by P. J. Fox
Five thousand civilians were being defended by a bare handful of soldiers, and it was obvious to all involved that relief had to come soon or not at all. The powers that be ordered reinforcements to the planet’s surface from the ships circling miles above in space. As acting commander of the Callisto after Commander Hansin’s unfortunate accident, Kisten was told to organize a party of marines and any other able-bodied men that could be found and rescue whoever was left at Dharavi. The one bright spot in an otherwise horrible mess was that Jivaj had been reassigned and was now serving with Kisten.
They planned the assault together, and initially it had gone well—and would have continued to do so, Kisten was sure, if they hadn’t been betrayed. To this day he had no idea which of his men had been responsible. But the relief had become a rout and they’d fled into the hills with the furies at their back. Kisten’s mission, and his own personal priorities, were clear: they had to save the women and children entrusted into their care. They had no one else and if they didn’t survive to reach an evacuation point, they’d die. It was as simple as that.
After a hurried conference, Kisten had deputized one of his junior officers to lead the retreat and, with the column at his back, turned to face their pursuers. He, Jivaj, and a handful of others had elected to stay behind. They understood what they were doing, and they had no illusions.
A well-known political activist on Brontes had given a speech where he claimed that men who couldn’t handle peaceful times—men who were shiftless, always in trouble with the law and lacking clear direction in their lives—made the best war heroes and that men who made honorable, law-abiding citizens were in turn not very good soldiers. But Jivaj had been one of the best men that Kisten had ever known. He had a loving, close-knit family, and a girl waiting for him back on Caiphos. That girl, Kisten knew, had never married.
They’d held out for hours, longer than any of them had thought possible. It was a narrow pass, easily defensible by a handful of men, and they had plenty of ammunition. They didn’t have water, or anything to eat, and by mid-afternoon the place stank like a charnel house but what did that matter? Kisten worked with calm deliberation, sighting each target and making sure of his aim before he fired. He lost count of how many times he fired.
He remembered being hit, and he remembered thinking how strange it was that he’d never turn thirty. He was only twenty-eight. He’d thought about his brother, and wondered whether he was relieved or regretful that he’d never even come close to getting married. None of his wounds were serious but blood loss, combined with dehydration and heat stroke, was enough to render him insensible. Whether he’d gone crazy then or whether he’d already been crazy, he wasn’t entirely sure.
When he finally did pass out, in one of the rebels’ foul-smelling and poorly lit medical tents, unconsciousness had been a blessing.
Later on, he’d find out that the men who’d captured him had been terrified of him; they’d come upon a man, an officer by his uniform, drenched in his own blood and laughing as though he were having the best day of his life. A man without fear, they’d called him, a fact of which they delighted in reminding him during the nightmare months that followed.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Leaning back in his chair, Kisten remembered that he was about to have another birthday. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes and wishing he could curl up under his desk and take a nap. He’d been working almost non-stop for days, and lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll. He sighed. He was turning thirty-three and he hadn’t even told Aria.
At times like this, he was astonished that he even remembered his birthday. He sat up and, fortifying himself with coffee, started going over his newest stack of reports. Thinking about Aria made him feel irritable. He had a beautiful young bride he hadn’t seen in days, because he’d been here—at work. He’d been married for three weeks, now, and he’d seen more of her aboard Atropos. She’d seemed pleased enough when she had seen him, and he’d certainly enjoyed their quiet, intimate dinners and, later, exploring every inch of her pale skin by moonlight. But it wasn’t enough.
She was a good listener, giving him her full attention and only interrupting to ask a question or, sometimes, offer a surprisingly insightful comment. At first, he’d confined himself to fairly light-hearted topics, the sorts of things he imagined women might be willing to discuss; but soon he’d found himself telling her more: about the problems on the planet, the problems in his own office, and his fears for the future.
And she was a willing lover, if hesitant. He’d pondered the problem, and he was fairly certain that she’d be more comfortable with him if she got to know him better. She might be timid now but, inside her, there was fire. He wanted to bring that fire out.
Her inexperience was, in some ways, an opportunity: he had pleasant fantasies about spending the day in bed with her, teaching her how to please him. And only him. Of course, she had no idea what pleased her so they’d have to discover that, too. He’d let her out of bed long enough to feed her, and then he’d throw her back down into the pillows and make her scream. And then, if this were an ideal situation, she’d curl up against him and they’d lie awake all night, talking.
He wouldn’t have to go to bed, because he wouldn’t have to wake up at five in the morning to deal with this.
The door opened, admitting Zerus. Kisten glanced at the clock: ten minutes past ten. His aide, Minai, had warned him that Zerus was in the building. He’d been expected at half past nine; like most academics, punctuality was not his strong suit. Kisten planned to have a few firm words with Minai about the necessity of learning to put certain people off politely and not give them appointments. Lieutenant Minai Motiani was a decent sort, and capable—astonishing in and of itself, given the general caliber of the cantonment—but he was very young.
Kisten gestured for Zerus to sit. He did not rise.
Zerus sat.
One of the orderlies appeared and asked if Zerus wanted coffee. He didn’t.
“Good morning, Grandfather.”
Zerus scowled.
“Yes,” agreed Kisten, “although it grieves me to disappoint you, I am still alive.”
On second thought, Zerus decided that he did want coffee. “I trust that Aria is well,” he said stiffly.
“I haven’t beaten her to death just yet,” Kisten said blandly. He’d often wondered if his grandfather disliked him because he’d been conceived out of wedlock or because he was his father’s child. Neither circumstance was exactly Kisten’s fault, but to a rigidly conservative man like Zerus both were equally unforgivable. Moreover, the fact that his father had married his mother and loved her wholeheartedly for almost thirty-four years held no weight with Zerus and never would. He’d never been able to accept that his daughter had fallen in love with a scion of the house that, in his mind, epitomized all that was decadent and corrupt.
“And the first time you do—discipline her?”
“That,” replied Kisten, “will be between us.”
Zerus was always hostile, but to be so hostile was unusual—even for him. The orderly returned with coffee, the presence of a third person forcing Zerus into silence. He offered Zerus cream and sugar cubes, which Zerus accepted. He stirred them into his coffee, glaring malevolently at his grandson all the while.
“She’s a complete innocent!” Zerus thundered, seconds after the door closed. He sounded pained, and Kisten wondered if this was his real issue: that Zerus saw something of his own daughter in Aria and saw again, or thought he saw, a naïve young slip of a thing making a terrible mistake. “She knows nothing of our culture,” he continued, “or of you, and whatever she thinks she has no idea what she’s in for. You know that as well as I do! You’ll bend her to your will, and you’ll corrupt her, and you’ll ruin her.” He picked up his coffee cup and for a minute Kisten thought he was going to throw it at him. “God knows what makes a man like you think he has any right to marry at all, let alone take advantage of a—a child who ca
n’t defend herself.”
“Is your problem with me,” Kisten asked, genuinely curious, “or with my father?”
“Your father,” Zerus said, “is little better than a rapist.” Kisten hissed, and Zerus waved him off. “We’re both adults, here. My problem with you is that you’re a violent, debauched, womanizing devil. And as for your brother! Keshav is—an infidel!” Zerus seemed to view that last charge as being the most abhorrent.
Kisten steepled his fingers and studied his grandfather. His expression was mild, but his tone was cold. “Thank you, Zerus, for your apt summary of my family situation. Now, unless you have in fact come here to give me marital advice, I suggest you get to the point.”
Zerus, as it turned out, had a point. He wanted something. He always did. This time, he wanted passage into the lowlands south of the capital along with a car, a guard, and written permission to examine whatever local archives he managed to discover. All this and Heaven, too, Kisten thought tiredly. He hated that this was what people—even his own grandfather—thought of him. Knowing that Zerus was a hate-filled fool didn’t always help.
“As it happens,” he replied, “you’re being reassigned.” Zerus’ face was a study. Kisten smiled. “You won’t need passage out of Haldon, because you’re not leaving. While you’re on my planet,” he continued, sipping his coffee, “you’re going to do something useful. I’m sure it galls you, helping me, but lie back and think of the empire.”
Reaching into one of his desk drawers, he removed a tablet and placed it on the desk between them. “This might not be the information you need, but it’s what we have. You’re going to be studying the sociological implications of poisoned toilets.” Ceres had made the suggestion as a joke, but Kisten had thought about it a great deal since then and, after discussing it with Aria had decided that it was also an excellent one. As Aria had rightly observed, simply knowing where the rumors originated wasn’t enough; they had to figure out why people believed them.
After Zerus left, loudly declaiming the unfairness of Kisten’s rule and telling anyone who cared to listen that he was an economist and not a sociologist, Kisten went back to work. Zerus had a point; he wasn’t a sociologist. But academics of any sort were few and far between at the moment, and those he did have access to were already busy with useful things like teaching. A qualified researcher in any discipline wandering around at loose ends was an opportunity he couldn’t refuse to ignore, and Zerus was an intelligent man.
He’d find the answer, if there was one, if only to prove that he was smarter than Kisten. Which, Kisten reflected, suited him just fine. He wanted to motivate people, not play emotional nursemaid.
It was mid-afternoon when Aros appeared. He threw himself into a chair, looking as wretched as Kisten felt. The office of lieutenant governor was even less fun than the office of governor; Aros had to supply his own coffee.
Kisten looked up, surprised to see his second. Aros had been tasked with reviewing the local police force, along with General Bihar’s aide Captain Baïd. Kisten hadn’t expected to see him back in the office for another week at least.
“There’s been another attack,” Aros said without preamble.
Kisten put his tablet down, giving Aros his complete attention. “When?”
“Last night.”
This latest rash of violence had been gruesome enough, but it was only the tip of a very large iceberg. Kisten didn’t understand violence against women; they were, for the most part, incapable of defending themselves. Despite what Zerus thought, he’d been raised to believe that men should care for women and protect them. Zerus had some odd notions about equality, which overlooked the fact that this never would have happened on Brontes.
In Chau Cera, a woman could walk down the street naked without any real fear of being molested. Her reputation might suffer some harm, of course. But on all six of the Home Worlds and all twelve of the colonies, the penalty for rape was death at the hands of the victim’s nearest male relative—or relatives, should he invite others to participate. Rape was, as a result…quite rare. But here, these self-styled vigilantes—some of whom were rapists, others merely murderers—had so far escaped justice because people were hiding them.
“They’re calling themselves the Brotherhood. It’s bad,” he added.
“Sometimes,” Kisten replied, voice low, “I wonder what I’ve brought Aria into.” He hadn’t told her about the other attacks; they were too gruesome.
“You know,” Aros said reflectively, “I never thought you’d get married.”
“Oh?” Kisten asked, wondering if Aros, too, thought him incapable of leading a normal life.
“I think it’s a good thing. When are you going to have the party?”
“I have no idea,” Kisten said. He’d been purposefully ignoring the issue and didn’t appreciate the reminder. “Ceres seems to think that some ridiculous to-do is necessary, but I don’t.”
“I’m sure Aria does,” Aros hinted politely.
“She’s not that kind of girl.” She was, rather, a girl he could relate to—the first.
“Every girl is that kind of girl.”
“Ah, yes,” Kisten said, beginning to move past his anger at Zerus. “Aros Askara-Brahma: thirty-one, single, and an expert on women.”
“While you, on the other hand, have been married all of a month.”
“Three weeks,” Kisten corrected. “But I am an expert on women.” He winked.
“I’m not sure that your particular brand of expertise is necessarily translatable to marriage,” Aros replied doubtfully.
“Being the religious zealot you are,” Kisten said fondly, “you’re almost certainly still a virgin.” He laughed at Aros’ outraged squawk. “I’d be glad to share the benefit of my experience, if it would help you rectify this embarrassing condition. First, you need to find a woman—”
“I am not a virgin!”
The orderly, who’d just walked in, turned around and left.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Kisten complained.
Men like Zerus would witness this interchange and think him heartless; a woman had been attacked, and he and Aros were sitting here joking. But Zerus and his ilk failed to understand that humor was a defense mechanism. When Kisten finally collapsed from exhaustion, the same problems would be there to greet him in the morning. Sometimes, it was better to laugh.
FIFTY-EIGHT
The Brotherhood was a group of vigilantes that reminded Kisten uncomfortably of the Society of the Righteous. They, too, had taken it upon themselves to “cleanse” the capital—and, by extension, the province and the planet—of foreign influence. And they, too, used horrific violence to control and intimidate the local populace. Many of whom, if truth be told, were politically incorrect enough to welcome Alliance rule. They preferred the idea of working sewers to cholera. Kisten thought again of the question posed in his favorite poem, the one he’d quoted from to Aria: What are the sins of my race, Beloved, what are my people to thee? Most decent, hardworking people didn’t care who sat on the throne; they cared if the crops came in.
And many a local girl, on discovering that an individual man was not so horrible as the political specter his job represented, had, as the poet said, profaned the law of her father’s creed for a foe of her father’s race. For all that they might be from Brontes, or Caiphos, or Tara, they weren’t so different from their prospective lovers. Their fathers, for the most part, were craftsmen and farmers and miners, too.
It disgusted Kisten that the targets of these attacks had been mostly shopkeepers, suppliers to the cantonment, and women: all, in the Brotherhood’s mind, collaborators. The shopkeepers for accepting customers from the cantonment, the suppliers for feeding them and providing other basic necessities, and the women for seeing them as people. He knew all this, because Brotherhood thugs had taken to leaving notes—on bodies, tacked to the sides of houses, pasted to store windows. Some of the victims were badly beaten, some were killed outright. Kisten had set Aros
to investigating the local police because he suspected many in their ranks of having Brotherhood sympathies or of committing the attacks, themselves.
He studied the world through the car window. It looked almost as discouraging as it smelled, a rabbit warren of dilapidated buildings and fetid alleys piled to overflowing. Every kind of refuse imaginable—and some that weren’t—spilled out onto the narrow streets. Lowering walls blocked most of the mid-afternoon light, reducing the street level to a sort of permanent twilight where no children laughed and nothing grew. Most of the windows were shuttered.
Haldon had grown sporadically, generations adding on as they arrived. Having never benefitted from even the most cursory planning efforts, the resultant sprawl made no sense. Roads doubled back on each other; some roads ended abruptly, having served no purpose. Kisten’s driver, a subaltern from the Blues, had grown up in the slums of the capital; been raised, as he put it, was a strong term. As an adult, he’d retained the kind of intuitive local knowledge that couldn’t be replicated by any foreigner, however sensitive. Which was fortunate, because Kisten had an excellent sense of direction but without Finn he’d be hopelessly lost.
He was on his way to the hospital to see the girl, talk to the doctors and the officer in charge, and hear the story for himself.
One of the first petitioners Kisten had seen after his arrival had been a man who—for over a year—had tried unsuccessfully to have his daughter’s killers arrested. She’d been burned alive in a particularly grisly form of retribution for having entered into an illicit affair with a Bronte soldier. Illicit, because she was terrified of what would happen if she was discovered. The man in question, a captain, had pressed for marriage but she’d refused on the grounds that her family would almost certainly disown her. Her father’s zeal for justice suggested a burden of guilt so heavy that Kisten wondered if the girl might have been right.