by Fonda Lee
That was a job for the police, though, not soldiers-in-erze, and despite the rude reception, Donovan’s instincts told him the man was telling the truth. Anya and her sister hadn’t lived here for months.
Donovan went outside, got onto the e-cycle, and gunned it back toward the Round without looking back. With Anya no longer there, the TransHabs seemed every bit the nasty, squalid place that it truly was. He couldn’t wait to get away from it and return home.
So that was that. Anya was gone and not coming back. He’d probably never see her again.
He wasn’t sure if the pressure building inside him was misery or relief. Anya hadn’t even bothered to let him know she was leaving. She’d put him firmly in her rearview mirror and moved on with her life. He ought to do the same—quit stopping by the street corner to spray-paint that stupid, childish X on the post and stare up at that ugly building like some idiot knight at the bottom of a forbidden tower. Maybe, just maybe, Anya had left more than him behind. Maybe she’d left Sapience behind too and gone in search of a new life, a fresh start.
He could hope.
When Donovan got home, he parked the electricycle and was about to enter the front door when he heard Vic’s voice though the open kitchen window. “What about Donovan?”
“What about him?” Jet’s voice, wary. Donovan stopped, his hand on the door.
“Don’t you think he still needs you around right now?” Vic asked.
Donovan couldn’t see either of his erze mates, but he could hear them clearly enough that the brief pause that followed seemed deafening. Jet said, with a hint of defensiveness, “I’d still see him practically every day. You know I’d do anything for D, but he doesn’t want help. He works through stuff on his own. I didn’t think it was a good idea for him to go on the raid, but he insisted. There’re things he’s still not talking to me about, but he’s doing a lot better.”
“Survivor guilt doesn’t go away that quickly, Jet. I would know.” Vic sighed loudly. “All I’m saying is, you haven’t been in this house long. It just doesn’t feel like the right time. We have to be sure it’s what we want.”
“I’m sure.” Footsteps moved near the front of the house, and when Jet spoke again, his voice was much closer. “Moving in together doesn’t feel like rushing to me. If you don’t think it’s a good time, fine, but if it’s because you’re not sure, you should say—”
The front door opened. Jet startled to see his partner standing on the other side.
“Hey,” Donovan said lightly, stepping in as if he’d just arrived and hadn’t heard a thing. “You guys headed out?” He looked from Jet to Vic. They blinked at him with suspicious guilt.
“We were going to grab a bite to eat,” Jet said.
“Come with us,” Vic added quickly. “We’re going to the pita place down the street. I’m obsessed with their shawarma wrap.” Donovan thought maybe he ought to decline and let the two of them continue their serious conversation without his inadvertent eavesdropping, but Vic maneuvered him back out the door while Jet shut it after them.
Donovan tried to walk a little behind his friends; he felt awkward for having overheard them and unsure of how to feel about what he’d heard. He supposed it was only natural for Jet to want to move out and live with Vic. Still, he couldn’t help feeling wounded. Anya had abandoned him already. This wouldn’t be the same as that, but still …
Don’t be a jerk. He let himself trail even farther behind, bothered by the idea that he might be a burden on his partner—a frustrating, secretive one at that. The truth was, there were things he still felt he couldn’t talk about to anyone, not even Jet. Maybe least of all Jet.
His friends noticed him lagging and slowed deliberately to walk alongside him. “So, how’d it go?” Vic asked. “In the Towers.”
Donovan forced aside his melancholy and latched onto the conversation opener. “Angela DeGarmo’s been named the new Prime Liaison.”
“Administrator Seir approved a moderate who says she’s going to negotiate with Sapience?” Jet raised his eyebrows crookedly, giving Donovan a curious look.
They entered the small, blue-tiled Mediterranean café on the corner and stood in line to order at the counter. Donovan said carefully, “I was surprised at the decision too. But the zhree zun are on thin ice with Kreet after the High Speaker’s visit last year. I think they realize they need the support of humans—all humans—to prove to the Homeworld Council that Earth is still worthwhile.”
The bridge of Jet’s nose wrinkled doubtfully. “They’re never going to get the support of all humans. The sapes aren’t exactly the reasonable sort. We saw proof enough of that in a basement the other night.”
Donovan stared at the menu board without really reading it. “I don’t know, Jet. We’re stripes, so we’re used to dealing with the most bloodthirsty terrorists. But not all sapes are the same. And they don’t all agree, or want the same things either.”
“Well, that’s why there’s no lasting peace, isn’t it?” Jet pointed out. “Sapience isn’t an erze; it can’t make a binding decision. As soon as a new leader pops up, or a vocal faction disagrees, they just toss out any old decisions and we’re back to square one. That’s how it is with squishies.”
“Boys, are we talking politics now or getting pita wraps?” Vic prompted, gesturing to the waiting cashier. Donovan was glad for the necessary break in conversation as they placed their orders and found seats around a nearby table. “The important thing,” Vic said to Donovan, “is that you’re finally off the hook as temporary special adviser. It was an awful lot for them to ask of you.”
Jet nodded in agreement and popped the tab on his soda can. “I would’ve hated to be in your shoes. I imagine it’d be really awkward, to be the only human in front of Soldier Werth and a room full of zhree, all staring at you. I wouldn’t even know what to say.”
Donovan grimaced. “Tell me about it. It didn’t end on a good note either. I think I might’ve seriously pissed off Soldier Werth.” He told them about the discussion that had occurred over Werth’s proposal to mandate Hardening one child from every erze-marked family.
“Forced Hardenings? That’s …” Vic shook her head sharply, eyes narrowing. “How could Soldier Werth suggest that? It’s wrong. People would never stand for it.”
“That’s pretty much what I blurted out loud, right in front of the erze master and all the zhree zun.” Donovan rubbed a hand over his face. “Thus ends my short-lived political career.”
Jet sat back in his chair and took a large swallow of soda. “I don’t know. I mean, of course Hardening should be a choice, but then again, long ago countries used to have a military draft when they needed more soldiers. If Earth needs more exos, across every erze, it doesn’t seem that unreasonable to expect people to step up. I mean, when you think about it, the mortality rate for Hardening is a lot better than the fatality rate for squishies.”
“Seems to me if you’d been the adviser, you would’ve had plenty to say,” Donovan grumbled.
Jet shrugged and stretched out his legs under the small table. “Nah. There’s never any right answer to these things. That’s why it’s better to be a stripe. Just hand me an E201 and point out the bad guys.” He grinned to show he was only half-serious. Maybe more than half.
“Well, I think you did the right thing,” Vic said to Donovan. “Calling that out as being wrong. There’s already too much pressure on people to Harden their kids; there doesn’t need to be more.” She slid a narrow-eyed sideways glare at her boyfriend. “And a three percent mortality rate doesn’t mean much when you’re part of the three percent.”
The smile fell slowly off Jet’s face. Apparently, he’d forgotten that their Hardening anniversary was still bound to be on Vic’s mind. “You know I didn’t mean …” He faltered, glanced at Donovan helplessly, then faced Vic with contrition. “I wasn’t making light of the risks of Hardening; I was only trying to point out that sometimes risks are taken for the greater good.” A worried pause at Vi
c’s pointed silence. “But that was insensitive and badly timed. I’m sorry. Are you really horribly mad at me?”
Vic maintained her glare for another few seconds, then rolled her eyes at Jet’s earnest expression. “No. It’s too damn hard to stay really mad at you. I do like seeing you grovel and squirm, though.”
The server behind the counter shouted out their order number and Jet got up, with some obvious relief, to fetch their meals. Vic watched him go. She blew a sharp upward breath that ruffled her long eyelashes, then ran a hand over her head, tousling her pale hair. “It’s a good thing you challenge him,” she said to Donovan, motioning toward Jet with a tilt of her chin. “Otherwise, he’d always think he’s right. I mean it, though; I think it was brave of you to speak up in front of the zhree.”
Jet returned, sliding into his seat with a tray containing their food. Vic looked at her boyfriend, and the small, wry smile on her face rose, reaching her eyes. Tamaravick Kohl was so carelessly attractive that sometimes Donovan had to make an effort not to stare; he knew how much Vic disliked being noteworthy for her looks. Beauty wasn’t exactly an asset for a SecPac officer.
As they dug into their meals, Jet tapped the table in front of Donovan, as if remembering he ought to mention something. “I went back to interview Dr. Nakada’s ex-wife again this morning. And I got permission from Commander Tate to conduct a SecPac review of all her communications in the last year.” He took a bite of his pita, then shook his head at Donovan’s expectant look. “You were right: dead end. If she’s helping him, she’s a pro at hiding it.”
“How about all his former coworkers?” Donovan asked.
“So far, nothing, but I’m still digging. Nakada was a workaholic without a lot of friends, but he must’ve had other connections we haven’t found yet.”
“Maybe Nakada’s not the link,” Donovan said as a disturbing thought occurred to him. “What if the traitor is a stripe? What if it’s Jonathan Resnick?”
“The agent?”
“He’d have access to classified SecPac information. He spent two years in Sapience. If there’s anyone in SecPac who’d be a sympathizer, it’s him.” Donovan felt bad for voicing suspicions about the man, but what if it was true? Could Jonathan be a double agent? Or, Donovan wondered, was this simply his distrust of “Brett” coming out?
“I don’t know,” Jet said. “He seemed awfully sincere that night, about wanting us to bring down Warde. Unless it was all an act.”
Donovan chewed and swallowed. “Even if it’s not him, maybe it’s someone in SecPac like him. Someone in an undercover position with connections to the sapes.”
“Those guys must be so strictly background-checked and monitored, though,” Jet mused. He paused and gave Vic a nudge. “Hey, you got the shawarma, right? I thought it was your favorite.”
Jet and Donovan were almost done eating, but Vic had barely touched her food. “I’m not that hungry,” she said, slowly shredding a napkin between her fingers.
“What’s wrong?” Donovan asked.
Vic shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Come on, you know you’re a terrible liar,” Jet said. “What’s going on?”
Vic’s cheeks colored and she pressed her lips together before speaking in a bit of a rush. “I’m worried about my mom. The new medications she’s taking have side effects, and … it’s been a rough month for all of us.” She dropped the torn napkin, not meeting either of their concerned gazes. “I don’t really feel like talking about it right now. Sorry to be a downer.”
Vic’s mom had a chronic immune system disorder that prevented her from being erze-marked, something unusual among residents of the Round. Vic’s parents had made the fateful decision to Harden their twin children, ostensibly to give them the same opportunities, but also because having at least one exo in the family was a way to gain residency in the Round and access to the superior health care it offered. It had turned out to be a tragic gamble.
Jet put a comforting hand between his girlfriend’s shoulder blades, rubbing her back. “Hey,” he said, in an upbeat tone that was clearly meant to cheer her up, “have you shown D?”
An oddly roguish smile crept onto Vic’s face. She pulled up her sleeve and drew down her armor to reveal a tattoo partly encircling her upper arm: three small chain links, woven between her nodes. “It’s not done,” she explained. “Localized exocel suppressant only lasts for an hour, so that’s as much as I could get in one session.”
“Wow,” Donovan said. “That’s … daring.”
“It’s so freaky,” Jet declared. “Suppressing your exocel is all sorts of wrong. And needles in your skin, under your armor?” He gave a dramatic, all-body shudder. “You scare me.”
Vic snorted. “You’re such a chicken,” she said. “A big, armored chicken.”
Jet leaned over to plant a kiss on Vic’s temple and she smiled, rubbing a hand along his thigh with a casual affection that made Donovan lower his eyes. He crumpled the foil wrapper on his plate into a small aluminium ball. No wonder Jet, like Anya, was eager to move on.
An unseasonably hot sun beat down on Donovan’s head the following Friday as he stood at attention on the largest training field on SecPac campus. On his left, Jet let out a soft, impatient breath; across an aisle gap to his right, Cass shifted her weight.
They were standing third row back from the front of the formation, which was arranged according to a baffling logic Donovan had never seen employed in inspection before: men on one side, women on the other, in reverse seniority with the youngest officers in the front rows, extending all the way back to the most senior stripes. With the exception of a reduced force patrolling the Ring Belt, every exo soldier-in-erze based out of Round Three appeared to be present. They’d been standing and waiting for nearly ten minutes. Right this moment, Donovan thought wryly, would be a really opportune time for Sapience to bomb something.
Commander Tate paced in front of the formation. Earlier, she’d addressed them briefly. “Hopefully, this won’t take long,” she’d said. “As you know, a high-ranking Commonwealth representative from Kreet has arrived, and Soldier Werth has asked us to present ourselves for ceremonial inspection, so look sharp. With any luck, we’ll be out of this sun and on our way soon.”
That possibility was looking less and less likely. In Donovan’s experience, Soldier Werth was never late, so there must be something else going on, some delay in the visitor’s schedule. Commander Tate’s glower was steadily deepening; she seemed more nervous than he’d ever seen her before. He was sure that she had not shared her suspicions about this whole affair with the rest of them.
Donovan’s nerves stretched thin with the passing minutes. During the High Speaker’s unpleasant visit last year, he’d been singled out and humiliated in front of the zhree zun and dozens of people. Just stare straight ahead and keep your mouth shut, he ordered himself now. Don’t draw any attention to yourself this time.
A skimmercar arrived, gliding around the traffic circle and parking out of Donovan’s sight. A few minutes later, a handful of zhree figures approached from the road. Commander Tate went to meet them, and unable to contain his curiosity, Donovan craned his head slightly into the aisle to better see what was going on.
A wave of sudden disquiet traveled through the assembled ranks of exo officers. It started at the front and rippled back—no sound or motion, just a feeling, a collective cascade of nervously rising armor. Soldier Werth was coming toward them. Walking next to him was a Soldier whose striped body pattern was different from any Donovan had seen before. Behind the two of them followed three other Soldiers with the same foreign erze markings.
The small group paused as Commander Tate reached them. Words were exchanged, and then the party continued toward the assembled soldiers-in-erze. In a powerful voice that needed no amplification even on a large field, Commander Tate called, “Attention!” and as one, the exos straightened and dropped armor smartly.
The visiting Soldier surveyed the ranks of human
s for a moment, then walked along the first row silently. Soldier Werth accompanied him. Through the aisle gap, Donovan caught a better glimpse of the stranger. His eyes were small for a zhree, his legs stout, and his gait a little slow and deliberate as if nursing a stiff old injury; he favored walking on three limbs, with a fourth supporting his stride occasionally, like a cane. The dense stripes on his hull were thin and jagged. He held the fins on top of his body unnervingly still, betraying no expression that might usually be read in subtle gestures. When at last the stranger spoke, it was with a distinct homeworld accent, but his voice was so firm and precise that Donovan understood it easily.
“This is all of them, then?”
“Nearly all of them, zun,” Soldier Werth replied. “Some remain on duty, protecting the Round and its surrounding human habitations.” Soldier Werth’s voice sounded unusually tense. Donovan realized that Werth had addressed the other zhree as a superior. This new Soldier outranked his erze master.
The stranger began walking up the empty aisle between the ranks of men on one side and women on the other. He motioned for his trio of subordinates to stay behind, and at a gesture from Soldier Werth, Commander Tate remained waiting at the front of the field as well. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she watched the two zhree continue alone. As the Soldier passed directly beside him, Donovan kept his eyes fixed straight ahead but felt the homeworlder’s scrutinizing gaze passing over him before moving on to the next row.
“Are they capable of reproducing off planet?”
The question was so unexpected that even Soldier Werth seemed a little thrown off; there was a pause before he replied, “There have not been enough cases to know for certain. The Nurses say they require gravity and radiation protection similar to that of their native environment, but there’s no reason to believe they couldn’t reproduce on a planet such as Rygur or a colony station such as Murtis 3.”
