“The majority of Buird’s task force made it out alive,” Austere went on, “but when Buird himself saw what happened to you, he dove to recover your unconscious body. He managed to get you onboard shuttle three, but, on his way back up, he was exposed and alone.” He leaned forward and the beige splotch of his face filled my sight. “Commander Lechatelierite, he never came home. We have reason to believe he was also taken by the underwater fire.”
All the air disappeared from my lungs. I felt as though smacked by a thousand gallons of icy seawater, without a diving suit. Inexor, my second, my right-hand man, my best friend, was dead. Because he saved my life. Building in my eyes and throat was a sensation I hadn’t felt since I was six; I almost didn’t recognize what it was. No. I couldn’t cry. Especially not in front of the Colonel. Had to prevent it. I closed my eyes.
Austere then called in Dr. Calibre, who proceeded to tell me I was expected to make a full recovery within an age, upon which I would return to the battlefield. Diving suit scorched by the underwater fire, my body suffered excessive water-pressure. I also had a concussion when debris from the exploding crystalline knocked into my helmet. My paralysis, vision loss and internal organ damage were all severe but treatable. Over the course of the next age, I would undergo multiple major surgeries, laser eye surgery and intensive physical therapy. I would stay on intravenous nutrition until my digestive system recuperated enough to function on its own. And, I would wear one of those thin, silver ‘visual reparation bands’ across my eyes whenever possible, so my sight wouldn’t eventually deteriorate into total blindness.
The doctor kept talking but, by now, I’d stopped listening. All I could think about was Inexor. Dead. I didn’t deserve to regain my strength and keep my rank. I didn’t deserve to lie in a warm, forty-degree hospital on the mend while Inexor was nothing but frozen ashes swirling in the sea. It was me, not the men I lead into combat unprepared, who deserved to burn at the hand of the Conflagrian enemy.
It was I who deserved to die.
Scarlet July
Since arriving in Nuria, I tended to keep to the southeastern cities, because they were warmer and because my train station was in Alcove City. But, this search pushed me out of my comfort zone. Over the past month, I rode trains to different towns, working my way northwest. In each city, I’d find the tallest skyscraper and use my hair to climb to the top balcony or even the roof itself. From there, I’d zoom out my eyesight as far as possible and scan the skyline, building by building. I prevented onlookers from spotting me by reaching through the spectral web into the internal mechanisms of their eyes, temporarily destroying their visual perceptions of me. Broad-range invisibility was one of my more strenuous magical abilities. But, it was worth it, in the end: on September seventh, after twenty-five days of diligent observation, I spotted a large but secluded facility that could very well be a military base. A military base on Nurian soil. It was at the northwestern shore. I memorized the way there from the place I now stood—the roof of a seven-hundred-story building.
I spent the rest of the day walking there. When I arrived, I saw a guard stationed at the tall, iron gate. Yes, just one. I laughed silently to myself. Nuria was obviously very new to the military world. I edited myself from sight and clambered over the gate. I entered the main facility at the first possible opportunity—when another guard emerged from inside to swap places with the original. I followed an attendant pushing a beverage cart to what appeared to be a conference hall. And, I slipped in moments before the door snapped shut.
A meeting was well underway; the attendant got to work refilling empty mugs and glasses. I stood nervously at the corner of the room and surveyed the men around the table, nearly falling through the floor at the sight of the President of Nuria himself, Mr. Georgen Winster Briggesh. As for the rest of the men, about half wore charcoal suits and multi-colored ties while the other half wore white, black or blue uniforms decorated with pins, bands and cords. Government officials and military personnel.
I watched in amazement as a small, pale-faced, wheelchair-bound, white-suited, very-heavily-decorated, angry man who must’ve been three or four decades younger than those around him spoke a strange tongue with astounding ferocity and exuberance. While he railed, a Nurian translation scrolled on the screen at the front of the room, typed by a woman sitting at the far end of the long table. But, after listening to his rapid speech for nearly twenty straight minutes, I didn’t need the translation anymore; I’d adapted to the patterns and sounds of his language. Just as with Nurtic and Ecivon at the National Library five ages ago, I breathed in a foreign tongue. I could now understand most of what he was saying.
“Yes, sir, it is economically feasible for us to accelerate our export rate, supplying your nation with the resources necessary to continue your war,” President Briggesh answered the small, angry officer, in Nurian. “And, indeed, we were happy to build this facility for your use. But, Nuria has only agreed to all of this as a precaution, because of our proximity to the parties involved in the conflict. You must understand, we have no reason to engage your enemy ourselves, Commander Lechatelierite. They never threatened us. So, to answer your final question, no, we will not allow our citizens to enlist in your military. Your nation was expelled from the Second Earth Order upon engaging in the forbidden act of war. If we are caught forging an alliance with a blacklisted nation, we will meet the same tragic fate.”
Oh, Tincture, there was so much I could draw from his words. Nuria wasn’t involved in the actual combat. It only agreed to accelerate its export rate to the warring state—North Ichthyosis, of course, the only country Nuria was permitted to trade independently with, outside of the Second Earth Order’s rationing network. But, who were the Ichthyothians fighting and why?
The small man in the wheelchair was an Ichthyothian military commander called Lechatelierite. That name was familiar. I’d read about a stowaway on a ship captained by a Terminus Lechatelierite. But, Terminus lived over half an era ago, so this young soldier obviously wasn’t the same person. His grandson or great-grandson, perhaps?
Lechatelierite slammed his fist on the table, and I jumped. “Sir, if Ichthyosis loses the war and is conquered, our enemy will have you surrounded from both north and south. And, without a military of your own to protect yourself, you are a perfect, next target. Their imperialism of my nation will be the death sentence of yours, as well. Unless, of course, we join forces, immediately.” Lechatelierite said in one swift breath.
I was amazed at how a boy who looked only an age or two older than me could speak with such authority among high government officials and military officers decades his senior. His tone was strikingly persuasive and piercing—almost hypnotizing, like that of a throat mage. The young commander was full of righteous anger and energy that reminded of…well, myself. But, his loud confidence didn’t seem to fit his physical state. Wheelchair-bound and hooked up to IVs, he was small and thin and deathly pale.
He also had a sharp jaw, high cheekbones, thick, tousled hair and crystal-clear, penetrating, silver-grey eyes. I would’ve found him attractive…if it weren’t for the frightening scowl permanently carved into his stern face.
“The Alliance can easily be concealed from the Order,” Lechatelierite continued, voice so slick and compelling, it made me wonder why the others weren’t already shaking his hand and asking where to sign. Perhaps the Nurians were immune to his hypnotic tone because they couldn’t understand him and had to rely on the typed translation, instead. “Ichthyosis managed to mask the First War for ages, without a problem, enabling our nation to retain its membership. Ichthyosis was expelled only upon the onset of the Second War with the same enemy, fifteen ages ago. We’ve learned a lot from our mistakes in the seventy-seventh age and are better prepared to take every precaution necessary to assure complete secrecy from the Order.”
Two wars? I stared at Lechatelierite’s fierce face in shock. And, the second had been going on as long as I’d been alive?
Del
iberations went on and on after that, until Lechatelierite finally won. Right then and there, the men edited and ratified a document the young commander had brought with him: ‘The Nurro-Ichthyothian Second War Pact of the 92nd Age.’ Nurian enlistments would start tomorrow, with the goal of deploying joint troops by the following summer. Things were moving remarkably fast.
To no one’s knowledge but my own, I was actually present during Nuria’s very first declaration of war.
I watched as everyone lined up to sign. The primary author went first; Diving Commander Cease Lechatelierite, Leader of the Ichthyothian Resistance was sprawled in fine, angular cursive. Cease Lechatelierite. It sounded like archaic Nurian. ‘Lechatelierite.’ Crystal. ‘Cease.’ End. End of the crystal. Crystal’s end. I found it oddly beautiful. Poetic. And, strange.
The meeting adjourned and everyone began filtering out the door, passing within a foot or so of me. I stood perfectly still, tense and nervous. Several pairs of eyes blindly slid right across my body. Then came Lechatelierite’s wheelchair.
He paused.
Oh, Tincture. I could hear my heart drum loudly against my ribcage. Lechatelierite turned his head, face set, eyes tracking about. And, he looked right at my face. No way. I held my breath. He couldn’t see me. It was impossible!
And, then, he turned away, wheeled himself right up to President Briggesh and solemnly shook his hand. I exhaled.
“Thank you, sir; Ichthyosis won’t let Nuria down,” the Commander said in a sure but not over-confident voice.
He was such a master of tone. He knew how to manipulate the subtle inflections in his voice to sound convincing, pleading, authoritative, inflamed—you name it, he could do it, abruptly and effortlessly. This man was dangerous. I also noticed he was speaking Nurian, now. But, his Ichthyothian accent was so strong, I understood why he opted for the translator earlier, even if he was technically bilingual.
“With Nuria at our side,” he declared, “I believe an end is now in sight, for the Second Ichthyo-Conflagrian War.”
With that, my stomach disappeared.
Conflagria.
At war.
For the second time.
Before Lechatelierite’s wheelchair could pass in front of me, I turned and fled the room.
Scarlet July
Evening fell, and I didn’t have the strength to start heading back to Alcove City. But, I couldn’t sleep either. I found a payphone and sacrificed a couple coins to call Eval to let him know I wasn’t feeling well enough to come into work tomorrow. That much was true. I was sick. With knowledge.
I passed the night on the roof of a random office-building, staring off into the distance, the sixty-degree September wind tossing my hair and cooling my stinging eyes. The starry night blended with the glittering skyline. I was so high up, I was untouched by the city noise. The view was peaceful and serene. I wished I could say the same about my heart.
I didn’t know what to do. Originally, I’d set off in search of Nurian military presence with the intent to gather whatever information needed to get involved in the war effort. I thought I’d finally found a purpose for my spectral talents. Moreover, a purpose for my life. I was prepared to devote myself to defending my adoptive homeland.
But, then, Conflagria entered the picture. Conflagria had secretly been at war for as long as I’d been alive. How come the mage population was ignorant about both the First and Second Wars? And, what could a magical, medieval, desert-land ever hope to gain from a tiny, tech-dependent, arctic island?
Lechatelierite spoke of imperialism. Of course, what else could a totalitarian government want but more land and people to control? And, what better target was there than a country so geographically isolated, small and fragile? A country with a carrying capacity of nearly zero, on its own? Who lacked membership in the Order and thus had no known support-system? Ichthyosis was ripe for the taking. The System probably figured Ichthyosis would likely lose if the war just dragged on long enough, simply because it’d run out of resources. Conflagria wasn’t exactly fertile, but it was a wonderland compared to Ichthyosis. Perhaps a superpower like Nuria could sustain a conflict for some time without the Order’s rations, but Ichthyosis surely couldn’t.
President Briggesh initially objected to an alliance because of the risk of blacklisting. By forging a secret pact, Nuria was now engaged in an international conspiracy. The System knew it was unlikely Ichthyosis would gain support because of the Isolationist Laws. No one in their right mind would risk being cut off from the global trade network. But, then, Lechatelierite entered the picture. Lechatelierite, with his brilliance and remarkable powers of persuasion. With the compelling voice of a throat mage and the authoritative presence of one who’d been in command far longer than was possible, considering he looked like a teenager. He did what the System couldn’t possibly anticipate; he single-handedly persuaded a formidable nation to risk everything for his people.
If Conflagria won the war, it’d gain jurisdiction over both northern and southern territory, making it the furthest-reaching nation on the map. Nuria and Oriya would be completely surrounded. Obviously, Conflagria’s ultimate goal was to swallow the entire northwesternhemisphere.
Conflagria was the bad guy, here. The offender. All Ichthyosis was doing was defending itself from imperialism.
No, that wasn’t right. The Conflagrians themselves didn’t choose this war. My mouth tasted bitter. They were ignorant. They didn’t know the reason for the shortages of fire, food and magic. They didn’t know the war was to blame for the depression they were suffering. The depression that harried the ‘termination’ of ‘Useless’ lives. It was the System, not Conflagria, who wanted to conquer Ichthyosis. The Conflagrians were innocent. How could I join a war against a land of innocent people? My people?
But, on the other hand, how could I just sit back and let my magic go to waste when an evil, power-hungry dictatorship was marauding around the northwestern hemisphere, seeking to oppress more lives? My spectrum and my inside knowledge of Conflagria could provide the Nurro-Ichthyothian Alliance with an invaluable advantage. I could be a great asset and source of intel. And, there was always the possibility that, in the process of helping the Nordics, I could make them understand the distinction between the innocent, ignorant, Conflagrian people and the evil, malicious System. I could teach them that what Conflagria needed wasn’t annihilation, but liberation.
* * *
I attempted to run my fingers through my wiry hair. Today, I was going to enlist. Overnight, the war effort became public knowledge. Ichthyosis had prepared a seven-month training program—October through May—for the Nurian recruits, to be held at none other than the base I’d snuck into. In May, the recruits would deploy overseas to join their Ichthyothian counterparts, where they would train until August, before entering the war.
The Nurro-Ichthyothian Military was trilateral. Applicants didn’t get to decide which branch to enter; that was determined by a battery of physical and mental aptitude tests. The possibilities included the Air Force, Ground Troops and Diving Fleet.
New technology was on the horizon for the Diving Fleet. New, smaller ‘vitreous silica’ ships were designed to fly both in the air and underwater. Until now, vitreous silicas were built either as subs or planes. The revolutionary, convertible ships were being introduced into the fleet now, requiring quite a range of skill from their pilots. Not to mention, divers had to be expert swimmers and skilled at hand-to-hand combat, both underwater and on foot. The Diving Fleet was the smallest and most elite branch of the military—the core of the Ichthyothian Resistance.
I wanted to be a diver, but not just because they were the best of the best. I wanted to serve under Commander Cease Lechatelierite. Specifically. I was impressed by what I saw of him at the meeting. I wanted to learn from him. Moreover, there was something about him I was drawn to, something I trusted. I sensed that, of all the authorities in the military, he’d be the one willing to hear me out and come to understand the dist
inction between the System and the Conflagrian people. And, when the time was right, I wanted him to be the first person I’d reveal my magehood to. With his brilliance, I believed he’d figure how to best use my unique talents. With my magic and inside knowledge of mage culture and society, I could be a powerful weapon for Ichthyosis. And, I believed I could make the greatest impact on this war if Lechatelierite was the one wielding that weapon.
I stood in line now, in the cafeteria of Bay River Secondary—the massive, public high school that serviced most of Alcove City. All too soon, my turn came. A middle-aged Ichthyothian man in white, military dress began speaking and gathering paperwork without actually looking at me.
“…And, general information for sections ‘A’ through ‘C,’” he was spewing. “’D’ and ‘E’ are security questions; be sure to initial each box by the—” When he lifted his head to hand me the forms, his voice went dead. He scrunched his grey-speckled eyebrows.
“Only graduating seniors may apply,” he said, flatly. Nuria’s age-round school system put graduation in the middle of September. Next week. Colleges around here got started the first week of October, with winter break in February. The military academies were supposed to start up October seventh.
“I am,” I lied.
He blinked. “You don’t look like a senior.”
It was true. I didn’t even look my age. What grade would I’ve been anyway, if I attended public school? Ninth? Tenth? I stared solemnly back at him.
He folded his arms. “There are certain physical requirements, as well. The military is hardly the place for a little girl.”
Little girl! My eyes grew hot. I closed them and took a deep breath. Must. Not. Roast. Recruitment. Officer.
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