by Joe Vasicek
The news had a curious effect on Danica—it hit her like a blow to the gut and sent her to the cabin to get a drink. Eight shots of Tajji vodka later, she staggered into the public bathroom, vomited all over the floor, and passed out with her head in the toilet. She woke up in Lars’s quarters with a sky-splitting headache and a cold pack on her forehead, naked except for a patient’s gown and overcome with a terrible bout of depression. For the first time in years, she wanted nothing more than to shut out the universe and be done with it all.
Instead, she vomited a second time and promptly passed out.
Her dreams were surprisingly lucid, a patchwork nightmare of memories from her life before her mercenary career. She saw herself as a little girl, playing with Karen in a field of grass. She saw her father, dressed in full uniform, bouncing her on his leg while the medals on his chest jingled like miniature bells. She saw her mother, tucking her into bed and kissing her goodnight. Then, air raid drills and bomb shelters, pink and orange explosions against the night sky—her mother, sobbing uncontrollably as they said goodbye to her father for the last time.
On the scanner, she saw a hundred Imperial dreadnoughts jump into local space. She was on board a ship now—the last ship to escape from Tajjur V. In a panic, she realized that her family was still on the planet’s surface. She struggled with titanic effort to lift her legs and run to the pilot’s chair, but her feet were frozen to the spot; all she could do was watch.
The blue-green world of Tajjur V loomed large in the forward window. White clouds drifted across the verdant planetscape like puffs of cotton. While she watched, hundreds of Hameji mass accelerators took their positions in orbit and pointed their kilometer-long cannons at the surface. In unison, they ejected billions of tons of iron and space rock into the surface of her beloved homeworld. The white cotton clouds turned gray, then black, then red as the world began to bleed. It ran crimson with the blood of all the innocent souls killed by the Hameji and the Gaian Imperials, all the women and children massacred like her family from the senseless oppression.
She woke up drenched in sweat.
At first, she thought she was in the medical bay of the Tajji Flame. Then Lars entered the room, and she realized she was still on the Freedom’s Banner. A sudden longing for her own ship overwhelmed her, a longing so strong that it would have brought her to tears had she not been so exhausted.
“Good morning,” said Lars. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I woke up on the wrong end of an orbital cannon.”
He laughed. “At least you don’t look it.”
Danica wasn’t so sure.
Two hours later, after she’d showered, dressed, and eaten, she felt a little better. The alcohol passed through her system easily enough, but escaping her own tortured thoughts was much more difficult. Ever since the Gaian occupation forces had slaughtered her family, she’d harbored the vague hope that one day she would have her revenge on them for what they’d done. Now, with Gaia Nova obliterated and the Empire in ruins, that vengeance was impossible.
Are you pleased with me, Father? She couldn’t imagine he would be. Where was she when the Imperials had finally met their end? Holed up on a local freighter in the Karduna system, limping back from a failed mission. She’d had more than a decade to avenge her family’s deaths, and she’d squandered it. In all those years, she wondered, what good have I accomplished?
There was her crew, of course. That was something of an accomplishment, taking care of all them—but wait. Anya, Ilya, and Artyom were dead. Vaclav had chosen to leave. Abu Kariym was still with them, but his wife and children had been living on Gaia Nova; he’d probably be leaving soon to search for them. And as for Roman—Danica didn’t even want to think about how much she had cost him.
At least James is still alive, she thought bitterly to herself. At least I saved the boy.
Or had she?
With a start, she realized that she hadn’t spoken with him since leaving Kardunash III. For all she knew, he could have killed himself—God knew he must be contemplating it.
Not waiting another second, she rose to her feet and went straight to his quarters.
* * * * *
“Ensign McCoy!”
The sound of Danica’s voice broke through James’s moroseness. He blinked and sat up on his cot.
“What is it?”
“I think you and I need to have a little chat.”
Why? What’s there to talk about? The contract was complete—the mission was an utter failure. What could she possibly want with him?
“Sure,” he muttered. It was easier than saying no.
She took a seat on the other end of the cot and stared into his eyes. “You look like a broken man,” she said. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Tell you what?”
“What’s bothering you,” she repeated. “What’s on your mind.”
He blinked again. The light in the room seemed suddenly very bright.
“I don’t know,” he muttered.
“Bullshit. You know. Tell me.”
He drew in a deep breath. “It—it’s just hard to believe that they’re gone.”
“That who’s gone?”
James said nothing.
“McCoy,” said Danica, “Look at me.”
James lifted his eyes from the floor and looked her in the face. To his surprise, she seemed distraught.
“You need to quit feeling sorry for yourself,” she told him. “This moping around isn’t going to get you anywhere. You have a future. You have a family and a home waiting for you.”
“No,” he said. “I broke the law when I left. My father never left me the Catriona, I stole—”
“I don’t think for a second that that’s going to keep your parents from taking you back. Neither should you.”
She gave him a meaningful look. James glanced back down at the floor without saying anything. Several moments passed.
“You want to know something?” she asked. “Did you know that I had a brother who looked just like you?”
“No.”
“I did. And you know what happened to him?”
“What?”
“The damned Imperials tortured and killed him.”
James glanced up.
“They slaughtered my entire family after taking over my homeworld,” Danica continued. “My father was an admiral in the Tajji navy, and when they interrogated him, he wouldn’t talk. That’s why they killed us.”
James frowned. “How did you escape?”
“I didn’t. I left in a misguided attempt to save my father. When I returned and found them dead, I ran away, vowing to avenge them.” She sighed. “But revenge is a tricky business, especially when you’re fighting a faceless enemy. Eventually, I settled for a life as a mercenary.”
“I’m sorry about your family,” James said.
“I am, too. Now, let me ask you something: do you think I ever got to say goodbye?”
Danica’s face had reddened somewhat, and she sounded angrier than he’d ever heard her.
“N-no. Why?”
“Because you did,” she said, pointing her finger into his chest to drive the point home. “You did. You said goodbye to your sister. You said goodbye to your brother. Those are things that I never had—things that billions of victims in this war never will.”
James bit his lip as his eyes went blurry. His shoulders started shaking; he couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.
“But she’s not coming home.”
Danica didn’t answer right away. James cried quietly for a few moments, until he got a hold of himself. He rubbed his eyes and glanced up. Danica’s expression had changed; she didn’t seem as angry anymore.
“Sometimes, you just have to let go,” she told him. “If you want to do what’s best for those you love, you have to be willing to sacrifice your wants for their needs.”
James nodded; there was some truth in that.
“You’re not a kid anymore,”
she continued, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve proven that you’re willing to put everything on the line. In a war-torn universe, that’s no small thing. You’re not one of the sheep, James—you’re one of the sheepdogs. You’ve got what it takes to protect the ones you love.”
James wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “What about Stella?”
“Stella will be fine,” said Danica. “She’s not a little girl anymore.”
This time, James couldn’t help it. Tears spilled out of his eyes, but they were good tears, the kind that left him feeling alive and well. Danica sat down and put an arm around him, and they stayed together like that for a long time, joined by a bond stronger than death itself.
* * * * *
Sholpan’s feet felt heavy as she walked through the station terminal to the tram. An honor guard of ten of the strongest Hameji soldiers escorted her, to protect her from would-be assassins. To her, they seemed more like prison guards escorting her to a new cell.
I could have left all this behind, she thought morosely to herself as the tram sped down the docking arm, taking her to the airlock for her shuttle. I could have gone home.
On board, she settled down in the ostentatiously furnished passenger cabin. Pillows and cushions lay scattered across the floor, much like the shuttle that had taken her from the prisoner ship to the Lion of Tenguri. She sighed—back then, she’d found it incredibly luxurious; now, it was nothing more than the tacky trappings of half a dozen conquered stars—the lifeless remains of dozens of conquered and subjugated peoples. With the hellish redness of Kardunash III shining down through the window-wall, she felt as if she were in some surreal space between life and death. It made her shudder.
At that moment, the terminal in the corner began to chime, announcing the receipt of a private message. Caught by surprise, Stella stood up to check it out.
The message was written in New Gaian. That’s odd. She checked the sender—perhaps it was Lars, giving her an update on the situation with her brother.
It wasn’t from Lars, though. It was from Zeline.
Lady Sholpan, it began, I hope this message finds you well. Qasar always returns from his court sessions in an awful mood; perhaps your presence helped to alleviate some of his misery in the necessary duties of governing the planetborn.
Sholpan frowned and reread the opening paragraph. What was Zeline trying to say? Was this a threat?
When you get back, I would be delighted if you would join me for coffee. I feel that our first meeting could have gone better, and I would appreciate another opportunity to show you my hospitality. The other wives still believe that you orchestrated Borta’s murder—
Meaning, of course, that Zeline didn’t.
—but I was quite touched by the gracious way in which you mediated between Qasar and his son. I admit, I didn’t know what to think of you at first, but now I look forward to getting to know you better. I hope the feeling is mutual.
Sincerely, Zeline.
P.S: You may be interested to know that I, too, was not born Hameji. Perhaps we can talk about it over coffee.
Sholpan smiled warmly as she finished the message. Nestled in the cushions of the couch, she felt a warm calmness sweep over her—a calmness she hadn’t felt in far too long.
Her stomach abruptly flipped as the shuttle made the jump to the Lion of Tenguri. The harsh red light of Kardunash III disappeared, replaced by the dark, cool night of space.
As the familiar shapes of the Hameji ships grew closer in the window, Sholpan rose to her feet and paced the floor in delight. It was all she could do to keep her jubilation and excitement from bubbling over. She couldn’t wait to meet with Zeline; something told her that this would be the start of a close and lasting friendship.
* * * * *
The last Danica saw of James McCoy was at the Colony’s docking hub. Mikhail, piloting the Catriona, was already there to pick her up—he had been waiting for almost the entire two weeks it had taken the Freedom’s Banner to arrive, traveling at sublight speeds. Fortunately, the people of the Colony had been quite hospitable.
James was visibly quivering as they came to the door leading into the terminal. Danica wondered how he felt, after being away from his family for so long. Even though it was his home, not hers, she felt a bit nervous herself.
The door hissed open, and both of them stepped through to the sounds of cheering. A man and a woman—James’s father and mother, apparently—rushed up and gathered him in their arms. Tears flowed freely as they embraced, while all around them their friends smiled and cheered.
Danica stood off against the wall, watching with her arms folded in satisfaction. Banners hung over the crowd, declaring “Welcome Home James!” and “We Love You!” Here, among friends and family, he clearly belonged.
James led his parents over to meet her. “Are you the captain who saved my son?” asked James’s father.
“Yes,” said Danica, offering her hand. He took it in both of his own and gave her the warmest, most sincere handshake she could ever remember receiving.
“Thank you so much,” he said. “How can we ever repay you?”
“No payment necessary,” said Danica. She turned to James’s mother, who walked up and hugged her in gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said simply, tears streaking her cheeks. Despite her carefully cultivated stoicism, Danica felt herself choke up at the woman’s honest display of emotion.
“Anytime,” said Danica. She turned to James. “Well, McCoy, I guess this is it.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Goodbye, Captain.” He reached up and gave her a parting hug.
“You are always welcome here,” said James’s father. “Please—it’s the least we can do.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Danica. “And when I come back, I expect this young man to have made a name for himself. Am I understood, Ensign?”
“Yes, Captain,” said James. The smile on his face was insuppressible.
“Then goodbye, McCoy.” She saluted before heading back to the docks. James returned the salute.
Take care of yourself, Danica thought to herself as she followed Mikhail into the tram that ran down the docking arm. She smiled and waved goodbye through the window as the car whisked her away, taking her home to her crew.
Author’s Note
In the winter of 2009, I took a class at Brigham Young University covering the history of the Middle East from 500 C.E. to 1800 C.E. The teacher, Professor Hamblin, was awesome—I filled a notebook with quips like “Obama of the steppes” and “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean everyone isn’t out to get you.” The best part of the class, though, was when we studied the Mongol conquests, especially the sacking of Baghdad in 1258 C.E. Baghdad was the cultural center of civilization and culture, and the Mongols completely annihilated it! For weeks, that was all I could talk about—I even started a Facebook group for my friends called “Joe’s Barbarian Horde.” But the most interesting thing about that unit was the rationale behind the brutal Mongol invasion. They believed quite literally that the sky god had given them the entire world, and since the Kurultai had elected Temujin to be the Great Khan of the Mongols, he was only fulfilling his destiny by conquering the world.
Being a science fiction writer, I immediately started wondering what the Mongol conquests would be like in space. I had already world-built an elaborate far-future setting for a science fiction series (more on that in the author’s note to Desert Stars), and my space Mongols fit in surprisingly well. Assuming that it takes a great investment of capital to make a planet habitable, it would make sense that the Outer Reaches of inhabited space would belong to tribes of starfaring nomads who eked out a meager existence on the margins. They would be extremely aggressive, since the only way to expand their living space would be to capture new starships. Also, because they had no home world, the starships they lived on would also be their battleships, meaning that they’d have no way to differentiate between “civilian” and
“soldier.” The society would be extremely hierarchical, with no excuse to waste resources on people who didn’t fall into line. Either you obeyed the captain, or you got chucked out the airlock; life in such a society would be a privilege, not a right.
All of this was fascinating, but it wasn’t enough to make a novel. I decided to combine this idea with another one I’d had a couple years previous: the idea of a perfect techno-democracy. What if internet forums and social networking technology were combined to make a perfectly democratic society, in which all of the decisions were made by a general vote of all the citizens? What would that look like? What sort of values would these people have? Certainly their worldviews would clash very sharply with those of the space Mongols!
Around this time, I signed up for Brandon Sanderson’s English 318 class at BYU. As part of the class, students are required to write 2,000 words per week. I figured I had the start of something promising, so I took the ideas and ran with them. But I still didn’t have any characters—and without characters, you can’t have a story.
Growing up as the oldest brother, I was always very protective of my younger sisters. When I was young, I watched an old Disney Western that had a very profound effect on me. The basic premise of the story was that a band of Indians had kidnapped a young girl from a frontier farm and were going to sacrifice her by shooting her off the edge of a cliff on a certain day at a certain time. The girl’s brother (I think the actor played a role in The Swiss Family Robison, not sure) spent the whole freaking movie trying to rescue her, only to arrive at the top of the cliff just as the Indian chief loosed his arrow and sent her tumbling to her death (later I learned that one of the Indian squaws had traded places with the girl, but that went over my head at the time).
