Sufficed to say, the place was loud. And round. The Citadel Spaceport was a series of interconnecting rings, a dozen stories tall – the Command & Control tower in the middle was easily three times that, though – and sprawled across nearly ten square kilometres. Tens of thousands of people worked here, supporting many times that number of visitors and passengers. The Spaceport was responsible for both passengers and freight – Bastion wasn’t a farming world, but it did have a strong manufacturing base thanks to the abundant resources in the system, meaning that, at any given time, massive freighters were loading – or unloading – cargo, and that never happened quietly.
“New to Bastion?”
Mackenzie stopped midstride, glancing to his right. A lithe, translucent holographic woman flickered next to an umber support beam, its gaze levelled directly at him.
“Yes,” he said, intrigued, and unsure if the hologram at been talking to him.
“Your virtual-array indicates your point of origin is from the Resettlement Camp on Titus IV,” the hologram continued. “I have been programmed to help anyone seeking to resettle here.”
“How many refugees have come here?”
“The Bastion Government has accepted approximately eight hundred thousand individuals from Resettlement Camps in the past sixteen months. Per the agreement with the Commonwealth Government, there are no plans to accept additional migrants at this time.”
“I see.” He paused, thinking about his immediate needs. “I need a place to stay.”
“There are approximately 217 short-term hotels located within the Citadel,” the hologram announced, and as she spoke his virtual-vision flashed to life with a map, various places flashing a dull red against the neon-blue of the city. “There are 144 medium or long-term hotels. Appended to this list is a compilation of various institutions that can help you find more permanent accommodations, as well as education and employment opportunities.”
Mackenzie spent long minutes trawling through the lists – sometimes relying on his VA to narrate, as his reading skills weren’t all that great. Mackenzie sorted the list in terms of pricing, perusing the cheapest hotels nearby that were still somehow more than just a bed with a window. The good news was that there were very few hotels like that… the bad news was that ‘Bastion cheap’ didn’t really equal ‘cheap’.
“I don’t suppose you have a suggestion on where I should go?” he asked rhetorically, but without knowing anyone on the planet, he had to start somewhere. Probing advertisements was a chore – overwhelming, and confusing – but it was a place to work forward from.
“I am not programmed to offer opinions or advice,” the computer program said. “However, I do have collated data that suggest areas of high activity from people seeking resettlement.”
“Show me,” Mackenzie said, and a split-second later another map was filling his virtual-vision, with areas highlighted in yellow. “These are all restaurants and such.”
“Affirmative. The hospitality industry is the main recruitment sector for new settlers to Bastion, who do not have experience or qualifications in major employment fields within the main industries.”
Mackenzie frowned. “What are the main industries on Bastion?”
“Manufacturing and mining are the largest sectors of employment in Bastion, accounting for forty-one percent of all employment, with support industries accounting for an additional twenty-seven percent.”
Well, that ruled out Mackenzie then. He wasn’t mechanically minded, and despite all the advances in mining techniques and technologies, it was still considered a hard and dirty (but very well-paying) line of work. I’ll explore it if I have no other choice.
“Thank you,” Mackenzie said, dismissing the hologram with a casual wave of his hand, and turned to enter a brave new world.
*
The High Castle of Xin’To had been the seat of N’xin political power for countless cycles. A sprawling, imposing palace that seemed to be clawing at the sky above it, situated on an isolated island in the bay of the First City, it exemplified everything that was great about the N’xin. Strength, glory, wisdom. Its history went all the way back to when Overlord Hazara had first declared the N’xin an empire.
We were an empire with only two planets, but we were an empire. Kuellan Mk’Bak, glowered at the archaic structure with disdain. Once upon a time – just a few cycle ago, in fact – he had stood in awe of what the palace represented, of the power it projected.
Now, the sight of the place repulsed him. The near-surrender of his people to the Terran scum sickened him, making him almost weak in the knees. He’d spent years of his life pushing back against the encroaching Commonwealth, and, just when victory seemed assured (if a little protracted), the impossible had happened.
Overlord Kol’dair, ruler of the entire Hegemony for nearly forty cycles, and a cousin-by-union to Kuellan, had been killed in a Commonwealth ambush while he’d been touring the military installations in the Horus system. Along with his loss, many of the upper echelons of the N’xin military who were with the Overlord had been killed as well.
The resulting power vacuum had caused chaos throughout the Hegemony, made all the worse by a series of crippling losses the Commonwealth inflicted on the N’xin in a short span of time. It had taken the N’xin nearly a standard cycle – 404 days – to install a new leader – Overlord Kray – and by that time, the Hegemony was poised to lose three entire sectors to the newly rallied Commonwealth.
And what does our esteemed leader decide to do? Surrender. The word was almost foreign to Kuellan, whose fleets had faced – on many occasions – total destruction rather than retreat or surrender. In the entire Hegemony, Kuellan had the highest casualty rates of all the Fleet Commanders.
But also some of the greatest victories. Despite his numerous successes, Kuellan had enjoyed little support outside of his personal battle fleet – even in the anarchy that ensued after Horus, he’d been unable to rally sufficient support to make a play for the Hegemony throne, and the loss of his Gilded Claw had further shamed him in the eyes of the surviving chain-of-command.
Until today. Even as he stood in the open air on the far side of the bay from the High Castle, his compatriots – at least, those who were currently seeking the favour of the new Overlord – were meeting with His Excellency in the throne-room, completely oblivious to the subterfuge Kuellan’s agents had managed to infiltrate inside.
As the mueler-birds squawked high above him, he gave a last look at the bane of his existence, and keyed the command into his datapad, and watched as the High Castle detonated in a beautiful crimson fire. Kuellan waited long moments, until the very last tower had come crumbling down in a roar that had never been heard before on the homeworld.
“This is Kuellan Mk’Bak,” he declared, his message being distributed through the entire Hegemony’s Information Net. “Our leaders have failed us, and they have now been duly punished. You can either follow me and journey down the path of glory as we crush the humans… or you can follow them, to the fiery depths of despair that they have forged. Choose now. Choose wisely.”
*
“It’s bigger than I was expecting.”
It had been some time since Jeremy Hawthorne had actually paid attention to the size – or contents – of an office Although, as a flag officer, he benefitted from the most spacious officers a warship could afford, they were still cramped broom-closets, for all intents on purposes – even on Elysium, space was considered a premium on a Naval base.
But this was Earth, capital of the United Earth Commonwealth, and the same could not be said for the homeworld of humanity. The size of a Vanguard-class dreadnaught’s bridge, the ornately appointed office was the epitome of luxury, at least when compared to its space-based predecessors. Aside from the cavernous private bathroom, windows lined three of its walls, allowing plenty of sunlight into the room, and a trio of plush leather couches formed a triangle adjacent to the meeting area, with plenty of shelving flanking them.
The rest of the Commonwealth High Command was much like this office: over-sized, and under-used. Spread across fourteen buildings and three city-blocks, the High Command was one of the largest military installation on Earth, save for the military academies in San Francisco and Mumbai.
“Is that a bad thing?” Captain Shanthi asked from behind him, her tone curious.
“No,” he said, chuckling as he walked in and peered out of the windows – in space, the sight of stars, or nebulas – hell, even asteroids or moons – had been somewhat comforting for a grizzled veteran like himself. Now, when he looked out, all he could see was the city of Paris – across the river, almost directly east, the Eiffel Tower rose like needle towards the sky; to the north-east, Hawthorne could look down on the Arc de Triomphe. “I’ll just have to take get used to running a war from here, that’s all.”
Shanthi frowned, her eyebrows bridging the gap between them. “We’re not at war anymore, Admiral.”
Hawthorne – already weary from having met so many new faces upon his arrival – sighed and dropped the bag he’d been carrying onto one of the couches, crooking a finger at Shanthi and stalking over to one of the windows. “Come look.”
Shanthi followed in his wake, and he pointed into the streets, thirty storeys below them. In the streets below, their noise blocked by the reinforced and sound-proofed glass – forty thousand protestors flowed through the streets of Paris, chanting, beseeching. Their presence had required Hawthorne to dodge the packed sky – itself partially blockaded by protestors – and land on the roof to get here.
“Know what they are protesting about?”
“I have a reasonable idea,” Shanthi replied, showing no real interest in the mass of people below – they weren’t related to her job, so it wasn’t a concern for her. “The Commonwealth is in a recession; there aren’t enough jobs; inflation is high…” She shrugged, out of ideas. “And so on. I’m not an economist… or an expert on social policy.”
Hawthorne supressed the urge to roll his eyes, checking the chronometer on his virtual-vision as he pulled out the chair on his desk: 1404. He’d scheduled a meeting of his new senior staff at 1415; he was a little disappointed that none had shown up early.
“I know that,” he said, his temple beginning to throb. He’d been having variations of this conversation for the last two weeks as he tried to hash out a post-war policy. “Did you know that there was a riot that killed four people, on Celeste, II just three days ago?”
“Yes, but I thought that was in protest to the DMZ, not the economic condition of the UEC…”
Hawthorne laughed bitterly. “Same symptoms, different causes, but both related. Let’s not kid ourselves, Tryla… the Commonwealth has just come through a bloody and brutal war. No one has come out of this without some sort of… burden, or issue.” He nodded slowly. “The N’xin are still out there; they’ll be back, wanting blood… our blood.” He sat down heavily into his seat, his hands rubbing up the arms absently as he got a feel for it. “Mark my words – whether it’s against the N’xin, or our own citizens – this war isn’t over, not really.”
“As you say, sir,” Shanthi said, her coded way of saying I don’t care anymore. With a slight bow, she retreated back to her own office. Hawthorne watched her leave, closing the door behind her silently.
He smiled ruefully. “Indeed, this war is far from over.”
*
Stepping off the elevator onto the entryway that led to his penthouse, the first thing that struck James was the size of the plants that he’d left behind – specifically, the ficus and the areca palm. When he’d last seen them in the flesh, they’d been tiny, smaller than the pot he’d planted them into, but now they were as large as a door and quite bushy.
There was no need to knock – his virtual-array had already signed him into the penthouse network, and had already unlocked the doors for him, opening them as he approached, allowing a sweet melody from the grand piano in the main living area to float through.
“Hello,” he called, casually dropping his bags on the side, next to the doorway that led to the coat room. There was no answer, save for the piano melody– the Adagietto from Mahler’s Fifth, in the far corner of the first floor living area.
He strode forward lazily, taking in all the changes – large and small – that had transpired during his absence (it had, after all, been over fifteen years since he’d last set foot here). The design of the penthouse hadn’t changed much – at least on this floor – but the décor had been modernised, kept in line with recent trends, Jennifer having long done away with his minimalistic preferences, opting to clutter the place up so it looked lived in. It felt more of a family home now than it had when he’d left it, which wasn’t surprising.
Or unwelcome.
The only major change that he could note was the spiral staircase that had appeared where the fireplace and mantle had been – no doubt it was how you accessed the lower guest room and gymnasium, since access to the old apartment was no longer available from the public elevator.
Looking out the windows, the cityscape of the Citadel hadn’t changed much, save that there were a few more skyscrapers dotting the landscape, with a conspicuous increase in sky-traffic; he had been pleased to learn that, after years of pleading with building management, Hyperion Towers had built a hangar complex, located between the 76th and 79th floors. This meant he no longer had to scale the entire building from the 10th floor hangar to get to his penthouse.
There she is.
Like an angel, the most beautiful sight he had ever seen sat before him. Jennifer’s back was to him, razor-straight but not rigid, her arms flowing, caressing the keys of the piano as she played – there was no score in front of her, so either she was using her virtual-vision, or – more likely – she had simply memorised the score. She was dressed in an emerald gown, a gold-and-diamond necklace chained around her neck, her hair (dyed several shades darker than her natural brown) cascading down her back and down to her shoulder blades.
He didn’t say anything as he stepped up behind her, and she remained silent as he placed his hands on her shoulders. She did not miss a beat or a note when he leaned down and kissed her neck, nuzzling his nose behind her ear, his arms reaching around, under her breasts, and clasping themselves around her naval.
Jennifer moved into the kiss, their mouths connecting, with a surge of electricity seemingly passing between them. And still she played, his hands joining hers over the keys (he, too, was intimately familiar with Mahler) and they played together, their mouths creating a symphony of their own.
Finally, after long minutes, James pulled back, staring into her eyes longingly, grinning like a schoolboy. “I’m home.”
The Commonwealth Crisis will continue in:
Fallen Heroes
A Call to Arms Page 44