Only the man beside me seems unimpressed. He did not acknowledge Imperator Feeroy’s arrival and continued eating throughout the short conversation and ensuing compensatory boasting. Now he wipes his mouth and says to me, low enough that only I hear, “So, what’d you do to that guy?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He pats speculatively at his belly, a much rounder example than those found on most legionary officers. “The man clearly loathes you. So let’s hear it. How’d you piss him off?”
It seems I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed something sour in Feeroy’s flattery. I know exactly why the Imperator is upset with me. After all, I’ve only spoken to him once before, and it turned out to be my first big mistake in Ninth City’s circles of power.
It happened yesterday, at the Command briefing following the All Clear and subsequent cleanup effort. I would have much preferred a nap, but Curator Ellmore was expected at the Hall of the Principate, and she wanted me with her. I sat in the back, nursing a headache from Imway’s extra-potent Fizz and listening to Imperator Feeroy, who had been directing Ninth City’s defenses, describe the battle.
Overall, the impression he gave was of a ringing and unmitigated success. The enemy’s first incursion was detected at 1437 hours, and by 1551, the last of Romeo’s scattered forces had been eradicated. Despite the unusually large enemy contingent, very few of our legionaries were wounded or killed, and Romeo failed to strike a single population center or production facility. The only action my new pal Fontanus Jaxten saw was an ovation from the City Guns and an essentially one-sided wrestling match between Kizabel and Imway.
Most of Command seemed happy to accept the Imperator’s account of the battle, but the more I listened, the more I became convinced there was something to this attack other than the glorious rout being paraded out for our admiration. If Feeroy’s tallies were correct, Romeo’s incursion force had been vastly larger than any we’d seen in recent memory. And yet nothing in Feeroy’s report indicated anything more than our standard defensive response. Why hadn’t the damage been worse?
I waited for someone to speak up, to ask Feeroy how exactly he’d managed so complete and categorical a victory. No one did. Even after Feeroy opened the room to questions, few people voiced any opinion that wasn’t simply a compliment with a question mark at the end. So I raised my hand. “Yes, you there,” Feeroy said, pointing. “The young man at the back.”
“Vinneas, sir,” I answered. “Academy Procurator. I was wondering whether you remarked on any deviation from the enemy’s typical behavior during this incursion. Novel or unusual tactics, perhaps, or some indication of a different choice of target.”
Feeroy blinked, assuming the baffled and mildly disgusted expression of a man who suspects he has stepped in something unpleasant. “Romeo’s tactics have remained static for hundreds of years. This is a war of attrition, Procurator,” he added, emphasizing my academic title and assuming the air of a teacher weary with a particularly dim-witted student. “The enemy’s objective is, and has always been, to cripple our ability to supply our forces at the Front. To that end, he will by necessity target our means of production, either in our cities or outlying settlements. In this instance, he failed in all respects.”
Another hand had risen several rows down, and Feeroy turned that way, but I persisted. “Excuse me, sir. You haven’t answered my question.”
Feeroy now appeared certain there was something nasty on his boot. “My answer is no. There was no change in the enemy’s usual pattern of attack, only the strength of his numbers.”
“But if that’s the case, how do you explain such a tidy victory? If the enemy’s tactics haven’t changed, and our response hasn’t changed, shouldn’t a larger enemy force have caused more losses than usual?”
“Our ‘tidy victory,’ as you call it, can be credited to the fighting spirit of our legionaries.” Feeroy was by this point quite unambiguously enraged. “I will say as well that the bravery and sacrifice our soldiers exhibited in this battle deserves better than the abstract musings of an untested academic. Perhaps after you’ve seen combat, you won’t be so quick to criticize good soldiers for a battle they won.”
I would have liked to tell the Imperator I was criticizing him, not his soldiers, but I’d already used as much of Command’s time as I dared, and I still had at least one unanswered question. Fortunately, someone else spoke up and asked just what I wanted to know. “If you please, Imperator,” said Princept Azemon, “could you tell us what you mean by the ‘sacrifice our soldiers exhibited in this battle’?”
It turned out that there had indeed been something strange about this action. As Imperator Feeroy was forced to explain, the attack had proceeded identically to others in the past only somewhat more slowly. He offered no explanation for Romeo’s unusual behavior except to say that the enemy force seemed to “linger.” As a result, our legionaries were able to engage far earlier into the attack than was typical and thus completely eradicate the invaders before they could reach any of their targets. The prolonged combat did, however, result in greater than usual cost to our defense capabilities, in terms of the number of units left disabled, even if very few legionaries were actually killed. Feeroy was careful to point out that such damage would in no way disrupt production or supply to the Front, and most of those present agreed that the Legion had nevertheless won a fine victory. Still, Feeroy’s achievement had been marred, and it was all my fault.
“Can you tell me what you did wrong back there?” Curator Ellmore asked afterward as we crossed the Forum toward the Academy. I only muttered something more sarcastic than sensible, so she said, “You made Imperator Feeroy appear foolish. You might have learned what you wished to know in some other way, but instead you publicly exposed his ignorance, and that is something I fear he will not forgive.” I opened my mouth to tell her I didn’t particularly care what Feeroy thought of me, but she said, “There will be times, Vinneas, when making enemies will be unavoidable, but this was not one of those times. Do not set others against you unnecessarily. We have enough enemies as it is.”
It looks now like the Curator was right. Feeroy is still angry with me, enough to make a complete stranger curious as to the nature of my offense. “I asked him a question” is the explanation I give the man beside me.
He winces theatrically, sucking air through his teeth like someone observing a particularly bloody scraped knee. “That bad, was it?” he says, as if he’s intuited yesterday’s entire scene, at the same time grinning to himself and preparing another of his hair-raising treats.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” I say, not wanting to relive my blunder with Feeroy just now.
“Haven’t learned much, have we?”
“What exactly are you eating?”
He pauses, the unappealing morsel almost to his lips, as though only now noticing its presence. “This? It’s canned bread, toasted and spread with condensed milk. A favorite in the settlements. Looks wretched, I know, but I can’t get enough of it.” He pops the milk-sodden bread into his mouth with a prestidigitatory flourish.
“You’ve been to the settlements?” I say, not caring anymore about the bread. The settlements and their place in the war effort—providing most of the food, raw materials, and soldiers necessary to keep the Legion running—feature only marginally in a standard Academy education, and what little we do learn is superficial at best. I’ve never met anyone who’s actually seen the settlements in person. Tonight’s mess is turning out to be rather more interesting than I’d expected.
“Originally from Giant’s Run,” he says proudly. “That’s Settlement 105 to you folks. Spent ten years guarding the fences before I ended up in the Legion. Guard’s where I got the taste for crusty milk.”
“Crusty milk?”
“That’s what we called it, anyway,” he says, making himself another. “Each settlement has its own name for the
stuff. Milko, goo bread, soggies. In Settlement 361, they cook the milk first to brown it. In Settlement 89, they like to add peanut butter when they can get it. But just about everywhere has some version or other.”
I suppose that makes sense. Condensed milk has sugar and fat and protein, a great choice if you already don’t get enough to eat. I glance down at my own half-finished meal. “You’re with the censors, then,” I say to the man. No one else would have seen so much of the settlements.
“Censor Reggidel,” he says, extending his hand to shake. “I must say, Procurator Vinneas, it’s a pleasure not to be the most hated man in the room for once.”
“All part of hospitality in Ninth City,” I say. “I suppose it’s strange, going back to the settlements as a censor.”
“It’s a unique perspective, that’s for sure.” He chuckles. “We always thought we were really putting one over on you boys at the Principate, squirreling away warehouses full of grain and canned meat, then pretending we’d only barely made our quotas. No idea you had that all calculated in.”
“Is the corruption really that extensive?”
He chews, talking over his crusty milk. “Oh yeah. Just about everyone’s pocketing something somewhere along the line. I don’t blame them, though. All part of the process. I used to get my crusty on the black market.”
He’s right, of course. Barter economies and black markets are practically inevitable given the system we’ve set up in the settlements. “Have you ever thought of doing things differently?” I ask.
“Sounds like you’re going to hit me with some crazy Academy crap,” he says with another grin. “Let’s hear it.”
“What if we were to authorize trade between the settlements? It would allow them to exchange their surplus, which would not only raise the local standard of living but increase overall production.”
“It’d never work,” Reggidel says dismissively. “For one thing, we don’t have the infrastructure for it.” He sees me about to object, probably guesses I’m preparing to launch into an explanation of how easy it would be to create a rail system connecting the settlements, and says, “But that isn’t the real issue. The real issue is you can’t trade goods without transporting people, and you can’t transport people without transmitting ideas. And once you start exchanging ideas, administering the settlements gets a lot more complicated. I lived in one of those junk heaps for thirty years, and believe me, if anyone there ever got wind of something like thelemity, it’d be chaos. We don’t need that. Not with a war on.”
“But that’s just what I’m getting at,” I say, excited now. “Our whole system is based around the premise that the settlements have to remain ignorant of the true nature of this war. But they’re as much a part of it as we are. The more we tell them, the more they’ll understand what’s at stake and the more motivated they’ll be to help.”
“That isn’t how we’ve been doing things the last few hundred years, kid, and the old way’s worked well enough so far. Haven’t you heard? We’re winning!” He crunches his last bite of crusty and claps me on the back, pushing back from his seat. “It may take another five centuries, but we’ll have Romeo beat sooner or later. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see about dessert.”
That’s the standard position on this war of ours, the same whether you’re listening to the official political channels or general popular opinion: It’ll take some time, but we’re winning. We’re doing everything right; it’s going our way. All we have to do is stay the course, and we’ll get there sooner or later.
But if everyone knew what I know, if they’d seen what I’ve seen, I doubt they’d be so sure.
TEN
VINNEAS
The aftermath of any military action, no matter how small, involves a disproportionate amount of administrative drudgery, like righting a roomful of dominoes, and this incursion was no exception. Add in my experience at Feeroy’s briefing to cap off the whole exhausting affair and I was poised on the brink of catatonia. But tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I’d spent part of the evening reviewing data from the battle, comparing it to other engagements in the past, and what I’d learned did nothing to ease my mind. Back in my quarters, I could only lie awake, the same questions bubbling up again and again. Finally, I realized I would have to work the problem through, and there was only one person who could help me. Maybe one and a half.
There was no guarantee Kizabel would be up so late, but I figured my odds were good enough. She’s never had much regard for normal sleep cycles, and lately she’s been disappearing into her workshop at extremely odd hours and with very little thought for her regularly scheduled duties and coursework.
Her workshop was sealed when I arrived, a dull metal slab blocking the high threshold, but I’d only been standing outside a moment when a voice said, “Why hello, Vinneas. How are you? It’s been ages!” The reflection looking back at me from the metal wall was hazy and indistinct but definitely not mine.
“I’m doing fine, Lady,” I said. “Is Kiz in?”
“Of course she’s in,” said the voice, the reflection placing hands on hips in a pose of profound exasperation. “She’s always in, except when she’s off gallivanting with you and that eques boy. And ever since the two of you became so important, all she does is loaf around here being a reclusive, antisocial crank, never mind that it’s two in the morning and everyone decent is in bed.”
“Do you think I could speak to her? It’s kind of urgent.”
“Why certainly, Vinn, I’m just supposed to keep you busy while she straightens up a bit”—the voice paused, the shadow leaning to the side as though listening to something just out of view—“oh, and it seems I wasn’t to let you know I’m stalling. Oops! But honestly, Vinneas, it’s disgraceful in here. It’s just like I’m always telling her—” Another pause. “All right, all right,” Lady said with a sigh. “Come in, Vinneas.”
With that, the metal door drained away, granting me access to the tall expanse of Kizabel’s workshop. It’s a cavernous metal bay, like the belly of some monstrous steel beast. The far wall, which opens onto a nearby testing floor, is flat and bare, but just about every other surface is covered in all manner of junk, ranging in size and complexity from huge stone monoliths to tiny and arcane filigrees of wood and metal, all organized according to some principle I’ve never quite been able to fathom. There is a large area devoted entirely to books, thick tomes and unbound pages in towering stacks and cascading shelves. Another wall is lined with mirrors of every shape and description, and as I passed these, I saw Lady Jane walking beside me where my reflection should have been.
Lady is Kizabel’s instara, a thinking artifice used as a sort of spectral assistant. Most instari aren’t quite as eccentric as Lady, and Kizabel swears she should have scrapped her long ago, but it’s obvious Kiz is fond of her, not to mention that Lady is a marvel of irrational mechanics. I ought to know—I helped design her. Physically, she’s an exact replica of Kizabel—or perhaps it’s better to say she has all Kizabel’s features. Lady doesn’t much care for Kizabel’s sense of style, however, preferring instead a series of irreverent costumes she changes with her mood. That night she was dressed in a set of old-fashioned pajamas, a sleeping mask pressed to her forehead and her long black hair tied in a ponytail.
Kizabel, meanwhile, stood by one of her cluttered tables, bobbed hair pinned tight to her scalp, work overalls splattered with a glowing blue substance that seemed to fade even as I watched. “This had better be important,” she said, and though she sounded angry, her expression was ever so slightly guilty. Only then did I take in the greater-than-usual level of destruction around her workshop. A full row of shelves had been split down the middle, its contents scattered in all directions. Several of Lady’s mirrors also exhibited signs of disturbance—chips missing and patterns of spidery fractures. Along the far wall, I noted what appeared to be the imprint of a gigantic foot.
&
nbsp; “So,” I said, glancing pointedly at the wreckage, “what’cha been up to?”
“Nothing!” Kizabel shouted much too quickly. “I mean, just slaving away for those ungrateful equites. You know. Imway needs someone to patch up his precious FireChaser.”
“Yes, I’m still hearing about his encounters with the unincorporated peoples.” Imway’s first official mission, and his resultant wall-punching frustration, has been the source of much amusement for Kizabel and me. “He can’t figure out why they won’t just follow orders after he went to all the trouble of capturing them.”
Having fun at Imway’s expense is perhaps the easiest way to brighten Kizabel’s mood, but that night her smile morphed into a sneer halfway through. “Well, you two must have plenty of time to chat about it while you’re off being hotshots together,” she said. “So what are you doing here? Things getting dull up there in Command?”
“Quite the opposite. I need your help.” I waited until the metal door had solidified into place behind me before laying out everything that had happened at yesterday’s briefing.
“Are you even allowed to tell me this stuff?” Kizabel asked when I was done. She looked concerned, though more over the problems my story raised than my reckless leaking of privileged information.
“I’m making an executive decision to bring you onto the case.”
“I just wish we knew how Romeo was making these incursions in the first place,” she mused. The blue stains on her overalls were gone now, and she had unzipped the front and tied the sleeves at her waist, revealing a white T-shirt underneath. “Our countermeasures at the Front should make it impossible for hostiles like that to get anywhere near us. It’s like they’re appearing out of nowhere.”
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