary execution had been of a young private, barely out of his teens, seen by an informant reading a book that was on the list of banned texts. He protested his innocence; his sergeant stepped in, told the club-wielding mob the matter would be dealt with within the squad, as such things always were. It was the right thing to do.
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