by Dan Moren
Below them lay a city. Not a town, but a full-blown metropolitan center. Low-slung buildings of concrete and steel formed city blocks, divided by streets and boulevards and, to Eli’s amazement, even parks. Lights winked below them, bereft of any rhythm or timing, a veritable discordant symphony of humanity.
Eli glanced over and saw Taylor’s usually impassive face mirroring the wonderment on his own. Tapper, however, had barely shifted from the same flat, emotionless expression he’d been wearing since they’d gotten off the ship. Neither Wei nor her silent companion reacted, but Eli supposed they saw it every day. M’basa was somewhere in between the two extremes, though she smiled sidelong at Eli.
“I can’t quite get over it either,” she said in a hushed voice that wouldn’t have been out of place in a chapel.
Eli shook his head. He could only think of one other thing he’d seen in his life that had evoked the same sort of feeling – the wormhole gates that connected systems for interstellar travel. Calling it man’s triumph over nature was kind of a misnomer; nature was not there to be tamed or broken. It was more a sense of what man could accomplish in concert with nature – it reminded him of pictures he’d seen in textbooks showing Earth’s old mills using paddle wheels to harness river currents for power.
“It’s a hell of a sight,” murmured Eli, shaking his head. They were still descending, a solid minute after they’d first entered the cavern, a testament to just how high up the landing platform had been.
As he looked back up, a glint caught his eye. A series of small squares were positioned around the cavern. Mirrors?
Some long forgotten tidbit from a science textbook floated to the top of Eli’s mind. In order to approximate the planet’s standard twenty-six hour day, they used a system of heliostats positioned on the upper sides of the mountain, combined with a series of specially bored shafts, fiber optic cabling, and these mirrors to provide sunlight inside the city. Helped keep the plants alive, and definitely had its benefits for the citizenry too: nobody wanted to feel like they lived in a cave, even if they actually lived in a cave.
The lift had finally dropped to the floor of the cavern, and the doors behind them whooshed open, letting them into a small foyer, lit in crepuscular hues. Unlike the rough-hewn caverns that had led from the docking platform, this had an unquestionably manmade look to it.
Wei turned to them. “I’ll leave you here, in deputy consul M’basa’s capable hands. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Eli inclined his head. “The pleasure has been ours, Director Wei. Thank you.”
Without a parting glance, Wei turned on her heel and left through a side passageway, her ever-silent security associate trailing in her wake. M’basa in turn gestured to a set of glass sliding doors. The three of them followed her through, exiting into what appeared to be a tunnel for ground traffic. At the foot of a short set of stairs sat a compact black hovercar, with the tinted windows Eli had come to associate with official transportation. While it didn’t boast anything as tacky as the seal of the Commonwealth emblazoned on the door, Eli was pretty certain that anybody scanning the vehicle’s ID would quickly discover that it was a protected diplomatic transport.
M’basa held the back door open, ushering them in. She herself slid onto one of the two facing seats. Without another signal, the car pulled away from the curb.
“So,” said M’basa, turning towards them. Her face had lost the playful smiles of earlier, replaced instead with an all-business demeanor. “Now that we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way, would you like to tell me who the hell you are and what you’re doing here?”
Interlude
Earth Marine Corps Medical Frigate EMS Barton – May 27, 2397
Earth. It looked like a globe from the viewport of the frigate. Of course, it was a globe, just not one of those made out of plastic that hung in schoolrooms the world over. The world over. The private turned the phrase in his mind, eyeing it from an unexpected angle. It wasn’t just any world, after all – for millennia it had been the only one humanity had ever known. For centuries after that, it had been the only one they’d visited. And for decades after that, it had been the only one they’d inhabited.
Now it was shrinking in the rear-view mirror.
“Sit down, kid,” growled a voice. “You’re making me nervous.”
He turned to face the sergeant, who was leaning back in the chair, his feet perched on the corner of the hospital bed. The older man studied his face intently, then shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”
The private was going to make a sour expression, but just the memory of pain convinced him to let those muscles be. “A walk in the park,” he managed, through clenched teeth.
“Well, the next time I tell you to get down, maybe you’ll listen.” The sergeant turned his attention to the vid monitor hanging opposite the private’s hospital bed. Currently, it was showing a talking head on some sort of fleetwide broadcast, but the sound was turned down. It wasn’t likely to be good news, anyway.
The private couldn’t think of a response cleverer than a grunt, so he left it at that and hobbled back to the bed. The sergeant swung his legs down as the private levered himself back in, arranging the covers around him. He didn’t try too hard – he’d learned from experience that the nurse would cluck his tongue at him when he came back anyway.
“They fixed your hearing, at least,” said the sergeant.
“What?”
“I said they… oh, aren’t you the comedian.”
The corners of the private’s mouth turned up. Bad as the burns were, they were treatable. According to the doctors he’d make a full recovery thanks to some time in a hyperbaric chamber and skin regeneration therapy. Restoring his hearing had been the more challenging procedure, requiring the insertion of specialized implants. Ear damage was notoriously difficult, and couldn’t easily be repaired by regrowing his cells. Not yet, anyway. One of the doctors, a specialist, had told him there was great hope for advancements in the field – perhaps even especially now there was a war on, a thought that the private found unsettling – but not to get his hopes up. At the moment, he was happy he could hear anything, even if it was just the sergeant’s gibes. He let his eyes close and focused on the sounds around him: the distant thrum of the frigate’s massive engines, the regular bleep of the monitor at his bedside, even the somewhat raspy breathing of the sergeant beside him. They were each one of them rhythmic – soothing even. He’d just started to relax into a kind of waking restfulness when a rap at the door roused him.
“Pardon me,” said a man’s voice. “I’m looking for a…” he paused and there was the sound of tapping on a display, followed by a hesitant, “Simon V… Vy… a… ch–”
“Vyacheslav,” said the private, in an attempt to save the man from himself. Opening his eyes, he turned his head towards the door. An olive-skinned man with dark hair and lieutenant’s bars on his collar looked up from a tablet, his expression barely hiding the dismay as he met the eyes of the man in the hospital bed.
“Kovalic?” finished the lieutenant.
“That’s me,” said the private. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t salute. Sir.”
“Uh,” said the lieutenant. Clearly, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. “Of course. I’m Lieutenant Sen.” He stepped into the room, tucking the tablet under his arm. “I’ve been charged with… Well, that is to say, it’s my honor to…”
“Oh for chrissakes,” muttered the sergeant from his chair, his eyes still firmly on the vid monitor.
“I’m sorry?” said the lieutenant.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Right, well.” He cleared his throat and launched into a well-practiced speech. “Private Kovalic, it is my duty – and privilege, yes – to bestow upon you this commendation for bravery in the field of action.” Finished, he looked hopefully at the private.
The private raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, right,” said the lieutenant, suddenly, pulling a flat box out o
f one pocket of his uniform. “This is the Earth Marine Corps Bronze Star.” He snapped the box open, showing a shiny bronze star surrounded by two olive branches. It hung from a green ribbon with a thick gold stripe down the center, flanked by two smaller gold stripes. For a moment, he made as if to remove it, then seemed to realize that with the private still in his hospital gown, there was nowhere to pin it. Instead, he closed the box and set it on the bedside table. Then, clearing his throat, he gave a crisp salute that was, so far, the smoothest thing about him.
“Thank you for your service, private. Your planet appreciates it.” With a nod, he consulted his tablet and went off to find his next victim.
The sergeant stood and reached over Kovalic’s blanket-swaddled legs to flip open the medal box. He let out a low whistle. “Nice hardware, private. I’m sure they’ll be back with mine when that pencilhead finally works his way down to ‘T.’”
The private glanced at the medal, then looked away. Out the viewport, where the planet was still diminishing in their wake, he couldn’t help but see the limp form of Lieutenant Carlin lying on the ground, the grass rippling around her as the shuttle took off.
“More like the Earth Marine Corps commendation for stupidity in battle,” he muttered. “And for what?”
“Oi,” said the sergeant, his brow knitting. “None of that now.” He crossed his arms, eyeing the sullen man in the bed. “You didn’t save the LT, that’s a fact, but you didn’t put her where she was, neither – that was her own damn fault. They want to give you a medal for it, you say ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ and click your heels.”
The private’s mouth set in a disapproving line, but he didn’t say anything.
“Look,” said the sergeant. “End of the day, you risked your life for someone else, even if she was beyond saving. That’s what that’s for.” He nodded at the medal. “It’s a reminder of what wearing the uniform is all about.”
Chapter 8
The uniform hung, perfectly pressed, in Kovalic’s closet. It exuded an air of judgment that seemed improbable from a garment of cloth and metal, an implicit challenge.
He didn’t wear it often – maybe once a year – and unfortunately, all too often for occasions like this. He’d unzipped it from its vacuum bag and let it air out while he was in the shower and changing the dressing on his shoulder. But now, standing in front of his closet with water dripping from his hair, he tried to meet its stare, with mixed success.
It had been two days before Kovalic had been able to roust himself. After Nat’s visit, he’d spend the better part of the first day mildly inebriated, watching whatever came on the vidscreen in his apartment. Over the years, he’d learned that the end of many missions could be jarring – a dramatic plunge from the high of being in the field – and were thus best treated with something mind-numbing: bourbon, diluted with the latest celebrity gossip, sports scores, and dramatic vid series seemed to do the trick. The real key was not getting sucked in: twenty-four hours of recovery and then you got back on the horse. Like a controlled burn.
That might have been too many metaphors.
This time was different, part of his mind argued. This time someone hadn’t come back. He could take a little extra time, get a little drunker. But he’d seen what happened to operatives who embraced the excuse, succumbed to the temptation to numb themselves out of existence entirely.
Letting out a breath, he reached with a tentative hand to grasp the uniform’s hanger. He cursed himself for his hesitancy: it wasn’t as if the thing was going to shock him. It was just a uniform – his uniform.
In his line of work, he’d worn any number of uniforms from any number of services, including plenty of those from sides other than his own. But the one thing he never wore on a job was his own uniform. It was purely a matter of practicality: uniforms identified you. They told a story: which side you were on, what conflicts you had seen, even how long you’d been in service. All of those details, minor as they might seem, were too dangerous for someone in his line of work to give away. So more often than not, even when he was on assignment in Commonwealth space, he either stuck to civilian garb or wore a perfectly assembled uniform that still told a coherent, logical story – just one that was most assuredly not his.
But this was his – forest green trousers and a high-cut military jacket over a white shirt and black tie – and the story it told wasn’t fiction but biography. From the Occupation War campaign ribbon to the Commonwealth Commendation for Exemplary Service that the general had wrangled for him after a recent mission, you could retrace the last twenty years of Simon Kovalic’s life through the decorations on his dress jacket. He actually held distinctions from several services, including the now defunct Earth Marine Corps, in which he’d served for a grand total of three years before it was dissolved and replaced with its Commonwealth equivalent.
He reached out and fingered the worn green ribbon. That first commendation was one among many now, each with their own story to tell, but whereas some of them had faded over the years, that one retained perfect fidelity.
With a deep breath, he locked his eyes on the uniform, then pulled it from the rack, meeting that challenge it had laid down.
After all these years, and all these losses, was he still worthy of wearing it?
Two hours later, Kovalic stepped out of the small suburban house that Jens had shared with his husband, Mario, and their two small children. If there were any justice the day would have been overcast and rainy, but the sun was shining with its usual enthusiasm, and there was nary a cloud in the sky. Nova’s climate verged on tropical in most of its habitable regions, so at mid-morning it was already halfway to sweltering. Part of Kovalic wished he hadn’t decided to walk from the transit station half a mile away in full uniform, but he’d felt uncomfortable requisitioning a car, even for a perfectly legitimate purpose like this one.
Kovalic’s lips pressed into a firm line. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to notify the next of kin of someone who had died under his command. He’d only been able to provide vague information as to the nature of Jens’ death – the mission was still classified – but he’d told Mario that Jens’ sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. He’d swallowed lies like those before, but the bitterness of this one had stuck in his craw. At least he’d been able to say with some truth that Jens hadn’t suffered; he doubted the pilot had time to register anything before the ship had been blown out of the sky.
He needn’t have worried about transportation, he saw, as he started down the steps. A low-slung black hovercar was already parked out front, and standing before it was the general.
With a deep mental sigh, Kovalic strode down to meet the old man, who was leaning lightly on his cane. At least the general had opted to retain his usual casual outfit, a simple black tunic and trousers, rather than don his full uniform. And wouldn’t that have caused a stir.
As it happened, the “general” part of his title was largely honorific, in recognition of his long years of service – albeit on the other side of the war. He held no official commission in the Commonwealth military; rather, he’d been appointed to his current post by the Commonwealth Executive itself. Thus, the only uniform in the old man’s closet was the full Illyrican dress uniform – complete with a chest full of medals – that he’d been wearing when he defected, nearly six years ago now.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”
The general gave him a sharp look. “Flight Officer Jens was part of my team too, captain. And while you may have been the commander on the ground, I was the one who assigned the mission.” He cocked his head to one side. “You, of all people, should know that I don’t take loss lightly.”
Kovalic’s teeth clicked together. “Of course. Sorry – I’ve been a bit on edge since this whole thing, I’m afraid.”
A weathered hand grasped his shoulder. “I think we all have,” the old man said. “Can I offer you a ride?”
Kovalic inclined his head, and slipped into the hovercar. Th
e general followed suit, closing the door behind him. In the typical efficiency that Kovalic associated with the old man, the car immediately peeled off down the street, without any need for direction or destination.
The old man sighed, and shook his head. “Terrible business, Simon. I am sorry.”
Running his hand along the leather of the seat, Kovalic didn’t respond. The interior of the car was posh, but not ostentatious. More to the point, the sound of the outside world barely registered inside the steel and glass cocoon. An explosion could go off right outside, and you might only hear a muted thump. It was easy for him to forget, sometimes, that the general was a hunted man, but he supposed the old man never really forgot.
“Truth be told,” said the general, “I wasn’t entirely forthcoming. Jens’ death wasn’t the only thing that brought me here.”
“Oh?”
“Something’s come up.”
“That’s… vague.”
The general drummed his fingers on the armrest, as if having an internal debate, but finally appeared to come to a decision. “While I was at IIS, I spent some time cultivating a… personal intelligence network. Assets that reported not to a handler, but directly to me.”
Kovalic blinked. “I thought the Executive required you to divulge all knowledge of operations as part of the conditions of your defection.”
The old man cleared his throat. “Technically the deal stipulated that I had to reveal all knowledge of foreign operations – that is, those in the Commonwealth and on other independent worlds. That I did, to the letter.”
Realization slid over Kovalic like the sun breaking through a thick afternoon fog. “You had a personal intelligence network inside the Illyrican Empire?”
The general offered only a modest shrug. “My concern was the stability of the entire Imperium. You, of all people, should know that simmering resentment is practically an Illyrican pastime. It may be an empire now, but at heart it’s still that lost colony that spent a couple hundred years believing it had been abandoned by Earth.”
