Aftermath (5 page)

“So where are you?”

“On the other side of the ruins.”

Ruins?
He must mean the city.
Shit. The Morgut leveled it, just like Hit predicted.
It occurs to me then that their attitude reflects ours with their La’heng. I remember Loras saying,
When humanity first visited La’heng, we did not greet them warmly. We killed all of their delegations, rebuffed all attempts to establish contact. They correctly adjudged us a hostile alien race and took steps to civilize us. They seeded our atmosphere with a chemical that dampened our ability to fight.

And then Doc had added,
RC-12. It’s generally only used to sedate violent criminals. It had never been used on a global scale before.

He’s gone now. I’ll never hear him explain in that pedantic tone again. He never judged my overspecialization, my ignorance of larger galactic events. Now it’s up to me to remedy my lack of knowledge.

Loras concluded,
They took La’heng bloodlessly and fed us more drugs to keep us compliant. They didn’t take into account our physiology. We adapt quickly, integrate changes. The RC-12 produced a new generation of La’heng young incapable of fighting, even to defend their own lives. We’re helpless.

The Morgut look on us as we did the La’heng. They don’t see us as capable of making our own decisions, just as we didn’t respect the La’heng desire to protect their insular culture. It seemed incomprehensible to us that they would fight us for no reason, so we
changed
them. I imagine the Morgut finding a way to render humanity docile, uncomplaining meat, and a shudder runs through me, chased by shame. Sometimes I don’t like what it means, being human. We are an ambitious, driven people, but sometimes the dark side spills out, and we’re like selfish children, unable to see beyond our own desires.

Heartsick, I realize I’ve been quiet too long, check our position, then reply, “We’re not far. Just sit tight and give us an hour. We’ll get there.”

“I will come to meet you at the city center and guide you to the ship.”

“Can’t wait to see you. Jax out.” I hit the button to terminate the connection. “Looks like we have an exit.”

“Let’s move,” Hit says.

“Double time.”

Buoyed by hope, I speed into a jog. The day is bright and new as we break from the jungle, feet pounding over mud and fallen leaves. Droplets splash up, spattering my knees, but I can hardly get dirtier than I already am. There’s no benefit in slowing down, but I do pace myself, so I can manage the last kilometers as quick as humanly possible.

Flat farms occupy the no-man’s-land between jungle and city, but even those fields have been scorched. Blackened patches radiate outward, crops destroyed, homes decimated. We move past the destruction, but it doesn’t get better. As I jog toward what used to be the largest city on Venice Minor, even at this distance, horror steals my breath. No buildings stand; they’ve been reduced to chunks of stone and ash. Great pits have opened in the streets, a web of cracks raying outward. It makes our passage precarious, and more than once, Hit and I save each other from a painful fall.

The silence is oppressive. No birds. No people. I have never stood in ruins like these. Never. On Dobrinya Asteroid, where my fellow soldiers fought the Morgut and died beside me, I thought I knew the face of war. But this is a monstrous visage, the magnitude of which I could never have imagined. In time, the grasses will grow up through the rock, moss will soften the loss, and animals will nest here. If permitted, Venice Minor will erase all signs of human passage, and that would be better than the alternative, for when they’re done raining death from above, the Morgut will come down and build.

We can’t let that happen. They will not have this world; my mother gave her life to save it, and I will yield them nothing more. It ends here. Somehow. They will not take the war to New Terra.

 

 

 

Mary herself must have been instrumental in your timely reply. Between the Ithtorians who arrived at Venice Minor just before the twofold catastrophe and the gray men hunting the Morgut in other systems, this war may be won, and at a lesser cost than I feared, all told.

Yet the lives were lost in such a way that it doesn’t feel like a regular battle, and there will be inquiries. Indeed, my comm is already alight with demands for information. I hardly know what I will say. I am ambivalent about the outcome. I have no doubt that Ms. Jax did what she thought best, but she is notorious for her lack of regard for authority. My constituents will wonder—and perhaps rightly so—whether there was a cleaner alternative.

I have reviewed the circumstances, and she did save lives on a grand scale, provided we can manage the prohibition on interstellar travel in the interim. That will prove no small feat, and will cost billions of credits as trade is restricted. But I would be a heartless man if I cared only for that aspect. I’m also concerned about the colonies that will suffer from a dearth of supplies, but they would be far worse off if they had Morgut dreadnaughts on the horizon. I am loath to punish a brave soldier for acting in such a fashion, but the public will accept no other outcome. So I fear I have no choice but to step back and permit the legal process to take place. Ms. Jax will take this for spineless disavowal, I have no doubt; she does not tend to see the world in subtle shadings. Sometimes I wish I didn’t, and that I had gone into my father’s business instead of pursuing a career in politics.

It will take the Conglomerate a long time to recover from all this. I hope I have the fortitude to steer the ship, as you put it, for so long. The government would not benefit from a change at this juncture, but I am tired. To address your question, at last, yes, it is hard. I am always on my guard. I trust precious few with any fullness. I suppose you could say the right hand seldom knows what the left is doing. None of my closest advisors know about you, dear Leviter. But instead of higher rank, I do dream, now, of days in retirement, where I will have earned my peace. What do you dream? Such an odd thing to ask of a man who can make the impossible come to pass. And yet, I ask.

Yours,

Suni

 

 

 

 

Jaw clenched, I lead the way through the wasteland. The
impact site still steams heat, though the days of sporadic rain have cooled it enough to make it safe for human passage. Small remnants of normal life leap out at me—part of a sign advertising fresh seafood, a child’s toy partly charred and now discarded. The red polymer of the hat has melted across the doll’s face, so it looks like fresh blood.

I pick my way around fallen metal shards, six meters across, and Hit shakes her head as we pass. “This was a ship.”

Though I never visited Castello, I’ve seen vids. This street used to be green with tropical trees, spiky plants grown in their shade. Flame-hued flowers bloomed in profusion on the ivory walls, and children ran ahead of their parents to splash in the fountains; unlike most cities, they didn’t mind such behavior here. Beautiful caramel-skinned men sold iced drinks from cafés lining the public promenade.

They’re gone now.

I remember teasing March with thoughts about how I intended to retire here, but Venice Minor will do a different kind of tourism henceforth. Too many died here for it to be believable as an unspoiled paradise any longer. Someday, there may be monuments and commemorative plaques, so people don’t forget. Mary knows, I never will. I feel their ghosts watching us as we move through in respectful silence toward the city center, where Vel will be waiting. Adele—my spiritual mentor on Gehenna—would doubtless offer a prayer for these lost souls. I don’t know any sacred words, but I offer some heartfelt ones in their place.

“Find peace,” I whisper to the ashes and the dust, to the broken stones and the soot-stained fountain. I bow my head for a moment.

Hit pauses beside me and offers a longer, more eloquent prayer. “Holy Mary, have mercy on these, your lost lambs. For those who remain, enkindle in us the fire of your love. Send forth your spirit, that our hands perform your work, and together, we may renew the face of the world. Amen.”

“Damn.”

The taller woman shrugs. “Madame Kang was a devout woman in her way. She asked forgiveness each time she sent us out on a job.”

There’s a certain twisted logic in that.

Here at the fountain, the heat must have been so profound as to evaporate the water, melt the pipes beneath the ground, and fracture the basin; at least that’s the evidence left behind. I see the overwhelming damage and once more picture Doc and Evelyn, standing hand in hand. The hurt swells; he was my friend, and I killed him. Even if I never know for sure, I’ll still carry the burden of his loss.

We walk on. In places, shop windows melted rather than shattered, clinging to the remnants of the structures in glittering, uneven waves. Sorrow weights my steps, but with each one, I move closer to Vel—to hope—and soon I’m running again, as much away from these memories as toward the promise of rescue.

Hit keeps pace beside me. I don’t worry about being spotted by the Morgut anymore. So far, we’ve heard no sign of recon drones, and they’ve shut down the planetary communication network with sheer destruction. Vel mentioned scout ships, but unless we power up some impressive machinery, they’re not going to notice us.

I hope.

Ten minutes later, we arrive at the city center, what used to be a civic administrative complex. Now there’s only wreckage and the scent of dust lingering in the air. We climb the steps and wait beside a fallen monument; this used to be a statue of Padric Jocasta, the general who fought in the Axis Wars. His family has been famous for generations, and his descendant Miriam, the diplomat, died in no less spectacular a fashion than her forefather. Now he’s toppled from his pedestal, the bronze melted and disfigured.

“Think he’ll make it?” she asks.

At first, I think she’s talking about Padric, whose monument is clearly cast down, then I realize she means Vel. Before I can answer, I spot movement in the distance.
He never lets me down.
I break into a run, going down the stairs as fast as I can manage in my mud-caked boots.

I’d recognize him anywhere; the commander of the Ithtorian fleet has come to rescue me alone. Somehow I’m not surprised at all. Instead of a hug, I greet him with a heartfelt
wa
.
Dearest white wave, you come for me even to the breaking place . . . and brown bird waits in despair.

He returns the salutation.
Always, brown bird. The tides are locked.
And then he takes me in his arms. Huddled against his cold chitin, I should be more conscious of his otherness, cradled by claws that could disembowel me, and yet he is dearer to me than my own heart. He is not the same person as when we met, but . . . neither am I. Time has refined us, but instead of pushing us apart, we’re closer than ever.

“Come,” he says. “Let us return to the ship. There, it will be safe to talk.”

Though it’s another four kilometers, the journey passes in a blur of dizzying relief. Neither Hit nor I have eaten much in the last twenty-four, but it doesn’t matter. Determination will carry us as far as we must go. I move in silence, avoiding the worst of the wreckage.

As Vel told us, their ship—a skiff with a skeleton crew—put down on the other side of Castello. This private estate fared slightly better than my mother’s villa, and there’s no further hell falling from the blue sky. This is a small, light vessel, sleek and aerodynamic. Interestingly, it’s crafted of a dark alloy, probably nearly invisible to the naked eye at night. Hit and I board, grateful to be out of the elements; I’m sunburned, chafed, and covered in bug bites, but I’m alive.

With effort I put the guilt aside. There will be a time for me to let it excoriate me.
Just not now.
So I take stock.

This ship reminds me of the one Dina won from Surge, at least in terms of size. It’s newer, of course, just built in the revitalized shipyards on Ithiss-Tor. The hub has eight seats and two corridors heading off in opposite directions. One must lead to the cockpit, as we came down the other from the boarding area. A couple of Ithtorians linger here, working on the equipment, but they give me the impression they want to listen in. I wonder if that means they have translation chips. Tiredly, I drop down onto the nearest seat, appointed for Ithtorian comfort, which means the backs are longer and the seats are lower to the floor.

As I strap in, Vel hands me a packet of paste. Grimacing, I tear it open with my teeth and squeeze a glob into my mouth. “I thought you couldn’t abide this stuff—that you’d rather die than eat it.”

“Perhaps,” he admits. “But I would not choose that option for you.”

His words fill me with warmth, despite the situation.

“Catch us up,” I invite.

“Shortly after you disappeared”—his vocalizer offers no judgment on the decision—“March commandeered the
Dauntless
, along with the crew who were fit to fly, and went back up to join the fight.”

Frag.
I understand his state of mind better than I want to. I can imagine what he thought, how he felt, all too well, when he played what might’ve been my final message. He may never speak to me again. This time, I went so far outside the chain of command that I’ll be lucky if they just boot me out of the Armada.

“When did you get here?” Hit asks.

“You were fortunate,” Vel says. “The Ithtorian fleet arrived before you changed the beacons. When we joined the battle, it was only the
Dauntless
, against the whole Morgut vanguard.”