Even as he walked into the war room hours later, Hadeed tried to block out his conviction that all his answers about why he had taken this road and what the future held may be found in a one place: A circular room with twelve equally-spaced portals of light intersecting at a center point. He could only reach this place by taking all his people with him on a final, desperate gamble. Instead, Hadeed spoke calmly, intellectually, borrowing military genius as he could from his generals, and laid out a scheme.
“We will end this war on our terms,” he said as he pointed to the primary target on the holographic light table. “We end in glory or death.”
The generals stood spellbound.
“How many forces to reposition?” Gen. Assam asked.
Hadeed heard the words cross his lips and felt a certain measure of joy.
“All of them,” he said. “I always knew Messalina would be the key. We all did. We send everything we have.”
He left them to their stratagems and retreated to a small cave near the base camp. A boulder hid most of the small opening, with just enough space available for Hadeed to squeeze through, a torch in one hand. The low ceiling required him to stoop. He ventured inside, affixed the torch to a wall holder and stared at two mounds.
The graves were unmarked, per Hadeed’s request. Abraham lay to his left, Omar to his right. Hadeed fell to his knees. He said nothing for almost an hour. He searched for understanding, for a way to explain everything to them. Instead, Hadeed found no answers.
“It was going to be your paradise,” he whispered. “It’s the only gift I ever wanted to give you.” He stared at the low, cramped confines of the cave. “At least you will always be together. It’s all I can give you now.”
Hadeed rose slowly, grabbed the torch, and turned his back on the graves. As he slipped through the narrow entrance, Hadeed could feel the last of his love receding, demanding to remain in that cave. When he stepped into the sunlight, Hadeed snuffed the torch and set it aside. He removed a spelling blade from his vest and turned to the boulder guarding the entrance. He began to carve. The words were small, barely noticeable in the stone.
‘MY PRICE’
As he backed away from the boulder, Hadeed finally understood the depth of his love for them. He also knew he had nothing left to give another human being. He returned to base camp and ordered two officers to move the boulder against the cave and seal the entrance.
* * *
Lin Quan Province
Indonesia Prime
May-La Suu-Kwan had the ivory hair of her father and the blue, searching eyes of her mother. She did not have her father’s surname, however, for Ilya Hollander did not believe she would be safe carrying a Chancellor family name through life – especially in light of what they would all soon face. Fortunately, she was too young – a little more than a year old – to understand these matters. For that, Ilya was grateful.
He loved seeing a child who had no cares, no expectations to uphold. She was a vessel through which he could pour his joy and love, and she returned each with unconditional devotion. The Father had promised him a gift of immeasurable bounty in exchange for completing the role that had always been his destiny. Now, as Ilya watched May-La play in the sand along the shore of the Phenh River, he could offer nothing but thanks to The Father.
“Da … sand,” she said, tossing a toy shovel at her father and pointing to the toy bucket.
Ilya laughed. May-La had called him “Daddy” just once, months ago. Ever since, she preferred a shorter, easier version. He adored it.
“See?” He told her, grabbing the shovel. “I’m digging.”
She handed him the bucket, and he began to fill it. Ilya ignored the occasional, suspicious glances coming from other beach-goers, most of who never could get used to the idea of a Chancellor with an Asiatic child – even if he had clearly gone native. Instead, Ilya filled the bucket, handed it to May-La, and ran his hand through her hair.
“They’ll forget soon enough,” he whispered. May-La did not hear him. Instead, she emptied the bucket at once and began digging again.
“Yes, they will,” The Father said, bending down beside him, draping a withered, fragile hand around Ilya’s shoulder. “Those who do not, I am sure your wife will convince otherwise.”
Ilya and the ancient man shared a smile. Cho had remained behind today, insisting Ilya spend time alone with their daughter. Yet Ilya knew what The Father meant; May-La would have no greater champion in life than her mother.
The Father’s smile disappeared, and Ilya knew why.
“It’s time, isn’t it?”
“The crucible is nearly complete. You will be needed.”
“I know,” Ilya said, thinking of all the staggering secrets unveiled to him since The Father began training him. “It’s what has to be done.”
“Yes. I realize it will be hard to leave her. But never forget, Ilya: This will be a gift for all of them. A new awakening.”
“The path reborn. But will they see it that way?”
“Perhaps not at first. Given time, they will see the truth.”
Ilya reached over and kissed May-La on the cheek. “Will you?” He asked her.
THIRTY THREE
ENDGAME
The Purple Plains of Messalina
3 months later
SOUTH OF THE CAPITAL CITY, abundant heather spread across the open lands, forming a matted carpet no more than six inches thick. In the late summer, each shrub opened thousands of petals no bigger than the tip of a knife. They held their bloom for three weeks, a deep purple blanket filling in the empty spaces between the famed blue hills and interrupted only by the winding course of the Bengalese River. Clans used to pass through Messalina’s southern gates in long caravans to spend days camped amid a beauty found nowhere else on Hiebimini. They celebrated the “coming of the purple” as a symbol of the founding of their home world. They did not speak of past failures, of how all attempts to terraform the planet, to grow forests and increase rainfall, had failed. They did not long for the lush vegetation of other colonies; instead, they celebrated how the heather symbolized their unique place in the Collectorate. They did this every year for centuries, the last time in SY 5310. A few adventurous souls risked the pilgrimage during the war years, but many of them never returned home, killed by snipers firing from the hills.
On the date 144.5320, most of the purple heather died. It could not stand firm beneath the boots of thousands of onrushing soldiers, the tires of rideabouts and Tumblers, or the landing feet of battle Scrams. The bloody, often dismembered bodies of the dead smothered the heather; bombs and rockets turned the twisting, prostrate shrubs into shrapnel; and fire from the sky ignited the combustible wood into a sea of flames. Eighty thousand Hiebim men and women desecrated the heather as two enemies assaulted each other at dawn.
Horrified citizens watched from the reinforced southern gates of Messalina and from the spire atop the Ashkinar Continental Enclave as yellow flashes of destruction greeted the morning followed by sheets of thunder. They saw thousands of tracers chase battle Scrams, which fired Phalyx bombs and rockets at each other and at the raging hordes below. Automatic weapons fire crackled in a continuous rhythm. The ground trembled throughout the city as homes rattled and children cried. They tried to take comfort in the words of the Patriot generals and Matriarchs who said the fighting would never enter the city, that this was not a final, defensive stand but rather a decisive blow against the psychotic Messengers.
Trayem Hadeed embraced a blast rifle against his chest as he rode atop a Tumbler at the rear of the Messenger advance. The morning breeze, which descended from the hills and always struck up at first light, brushed across Hadeed. It carried the sweet fragrance of war: Acrid smoke and burning flesh. His battalions spread out across the plains, confronting every Patriot obstacle even if greatly outnumbered; but the majority of his resources acted as a spearhead designed to punch a hole through the central line of defense and clear an unfettered path to the city. S
ome of the generals who had not yet abandoned their liege questioned this strategy, but Hadeed did not care for dissent. The only path to victory, he insisted, was quick and savage. They did not have the manpower or weapons for a long, stubborn slog. As he had told them months before Declaration Day, the war would be won or lost at Messalina.
Now, as his ultimate target came within clear view – the gates less than three kilometers away – Hadeed had no illusions. Just being able to see where victory might have occurred proved reassuring enough. Hadeed embraced death. He longed for its promise of peace, if only to end the humiliation and torment. He saw no hope for victory, only the last, futile shout of a hollow man who once raised the attention of an empire.
He commanded thirty thousand warriors, fewer than a tenth of his forces at their peak. Many had defected or surrendered before the Great Northern Push began, but tens of thousands vanished into the countryside during the actual march toward Messalina. They did not desert because they lost faith in the message of their beloved Honor; instead, they came to fear what the generals warned of and even Hadeed secretly dreaded. They believed they would face more than Patriots at the gates of Messalina. Warriors shared fantastical tales of what Chancellor weapons could do, especially the great energy slews shot from the orbiting Carriers. They terrified each other with descriptions of firestorms and incinerated carcasses, even though they had never seen such weapons in action or heard of any direct UG intervention since the war began. Yet many came to believe the Patriots would never allow Messalina to fall and would sell themselves to the peacekeepers if necessary. They fled into the night. The clumsy ones were captured by loyalists and publicly executed as examples. Jihadeen would slit throats at the mere suggestion of traitorous notions. And still, they would run. The stolen children saw their opportunity and fled.
Before he gave the order to attack at dawn, Hadeed looked deep into the eyes of his four remaining generals and saw resignation and regret. They blamed themselves for not doing more to keep their forces intact. They cursed their ineptitude in the early years of the war, when victories came in small doses and the Patriots had time to build an effective army. We will be with you at the end, they promised Hadeed. We will not surrender. Hadeed wanted to love them for their courage and steadfastness in the face of the inevitable, but he could not look at them without seeing Abraham and Omar.
Less than an hour into the battle, the spearhead seemed to break through. Enemy troops fell aside with ease, and many directly ahead of the advance retreated toward the city. Hadeed’s Tumbler ran over bodies of both Messengers and Patriots to catch up with the vanguard. For a moment, he dared to hope. And then he could not help but laugh. Silver, spider-like shapes broke through the clouds and flew like darts over the hills. A massive siren echoed across the plains, originating from behind the city gates. They were coming, and so was death. Hadeed knew the Messengers were wide-open targets ready for the slaughter, but he did not order a retreat. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Hadeed knew what was next, and he envisioned what the moment must have been like when the Chancellors officially entered the war.
* * *
In truth, just such a meeting had taken place ten hours earlier on a southern parapet with a clear view of both armies’ encampments. Four Hiebim generals – two from each side – huddled and spoke in hushed tones as Carrier Admiral Aldo Cabrise approached. Cabrise, the tallest and most senior of the Carrier commanders, had taken charge of the orbital fleet three years earlier. He spoke over his shoulder to his Hephaestus Chief of Operations, Maj. Olivia Hand.
“Major, you are about to witness groveling indigos,” he said. “Should I be diplomatic?”
“Have you taken such a tack with this lot before, sir?”
“Never.”
“Too late in life to change now, sir.”
They shared a knowing smile as they introduced themselves with a side-nod. They did not shake hands. Each Hiebim wore a white shomba, although Cabrise knew the two thickly bearded men on his right were Messengers. Butchers, he mused. Pathetic, all of them.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “we will have no pleasantries here. I wish to proceed to the heart of the matter. Maj. Hand and I are here at the specific request of the Patriot command staff because you see an opportunity to end this war but lack the confidence to do so on your own. You have decided the UG is the most effective tool for ending this conflict cleanly and efficiently. A wise conclusion, but also one any child could have reached. Of course, you had an opportunity to end this slaughter three months ago and have paid a considerable price ever since. Nonetheless, we are here to eliminate both your military and political inconveniences. I trust I have said nothing out of turn?”
Cabrise glared at each general, none of whom returned direct eye contact. Finally, Patriot Gen. Hussein Barrabas spoke for the Hiebim.
“We are honored by your presence, Admiral,” Hussein said, unable to hide his indignation at Cabrise’s sharp tongue. “You are … direct … but this is neither time nor place for disagreement. I know my brother Shalik would have said the same were he here today.”
“Ah, yes.” Cabrise nodded. “The Rashadii incident. Unfortunate but hardly unexpected. My condolences, I’m sure. Now to the matter. Maj. Hand, please open your CV to the formal declaration of alliance. Gentlemen, this document is quite lengthy, and I rather suspect you will not have the inclination to read it in its entirety, nor do I have the time to indulge. Simply put, it states that you, the representatives of said warring elements, formally request the Unification Guard to use all military means at its disposal to end this civil war by sunset tomorrow. We are discharged to eradicate all rogue elements of the so-called Messengers of Hope. Furthermore, we are not responsible for collateral damage to the civilian population or to Patriots of Hiebimini who happen to be within designated attack zones. We will, however, take care to avoid non-military targets. When the Messengers’ ability to make war is neutralized, we will withdraw all forces – including those currently enforcing safe zones around brontinium mines – and will return to the fleet pending a full disarmament of all enemy combatants. I will need each of you to impress your gene-stamp upon this document.”
The Patriot generals stammered. “Disarmament?” Hussein said. “Our negotiators said nothing about … Admiral, anger will be in the air for a very long time. We cannot give up the means of defending ourselves.”
“You can, and you will. You were one of those Patriots who came out in favor of the Rashadii armistice. That document called for phased disarmament under peacekeeper supervision. Are you going to be like the hard-liners who destroyed that hope of peace and sabotage your people again?”
The other generals protested as well, and Gen. Assam Hajib spoke for the Messengers. Assam, who had advocated a takeover of Messalina on Declaration Day and whose son assassinated Gen. Benazir Asiah, said disarmament would never be more than an illusion.
“The Polemicus clan spent generations building weapons caches under the nose of the Chancellors, and Hadeed successfully smuggled those around the planet years before the war,” Assam said. “You will never find all the leftover pistols and rifles. And anyone can make a Phalyx bomb from scratch. All the Messengers learned how.”
“Your point?” Cabrise said while rolling his eyes.
“No matter how the war ends, we will never be the same people. These weapons are a part of our new identity. Collect the ones left behind and ask for all others to volunteer their weapons. If you dictate the terms of disarmament, people will remember Hadeed’s message, what he said on Declaration Day. This won’t be the last war, I can assure you.”
Cabrise turned to Maj. Hand and offered a befuddled glance.
“Strong words for a traitor, Gen. Assam,” he replied. “If I had my way, both you Messengers would be taken out and shot henceforth. But, I rather suspect you lot will settle matters among yourselves in due course. Now, to the declaration. The clause regarding disarmament will remain as is. If you have a problem, feel fr
ee to consult your local Sanctum after tomorrow. Otherwise, please provide your gene-stamp.”
Each looked down as he pressed a finger against the CVid and became a signatory to the last act of nine years of misery. When the generals completed the task, Cabrise pointed outward toward the encampments.
“Gen. Hussein, your forces are to engage the Messengers when they attack at dawn. They are to defend their positions until our assets are in place. We will not be accused of incinerating Hiebim not engaged in combat. When notified, you will signal a general retreat. Make sure your forces move quickly. We will send in battle Scrams for a strafing run. They will drop incendiaries along the Messenger vanguard. You will almost certainly lose a fair number of Patriots during this assault, but it cannot be helped. The shock will stop their advance and allow us to deploy orbital suppression fire. Except for certain cleanup measures, I anticipate the Messenger army to be demolished by mid-morning.” He turned to all the generals. “Gentlemen, if you have never seen orbital slews in action, you will be highly impressed. Questions?”
Gen. Assam spoke with hesitation. “I ask only that you take mercy on those who flee the battlefield altogether and enter the hills. They will be of no threat, and the war will be over.”
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