He called up the roster in his visual display and tallied up the number of men and Granth that had been lit up by the practice robots.
"Not bad," he widecast. "Now let's clear these defeated enemies off the floor and go again."
Vance was pleased at how few groans he heard in response.
****
Jenna passed their young son to Vance. He gently took the infant from his wife's arms, cradling the boy's head.
He smiled as his son squirmed and made faces. Even though this was their fourth child, Vance hadn't gotten over the wonder of witnessing an entirely unique new life develop.
One thing was different, however. They had decided on an old name for the boy, a very old name, one that Vance had discovered while studying the historical files on warmaking. He was to be named Jackson, not after any particular soldier or general, although the name popped up with regularity in the old accounts of battle. The archaic sound of it just seemed to fit the newborn child.
When Vance had first mentioned the name he had expected Jenna to object, but she’d surprised him. "We're adopting the old ways again," she'd said. "It seems right that we should remember these old names."
The old ways. She had been right, of course. For a thousand years, the burden of protecting mankind had been borne by the gods. No more. The gods were dead, crippled or missing. War would have to be conducted by flesh-and-blood humans.
The fighting from now on would be very personal.
Old ways.
He rocked his son slowly, watching the searching look on his face. The boy yawned and closed his eyes. They had not told anyone else about the name they’d selected.
Since assuming command of the City Guardians and studying the fighting methods of the past, he'd gained a new perspective on his children. A longer view. He had, of course, always loved them, protected them and instructed them. But now he discovered within himself renewed appreciation of them as links in a chain as old as the human race. The only future, the only immortality, that humans could exercise a bit of control over was in the production of children.
The squealing, squabbling, fascinating little people were a constant reminder of what the fight was really about.
It was hard for Vance to visualize just how many people had once populated the Earth. His sessions in the data archives had brought home the enormity of the loss in a way he had never before grasped. He had always known, thanks to standard City education, roughly how many people had perished in the Otrid attack, but he'd never had the perspective to visualize just how many living beings that had represented.
Billions. Billions! Each one unique, each one cut short.
Vance had uncovered other unpleasant facts. He had been shocked at how common large-scale deaths had been even before the destruction of Earth. Man's conflicts were savage in their own ways. In some of the old wars, if the accounts were accurate, there had been single battles that had resulted in the deaths of more people than existed today in all The City and maybe even the Wandering World, although nobody here knew exactly how many people existed in Grey Wolf's protectorate.
It seemed unbelievable to him that human beings could turn on each other so.
"How could they have done that?" he'd asked Talia one day after studying an early era of mechanized warfare that had taken millions of lives. If anyone would know, she would. Talia had spent her life in the archives, first as a Radiant Acolyte, and now as the demigod with access to every scrap of knowledge the human race possessed.
She was silent for a time before answering. "I struggled with that question myself many times as I delved into the past," she said at last. "But the more I studied, the more I realized I could never truly see their lives as they saw them, or understand all the factors that drove their decisions."
"Still," Vance began, "they were…” His voice faltered.
"My view is this: You cannot judge the people of those times by our standards," Talia answered. "They had their own cultures, their own beliefs, their own crises that had to be dealt with. Their own gods, even. They operated under rules created on a world we can never know."
He frowned.
"Don't flinch from their hard-won knowledge, Vance. The lessons they left behind may yet save us all. We'd be in even worse shape without being able to sift through their principles of military organization."
He'd thought about that advice many times since their conversation. He grudgingly accepted the wisdom of it, even if the thought of so many humans killing each other still repulsed him.
But it also forced him to look at the subject from the other side of the timeline. How would those long-gone ancestors look at his actions, if they could see them? How would they judge the lives they lived under a sparkling dome on a far-off moon, worshipping strange gods and hounded by implacable alien enemies?
"Vance? Are you ready?"
His ruminations faded quickly, and once more the world was about the young boy in his arms.
They would understand that much, anyway, he decided.
"Yes. Are the kids ready…” He looked up and saw that his three other children had already assembled by the door, fidgeting in their best clothes. "Ok, then. Let's get to the temple."
They spilled from their second-story home and down the steps to the surface street level. The children halted, though, as the view through the clear dome came into view. They pointed up toward the inner surface of the dome, but Vance knew without looking where they were pointing. They called it Tower's Storm, the bright patch in space where the protector god had self-immolated in one final burst of defiance at the Otrid. The explosion had left behind a cloud of ionized gas and sparkling metal debris that could still be seen across the Lodias system.
Always remember, little ones.
They boarded the cross-City tram, with Jenna herding the kids into open seats.
As the tram accelerated, Prina came to Vance's side and pursed her lips, examining the baby.
"Why do we have to take the baby to Tower's temple?"
"It's a naming ceremony, Prina. We'll officially name him and honor Tower at the same time."
She scrunched up her face in concentration. Vance had to stifle a laugh. "I don't remember other babies doing that," she said.
"It's something that's very new to us in The City, but very old as well, Prina. With Tower gone, we're having to do more things for ourselves. And what helps us is remembering how the people a long time ago used to do things for themselves. And one thing the ancients used to do was take a baby to a temple for a special ceremony."
"Why can't I have a special ceremony too? It's not fair!"
"Oh, there are different ceremonies for big girls. We'll talk about those some other time," he said. He was happy to leave the discussion about the Day of Future Generations to Jenna.
They arrived at the temple district station, and Vance handed Jackson back to his wife. He led the three other children onto the platform and stopped, surprised at the crowd that stood before them.
He led the way through the people, recognizing a few of the faces they passed. He nodded to some of them and they smiled back. Some were buyers of his custom furniture, but it took him a moment to remember how he knew some of them. Then he recalled that he had helped them the first night he had organized the Affiliation of Seekers against the Granth on the day of the invasion.
As Vance's family slithered through the crowd he realized that Tower's temple was the epicenter of whatever had drawn together what seemed like half The City.
He looked over his shoulder to Jenna. "Was there some City-wide ceremony going on today? I haven't seen the temple like this since Tower's funeral."
Jenna shrugged, but Vance noticed she had a peculiar expression on her face.
They reached the entrance to the temple and Vance stopped short, eyes wide and mouth open.
His soldiers were lined at attention, forming a pathway from the doorway to the altar on the far side of the structure.
Vance looked back at his wi
fe once again.
"Did you tell anyone?"
Her voice was soft, and he could see the wonder in her eyes. "Only a couple people, close friends and family…”
The children huddled closer to their parents.
Vance reached down and took Brent's and Prina's hands. Arianna reached out and latched on to his coat. He led his family between the rows of soldiers to the altar.
He was almost there when Talia's voice spoke quietly in his mind via his implants.
"Vance, all these people are here to honor you for your service during the invasion and for what you're doing now. They are celebrating your son's naming day with you."
"But how did they all know?"
There was a note of laughter and warmth in Talia's voice that Vance had not heard before from the demigod. "The City's not that big, Vance," she said. "I would be here to honor you too, but the people of The City need their own celebrations now. On the day of the invasion, you were the first person to independently organize an opposition to the Granth incursion. You saved a lot of lives that day, and you're the first person to remind them that the gods can't do it all. Now you're building our own army. No one has done anything like that for a thousand years."
Vance found he had no words.
The crowd grew silent as he reached the altar. It was a massive slab carved from the depths of Skyra when the foundations of The City had been laid. There were still hundreds of small tokens and offerings left around the altar in memory of Tower.
Jenna walked up next to him, holding Jackson. She laid him gently on the slab.
Jenna raised her eyes to the stylized, shifting images of the god that drifted across the walls of the temple. Each displayed a different Aspect, but all the same god.
She spoke first.
"We will not forget our fallen god," she began. "As a sign of our bond, I bring my child to your temple and lay him in your sight so that you may be the first to hear his name spoken in public," she looked down at the baby and smiled. "His name is Jackson, of the Anderrs line. May he make the gods proud."
Vance only had a very few words prepared. He had never expected this to be a public celebration, with hundreds listening. "Tower, we thank you for the sacrifices you made in watching over us for a thousand years, and for saving us when the darkness of the Otrid returned. Grant that Jackson will show the same bravery and dedication to The City if the time ever comes when it is necessary."
Together, Vance and Jenna laid a token on the altar. Vance had crafted it from silver and a rich red gemstone harvested from outside the dome.
A murmur rose in the background that grew into applause. Vance glanced around the temple, still stunned by the size of the crowd that had come to support his family.
"Enjoy these moments of celebration, Vance," Talia whispered in his mind. "They don't come around very often."
Chapter 7
Flag of the Admiral
By Apex's bulging tool belt, people eat a lot of food.
Mik watched the seemingly unending stream of servitor robots rolling into and out of the first squadron of starships Talia had constructed.
He'd had no idea what an enormous chore simply provisioning a ship for human habitation would entail.
The AI-controlled ships that Tower had created to guard CitySpace, all now destroyed, had no regular crews, just minimal life support for temporary passengers. The Hightower, also originally intended to be an autonomous ship, had had to be hastily modified to allow Mik to travel within. That had been the norm for most of the history of The City—starships guided by gods and AIs, without the need for human design, direction or maintenance.
But these new ships would be completely crewed by flesh-and-blood people, and the logistics of it all were considerable. Food, sanitation, breathable air, medical supplies, entertainments…And the water! Mik imagined Skyra’s entire polar ice cap was being melted to fill the ships’ holds.
The list had filled his days for these many months. Mik felt like an explorer of old, provisioning some sea vessel for a voyage of discovery. Who truly knew what would ultimately be needed? Nobody had undertaken such a task in a thousand years.
And before this point, the construction of the vessels had been an even larger task. Talia had directed a construction swarm of bots to fabricate a shipyard dome, a massive project in its own right. A long-dormant wing of the UnderWorks had erupted in activity as The City’s demigod had shifted an astonishing amount of resources and energy to the assembly of a new generation of specialized construction bots.
City dwellers had watched in fascination as the structure rose above the dead sands of Skyra. The new dome was dedicated to a single purpose—the creation of a new defense fleet. The ships were older designs from the early days of mankind’s presence on Skyra, but were still awe-inspiring to people who had never seen such.
Tower had spent centuries tinkering with his AI-controlled ships, until they had, for all practical purposes, become extensions of himself. Talia, being so recently and hastily elevated, did not have the abilities to recreate the exotic godships, but the earlier models were still formidable in their way.
Mik even preferred them, now that he was so intimately involved with the fleet. They seemed more human in scale, with lines that pleased the eye, and controls that fell easily to hand. Nearest to him was Red Dagger, named after one of the perpetual storms that roiled Lodias’ atmosphere.
But the drudgery of supplying them removed some of the shine from the enterprise.
A com line crackled inside the helmet of his environment suit.
“Admiral? Are you available?”
“What is it, Dellis?” Mik had named Lieutenant Commander Dellis as second in command when he’d assembled his staff. He was capable and charismatic, a man who had navigated the Administrative ranks of the resource division skillfully, but the two of them were still working on delegation of duties.
“Selvan down in hydroponics says we’ve hit our allotment of food, and says you don’t have authority to exceed it.”
Mik would have rubbed his forehead in frustration, if not for the helmet. “Actually, I do. I’ll have Talia—excuse me, I’ll ask the goddess to remind Administrator Selvan that defense appropriations have elevated priority.”
That had been another element of his new position that had been difficult to tame. Most citizens of The City knew Mik, to the extent they acknowledged him at all, as a good-natured Fixer—a tunnel dweller with an eccentric attraction to the machinery of the UnderWorks. In the social hierarchy, he’d been almost invisible. In his new role, there were still people that had problems accepting his authority, especially administrators and others who had once governed The City and were not yet prepared to lose power.
That upending of social norms had been one of the biggest surprises as Mik assembled his fleet. His volunteers came largely from the ranks of craftsmen and engineers, but he’d had a considerable influx of rootless ones, artists, and even acolytes join the Defensive Fleet Corps. He’d heard through Talia that Captain Vance had a similar surge of volunteers for his City Guardians ground forces. In fact, the two branches of the service were in a kind of friendly—although very real—competition for recruits.
The number of people who’d responded to such an important call was heartening—apparently, centuries of living under the protection of gods hadn’t completely quenched the human spirit when it came to defending themselves.
Willingness and ability were two separate things, however, and Mik had spent an inordinate amount of time establishing the training regimens that would get the volunteers up to speed. So much time, in fact, that he’d been neglecting his own flight time, the kind of sustained practice that would help him guide the Hightower through combat situations.
He decided it was time to address that deficiency.
Mik inspected the provisioning of the ships for another hour, ordering a handful of adjustments along the way, then turned over the shift to Dellis. Mik made his way down the center
of the hangar. The skeletons of the new ships, in various stages of completion, loomed up on either side. The ships already seemed alive, their surfaces a blur of frenzied motion as the construction bots raced to complete them, or provision the few that were finished.
When Mik reached the far side of the dome he cycled through the airlock to the open surface of Skyra. The Hightower was berthed by itself on a hastily-constructed spaceport—little more than a flat slab—outside the DFC dome. Talia had ordered a section near the Hightower’s stern painted with an insignia indicating his rank, which still caused Mik a twinge of something nearing embarrassment. It’s not like they maneuvered by sight in the vastness of space, and no passing ship would be saluting his flag.
“It’s a show of strength, Mik,” Talia had said. “And it will hearten the people, give them something to latch their hopes onto.”
As usual, he’d acknowledged she had a point.
As he neared the ship he activated his new comm implants to lower the Hightower’s entry hatch. He made his way up the ramp, inspecting the surfaces and controls, an almost instinctive reaction for him after a lifetime as a Fixer. He cycled through the airlock and removed his pressure suit and helmet. “Ship, illuminate all interior sections,” he ordered, and rubbed his hands together for warmth as the lights flickered to life.
Since provisioning was so fresh in his mind he walked to the central habitat to check on his own supplies. His favorite tools were still secured in their places. His food and drink inventory was sufficient, but he snickered when he spied the bottle of whiskey nestled in its spot, held down by crash webbing. He’d felt like a smuggler when sneaking the bottle aboard, only to laugh at his own foolishness. As admiral, he could provision his ship any way he wished.
Mik continued on to the command bridge, that small cramped space from which he guided the ship. With a sigh he settled into the command chair and allowed the various ship interfaces to descend upon him and wrap him in their embrace. It was never a comfortable experience, but he was getting used to it.
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