by Tim Wirkus
Read in such a way, the lives of Valenti and de Bronk become . . . Is there a word for the opposite of a hagiography? If I had more time I would scour the lexicon to see if such a term exists, but I’m afraid such pleasures are behind me now. We’ll call such a disparaging approach a villiography, then, and condemn the practice out of hand, because if we approach their lives with more nuance, we can better understand not only de Bronk and Valenti but Sertôrian as well.
For such a purpose, we turn to Yu-Jin Kim’s An Archival Excavation of the Minoan Years, brilliant in every way, but especially in its biographical sketches of Sertôrian’s shipmates. In this monograph, her magnum opus, Kim pulls illuminating tidbits from the historical record like so many rabbits from the hat of a profligate magician. Because interest in Valenti and de Bronk generally takes such a vilifying tack, Kim’s Archival Excavation—more sympathetic to the two than most studies—is criminally under-read. Her biographical sketches of Valenti and de Bronk remain unrivaled, however, so I will summarize them for the purpose of our current study.
Popular portrayals of Ernst de Bronk, Bombal’s narrative included, show us a weak-willed old man, highly superstitious and simperingly nostalgic for a version of Earth that never really existed. He was born either just before or just after the Treaty of Moros. A citizen of the Lachesian Empire, de Bronk would have experienced none of the cultural amenities about which he waxes rhapsodic throughout the Minoan narratives: ubiquitous automobiles, affordable real estate, jetpacks. This could be inaccuracy on the part of the tales or simply aggressive nostalgia on the part of de Bronk. In any case, it doesn’t help his credibility with contemporary readers.
Nor does his lowly status as technician seventh grade. Many presume gross ineptitude as the reason behind such an old man holding such a low rank. And this is where the research presented in An Archival Excavation of the Minoan Years comes to de Bronk’s rescue.
Within an archive of military files long believed to be lost, Kim discovered de Bronk’s service records: Graduating first in his class from Starhaven, Earth’s finest space academy, de Bronk was given command at age eighteen of a Tiger-Class raiding ship that, on its first mission, successfully liberated eighteen kilotons of crentonium from an Atropian space freighter. Proving this was not just beginner’s luck, young Captain de Bronk further distinguished himself through a series of increasingly daring raids on Atropian mining stations. As a result of these successful missions, he made admiral by age thirty, a truly stunning accomplishment.
Shortly thereafter, however, his military career jumped the rails. Increasingly disturbed by the Lachesian Empire’s ruthless exploitation of its own colonies on the moons of Saturn, de Bronk commenced an escalating campaign of resistance against his native empire’s presence on the Saturnine Colonies. He began civilly enough with strongly worded letters to his superiors, but when that failed to achieve results, his activism escalated, culminating a few years later in a guerilla attack on the Empire’s colonial government headquarters on Titan.
De Bronk was captured, court-martialed, and convicted of treason, and he would have been executed if the Forty-Day War hadn’t drawn his superiors’ attention elsewhere. De Bronk escaped and—here’s the remarkable thing—reenlisted six months later under an assumed identity (Dirk Starr, Venusian gas farmer). After three years of cautious obedience, he won the rank of master sergeant, a position whose privileges he exploited to gather resources and sympathetic soldiers. Then he staged yet another guerilla attack on Titan. And just as he’d been before, De Bronk was apprehended, unmasked, and condemned to death. But once again he escaped at the eleventh hour, this time when Klothian Empire raiders blitzed the penal asteroid where de Bronk was imprisoned. His military records are silent regarding the next two decades of his life, but it would seem that at the beginning of the Great Aurigan War, de Bronk—presumably finding his own empire the lesser of three evils—reenlisted yet again, this time under his own name, and the Lachesian Empire so desperately needed soldiers that he was brought on under the stipulation that he never advance above the rank of technician seventh grade.
In the popular imagination (and in much reputable scholarship), de Bronk holds the dubious distinction of being labeled both a traitor and a lucky fool, because what else but luck could explain his surviving for so long in the Minoan System when other members of Sertôrian’s crew so renowned for their competence died long before he did? Kim’s findings provide a compelling explanation for de Bronk’s ability to stay alive. Even the skeletal biography found in his military record suggests a man with a genius for survival—not a chronic bumbler but a tenacious idealist. What reads as temperamental weakness in the Sertôrial biographic canon could simply be exhaustion after a lifetime dedicated to losing causes. And as we will see in a few chapters, it may well have been idealism, rather than spineless malleability, that led him to join forces with Valenti to such unfortunate ends.
Ava Valenti, for her part, is generally portrayed as an equal and opposite foil to Ernst de Bronk (or vice versa, I suppose), a skeptical woman of science—young, hypercompetent, and an inveterate questioner of Sertôrian’s orders. Many construe this final tendency as symptomatic of an acrid, combative relationship between Valenti and Sertôrian. This, according to Kim, couldn’t be further from the truth.
To support her claim, Kim turns once again to obscure military archives, this time the student records from the Excelsior Space Academy Annex of Iopetus. This top-secret military facility trained the Lachesian Empire’s most elite young warriors in the years leading up to the Great Aurigan War. It not only served as Ava Valenti’s alma mater, but it almost certainly employed Captain Sertôrian as an instructor during the time that Valenti would have been a student.
Prioritizing security as they did during the buildup to the war, the Excelsior Space Academy Annex referred to their instructors in all official documents solely by color-based code names, an attempt to hinder enemy intelligence efforts to track the Lachesian Empire’s best officers. However, allusions in Sertôrian’s later teachings to a prewar stint working with young cadets lead scholars to a near-consensus opinion that Sertôrian did in fact teach at the ESAA.
Many reputable thinkers, Kim included, also find it likely that Sertôrian taught and took a shine to a young Ava Valenti during their overlapping time at the ESAA, which is how Valenti later came to be part of such an elite team at such a young age. Out of Kim’s indefatigable research came a document that serves as, if not a smoking gun, then the next best thing in establishing a prewar acquaintanceship between Valenti and Sertôrian. Toward the end of Valenti’s student file is a summative evaluation of her performance written by one of her instructors, code-named Amaranth. Kim constructs a meticulous argument that identifies Amaranth as Sertôrian. Rather than summarize that argument here, I’ll refer the reader back to An Archival Excavation of the Minoan Years for more details, and utilize this space to reproduce the letter itself. Watch for brief glimmers of distinctly Sertôrial sensibilities:
• • •
Dear Admiral Peridot,
Ava Valenti is the smartest person in her class and she knows it. And when I say smart, I mean it in the most holistic way possible. She absorbs and retains every bit of knowledge that comes her way. She manifests impeccable battle instincts. And she interacts easily with her classmates. The last one impresses me most of all.
I said she knows how smart she is, and she does. Most students mismanage that kind of awareness, either blatantly patronizing their peers and ultimately alienating them or dumbing themselves down and limiting their own education in a misguided attempt to be well-liked.
Cadet Valenti does neither, embracing her own intelligence while simultaneously cultivating a genuine respect for her peers. She admires and learns from those around her and is, in turn, well regarded by her fellow cadets.
I am aware that some of my colleagues have expressed reservations regarding Cadet Valenti’s be
havior toward her superiors. I certainly agree that Valenti does not respect authority for authority’s sake. But even in the military this is no fatal flaw. We’re not looking for mindless sycophants after all.
Of course, my colleagues might argue that in the heat of battle, the last thing a commanding officer needs is a soldier who questions orders. That may be true in some situations, but in my own experience, dissenting viewpoints can also save lives.
My colleagues have recommended putting Valenti behind a desk for the rest of her career. I disagree and recommend field duty, and I would be pleased to have Valenti as a member of my own team.
If you wish to discuss the matter further, you know where to reach me.
Sincerely,
Captain Amaranth
• • •
Although we won’t examine the supposed treachery of Valenti and de Bronk for a few chapters yet, I bring these details up at this point in the study to help us better understand the dynamics among the three wandering shipmates. Reading Valenti and de Bronk not as villains but as multifaceted human beings helps us perform a parallel task with their captain. The ensuing chapters will show us a Sertôrian whose behavior contradicts many of the values she later espoused. Tempting though it may be to push all the fault for these inconsistencies onto Valenti and de Bronk, a rigorous reading of the Rhadamanthus IX narrative will not allow it. With that in mind, we’ll rejoin Bombal’s narrative as the three travelers continue their journey:
• • •
Sertôrian’s dream map led the intrepid party on a several-day trek through some of the planet’s most dangerous regions. Functioning, by necessity, as cohesively as they ever had, the three shipmates made their way through the Bogs of Challis, whose noxious centine gas nearly cost the travelers their lives; past the Ucon Cliffs, where deadly rock monkeys lurked in the shadows, gently gnashing their sharp little teeth; and over the Meridian Hills, home to the carnivorous lucifex moth, which the shipmates narrowly avoided before they crossed the Inhk-Omn River and reached the base of the Twin Falls, where, on the map, X marked the spot.
“We made it,” said Sertôrian as they finally emerged from the thick vegetation at the edge of the Meridian Hills, the majestic Twin Falls towering above them. For a brief moment Sertôrian felt a wave of relief. Her dream map had been unfailingly accurate, from start to finish, which was no small wonder given Sertôrian’s near-complete unfamiliarity with the planet’s terrain. Their arrival at the Twin Falls, then, meant that the map had to have come from a source other than her own mind, from an external intelligence that was purposefully guiding them toward a specific and deliberate objective.
This fleeting reverie was sharply interrupted, however, by that oft-repeated question that Sertôrian had come to loathe in recent months:
“What now?” said Valenti, looking up at the misting falls.
“Yeah,” said de Bronk. “I don’t see anything here that looks like the Bulgakov Apparatus.”
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Sertôrian unslung her pack from her shoulders and set it down at her feet.
“Let’s look around more carefully then,” she said, “and see what we can find.”
Hoping it might trigger some secret door, some hidden signpost, Sertôrian removed the Green Beacon from her pack and stepped farther into the clearing at the base of the falls, walking methodically back and forth across the sunlit ground while Valenti and de Bronk watched her expectantly. Her shipmates’ minor revolt in the Declo Forest had been forgotten in the ensuing days, or rather, all three of them had refused to mention it. Sertôrian had no idea if Valenti and de Bronk felt shame or remorse for what they’d done, or if they were merely biding their time until the opportunity for a greater insurrection emerged.
Whatever their intentions, her crew had opened a rift with Sertôrian that, in spite of the group’s current outward unity, bode ill for their future together. They needed to find the Bulgakov Apparatus, or something they could pass off as the Apparatus, deliver it to the Arch-Kaiser, and get off this planet. If they couldn’t do that—and soon—then Sertôrian had grave doubts about their ability to survive not only this misadventure but also any further misadventures on the few Minoan planets that had not yet waylaid them.
Still pacing methodically at the base of the falls, Sertôrian held the blinking Beacon up higher and watched her surroundings carefully. Thick green moss—encouraged no doubt by the constant mist from the falls—covered every stationary surface in sight: boulders, logs, the sappy trunks of the lofty pines.
“Captain,” shouted de Bronk over the roar of the falls. “Here!”
He pointed at the ground, his wrinkled face animated with glee. There, at the edge of the trees, a sunken arrangement of stones formed a thick black X. Sertôrian felt another too-brief wave of encouragement, the Beacon and its creators having apparently come through for them again. De Bronk stood aside and Sertôrian strode to the marker, Beacon in hand. With her back to the tall, mossy trees, she stood at the center of the X and waited.
For a moment nothing happened. Sertôrian tried holding the Beacon higher, then lower, then closer to her body, and then farther from it. Nothing seemed to make a difference. With a churn of dread, she wondered if this would turn into a repeat of the Plains of Chubbúhc, if they would be forced to wait for weeks and weeks before the Beacon triggered the next phase of their journey.
But then Valenti called out urgently, “Captain, behind you!”
She pointed to a nearby tree and Sertôrian spun around. The tree’s thick green blanket of moss slowly unpeeled itself from the trunk and stretched toward Sertôrian, writhing through the air like a charmed snake. Gasping in spite of herself, Sertôrian tried to anticipate what this sinewy, stretching blanket of moss might be up to. She had no idea, but she decided to stand her ground. Slowly, the strip of moss reached closer and closer until, in a cobra-like strike, it shot forward and curled itself tightly around Sertôrian’s head.
With a cry of alarm, Sertôrian dropped the Beacon and clawed at her face, trying to force her fingers under the edges of the moss. The grasp of her velvety captor only grew tighter, however, fitting itself intimately to Sertôrian’s head, tethering her to the tree. She fell to her knees, her heart battering her ribs. She clawed at the moss, panic rising, until with a reflexive click, her battle instincts took over and she got control of herself.
Breathing deeply, Sertôrian took quick stock and realized to her minor relief that her nose and her eyes remained unobstructed by the still-writhing moss. She could see and she could breathe, which meant she still had more than a fighting chance; she’d been in worse situations than this before and had lived to tell about it.
Her relief lessened, though, as a warm sap oozed out from the underside of the moss, adhering it even more snugly to her head. Maintaining her breathing, she tried to keep a level head. Her discomfort only grew, though, as the syrupy streams oozed into her ears, filling the canals with sap. She fought against her rising panic, taking regular breaths and performing the mental stabilization techniques she had learned so long ago in her academy training.
With the panic once again contained—she could still breathe and she could still see, after all—she stood up, brushed the dirt from the knees of her pants, and saw Valenti and de Bronk watching on, horrified. Sertôrian signaled to them that she was okay. She wasn’t sure if this was true or not, but for better or for worse, the process seemed to be complete. The helmet of moss and the warm, sticky sap beneath remained motionless. She held very still, feeling the sap harden and cool. Valenti and de Bronk stood poised and ready to intervene. She gave them another placating hand signal, and waited.
It began as a tickle in her ears, a tickle that evolved quickly to a buzz, and then to a rattling, whispery voice. Earphones. The hardened sap probes in her ear functioned as vibrating earphones, an ingenious mechanism that she would have admired if it hadn’t been f
oisted on her so alarmingly. The voice from the hardened sap, in its glottal buzz, told her not to be afraid, at least not yet.
“To attain your final objective,” it said, “you must beat me at liar’s gammon—best two out of three. The rules of the game are not overly complex, but winning requires cunning, foresight, and nerve. You must complete this challenge because the object you seek requires wisdom in its use, and not without wisdom can you defeat me at this game. I will now explain the rules of—”
“Hang on a second,” said Sertôrian, realizing as she did that the hardened sap had formed a cavity around her mouth, allowing her lips to move freely. “Who am I talking to right now?”
“I imagine you have many questions,” said the voice. “And I’ll apologize right now because I can understand none of them. I respond to voice commands that directly relate to the game of liar’s gammon. Anything else falls outside of my cognitive purview. I should add that the use of I and my is primarily a matter of efficiency. I am not a person nor a sentient being, but an electronically preserved catalogue of winning strategies utilized by history’s most accomplished players of the game. With these strategies at my disposal, I’ve been programmed to follow complex algorithms that help me respond to moves you make on the board. Such are the parameters of my cognition, so again, I apologize that I lack the ability to comprehend your questions.”
There was a brief pause before the buzzing voice resumed.
