CROSS FIRE

by Fonda Lee

  Tate swept a low gaze over the room. When no one raised any further questions, she said, “It’s not the end of the world. And if it is, we still have jobs to do. Dismissed.”

  People dispersed to attend to duties while others lingered in the room, conversing in low voices. Small crowds gathered around wall screens broadcasting news from around the world. In East America, riots had broken out in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. In South-East Africa, Round Seventeen had deployed air strikes against Sapience-held territories in Sudan.

  Jet was looking at his comm unit display. “Soldier Gur’s in Round Seventeen right now. Kamo posted to the cadre message board. Sounds like they had the same ‘erze inspection’ as we did.” Soldier Gur had departed Round Three, leaving a couple dozen of his Soldiers posted in and around the Towers, where they stalked about, inspecting things and making people nervous. Gur had taken the rest of his contingent with him as he traveled to other Rounds across Earth, evaluating zhree military and civilian assets and setting evacuation plans into motion. Donovan and Jet were getting day-by-day updates and reactions from the fellow soldiers-in-erze in their cadre, the international cohort of peers that they’d gotten to know well during their years of SecPac training.

  “Any word from Amrita?” Donovan asked. Yesterday, one of their cadre mates in Round Ten had shared the worrisome news that her partner, Mustafah, had been called into a disciplinary hearing for failing to drop his armor to one of Gur’s Soldiers.

  “Two weeks’ suspension for insubordination. Gur’s Soldier wanted him stripped of his markings. Can you believe that?” Jet made a noise of angry disgust and scrolled through his accumulated messages. “Fernando says that the fighting in the Ring Belt around Round Twelve has gotten so bad that some of the exos are paying to get their families out of the country to safer Rounds.”

  Donovan’s own comm unit went off, beeping insistently and flashing a high-priority alert. Donovan looked down at the display. An order from Tate. IN MY OFFICE NOW.

  “You didn’t get this, did you?” he said, showing Jet the message. When his partner shook his head, Donovan stowed his comm unit and hurried toward the commander’s office in the center of the Comm Hub building. Was he in some sort of trouble?

  When he knocked on Tate’s closed office door, she barked, “Come in, Reyes.” Donovan entered the room and stopped in surprise. A woman in a burgundy suit was sitting in the chair in front of the commander’s desk. Her hands, one resting on top of the other over one of the chair’s armrests, were patterned with the bold, interlocking rings of the Administrator erze. Prime Liaison DeGarmo turned slightly upon Donovan’s entrance and gave him a thin, curious smile.

  “The famous Donovan Reyes,” DeGarmo said.

  “Madam Prime Liaison.” Belatedly, Donovan dropped his armor and stood attentively, but his eyes flicked questioningly to Commander Tate.

  Despite having summoned him here, the commander paid Donovan’s arrival little heed; her attention was entirely on her important visitor. Donovan was taken aback to see her face locked in a stiff mask of displeasure. The armor rose thick over the backs of her striped hands as she gripped the edge of her desk, leaning over it. “With all due respect, Madam Prime Liaison, I feel the need to reiterate my strong opposition to this plan.” Tate’s voice was forcibly level. “The Human Action Party is a thinly veiled political arm of the terrorist organization Sapience, which the Global Security and Pacification Forces are staunchly committed to defeating. We’ve seen this before in other parts of the world: Sapience taking on political trappings to advance their agenda. The Nueva Libertad party, the Groupe de L’humanité … twenty years ago, it was the Earth Renewal movement. The Human Action Party has terrorist underpinnings, and allowing any of their members to enter the Round would be an unacceptable security violation.”

  “Commander Tate, I appreciate your concerns, but these transition talks between the zhree colonists and humankind are going to set the tone for the country, possibly the world, for the foreseeable future.” The Prime Liaison’s voice was equally calm and insistent. “The Human Action Party has gained wide popular support for its pro-human independence agenda. It represents a far broader swath of the population than the extreme and militant Sapience faction.”

  Commander Tate’s lips twitched as if she was struggling to prevent them from curling in derision. “It’s obvious that Sapience still forms the core of the HAP and sets its direction. Why else would they appoint Saul Strong Winter—a known terrorist leader—as their spokesperson?”

  “Strong Winter has gained an enormous following with his public broadcasts and speeches. He may be one of the hard-liners, but I believe that many of his views appeal to moderates as well.” The Prime Liaison shifted sideways in her chair and motioned to Donovan. “But that’s why we’ve asked Officer Reyes here, isn’t it? Officer, you’ve dealt directly with Strong Winter before—successfully negotiated with him, in fact. Perhaps you can shed some light on whether it would be reasonable to include him in the transition talks.”

  Both gazes shifted to Donovan expectantly. Donovan didn’t move farther into the room. He’d been asked in here as a character witness for Saul? He had no idea what to say, other than the truth. “Saul Strong Winter is the reason my father’s dead.”

  Tate’s chin dipped in fierce satisfaction. “There’s your answer, Madam Prime Liaison. Your own safety would be in question. That’s something SecPac cannot tolerate.”

  Angela DeGarmo’s shoulders rose and fell in a considered breath. “The Guerras were found to have acted alone. Strong Winter wasn’t implicated in that horrible crime.”

  Yes, he was. Donovan could hardly explain that he had given Saul the information that had ultimately allowed Sapience to murder his father. “Sapience planned the assassination. Saul was the cell leader. He would’ve made the call.” He thought of Saul’s gruff authority, the hardness of the man’s deep-set eyes. “He’d do anything for the cause he believes in.”

  DeGarmo paused significantly. “Even lay down arms and negotiate?”

  Donovan stared straight back at the woman he’d helped to put into office. DeGarmo was younger than Donovan’s father had been; her hair had subtle streaks of gray and there were wrinkles around her eyes, but her face was otherwise unlined and Donovan had seen an attentively friendly, down-to-earth manner in the way she spoke and nodded at people. She seemed energetically populist in a way that Donovan suspected his father would not have approved of. Yet behind the mild eyes, there was a polite but determined tenacity, the look of someone accustomed to getting what she wanted—and in that alone, Donovan was reminded of his father.

  “Yes,” Donovan said. “Even negotiate. Saul has strong views, but he’s calculating as well. He’ll balance what he can accomplish with what it’ll cost him.”

  The Prime Liaison pulled a small screen from the pocket of her dark blazer. She unfolded it, tapped it twice, and leaned forward to set it down in the center of Commander Tate’s desk. Tate straightened up and glared at the device as Saul’s rough voice began speaking, filling the confines of the office and rumbling over the faint background sounds of the dispatch room outside.

  “We don’t want to be ‘in erze.’ We don’t want our hands tattooed with alien symbols or our children’s bodies mutilated by alien technology. We don’t want to be part of a galactic empire that places us at the bottom.” Saul’s voice was even, deep, and reasonable. Donovan’s feet clenched in his boots; for a second, he felt as if he were facing Saul back in the Warren. The underground bunker had been destroyed, but Donovan could easily picture the Sapience commander’s wide face and hooded eyes as he spoke into the microphone in whatever secret location he now occupied. There was a pause, a soft exhalation in the recording: Saul no doubt blowing out a long stream of cigarette smoke before continuing. “Exos are the blunt tool that the shrooms use to maintain control over us. Is there any more effective way to keep humans downtrodden and divided than to give a few of them power and privileg
e over the others? Hardening is a violent act of colonial oppression.”

  Commander Tate jabbed the screen with a finger, turning it off. “These bigoted rantings are an insult to erze-marked and Hardened people everywhere,” she growled. “Extremists like Saul Strong Winter would roll back a century of progress to satisfy their romantic vision of human freedom and purity from the time before the Landing. If they didn’t have zhree and exos to hate, they’d find other reasons for people to kill one another.” The dark weave of Tate’s exocel crawled over the cords of her taut neck. “And you want to welcome them to the table.”

  “You may disagree vehemently with everything Strong Winter says,” the Prime Liaison said, rising from her seat and straightening her sleeves. “But you can’t deny that there are millions of people in this country and around the world who share his views. People who feel like third-class citizens on their own planet and see this dramatic moment in history as a chance to change that. If we exclude the Human Action Party from the transition talks, those people will believe they’ve been ignored and dismissed, and they’ll flock to the hard-liners who encourage violence. The Prime Liaisons in the other Rounds are all facing this same challenge. What happens here in West America next week will set an example for the rest of the planet.”

  “If the Liaison Office insists on this inadvisable course of action,” Tate ground out through a tight jaw, “then hold the talks elsewhere. In Denver. Inviting Sapience members with criminal records into the Round would send the unacceptable message that we’re forgiving terrorism.”

  “It would send the message that we’ve turned a corner into a new era of human history, one in which the old rules might have to change. That’s true, Commander, whether we like it or not.” The Prime Liaison picked up and pocketed her screen, then turned toward Donovan. “I can appreciate your personal feelings on this, Officer Reyes. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, though I hope you understand what’s at stake now.”

  Donovan hadn’t moved an inch from his stiff-backed position near the door. Hearing Saul’s voice telling him again that he and his fellow exos were less-than-human abominations made his stomach curdle. And the idea of sapes walking free in the Round under the auspices of political immunity made him nearly as angry as Commander Tate. But wasn’t this exactly why he’d supported Angela DeGarmo in the first place? Because he’d hoped that maybe a negotiation with Sapience was possible? A curl of shame stirred uncomfortably in Donovan’s gut; his father would be turning over in his grave.

  “I understand what’s at stake, ma’am,” he said coolly, meeting and holding DeGarmo’s steady gaze. “You need to strike an alliance with the moderates in Sapience. Otherwise, once the zhree colonists leave, your government will collapse or be overthrown. Those of us with marks on our hands will be the first to be targeted and strung up in the anarchy.”

  “Well,” said the Prime Liaison, smiling uncomfortably, “you certainly are a Reyes, in perceptiveness and pessimism. I mean that as a compliment.” Speaking to Commander Tate, she said, “The transition talks will begin in the Round as scheduled, with Human Action Party representatives in attendance. I have full confidence in SecPac’s ability to see to the safety and security of everyone involved.” DeGarmo stretched her close-lipped smile in a deceptively amiable parting, then left the office.

  Commander Tate stared at the closed door for a motionless second, then dropped heavily into her chair. She massaged her brow slowly, one hand over her eyes.

  Donovan waited, uncertain, expecting to be dismissed. Without looking up, Tate spoke, her normally strong voice unusually muted. “Tell me, Reyes: Do you believe peace can be achieved through diplomacy? That common ground can be found among humans on Earth?”

  Donovan lowered his gaze to the floor in front of the commander’s desk. His father and mother were proof that people would rather die than compromise their strongest beliefs. But if he believed there was no hope of reaching an understanding between enemies, he wouldn’t have walked into the middle of a hostage standoff last year. He wouldn’t have said Angela DeGarmo’s name when called upon last month. And he wouldn’t still be thinking about Anya with the warm, crazy notion that maybe someday …

  “Yes,” Donovan answered at last. “I … I think it’s possible, ma’am.”

  “I don’t,” Tate said. “In all my years as a stripe—and I’ve had a lot of them—I’ve seen peace attempts come and go. Periods of heavy insurgency, then cease fires and negotiations that hold for a while before breaking down. One step forward, another two back. These talks never go anywhere in the end. Saul Strong Winter and his supporters are the latest in a long line of terrorist sons of bitches that can only be defeated by force. Even the withdrawal of the Mur Commonwealth isn’t going to change that.”

  “What are we going to do, ma’am?” Donovan asked.

  Tate snorted and rose from her chair, all hard edges again. “Orders are orders, Reyes, and we’re stripes. We’re going to give these talks the best possible chance of success so that no one can find fault with SecPac’s commitment to the transition efforts. And when these talks fail—because they will—we’re going to do what we’ve always done best: Fight like hell.”

  “Stay calm, stripes.” Thad was fifty meters away, but his voice was firm in Donovan’s comm unit earbud. “The sight of battle armor isn’t going to help things right now.”

  Donovan forced himself to take a calming breath and draw his exocel down. It itched to crawl back up. The crowd outside Gate 2 had started gathering yesterday evening before the official start of what the press was calling the West America Future Summit. It was midmorning now and the throngs of competing protestors had swollen to several thousand. Heavy SecPac cordons kept them roped off from the road and three hundred meters away from the security checkpoint area, but as the hours wore on and their agitation rose, they grew increasingly less inhibited about shouting abuse at one another and the soldiers-in-erze on duty.

  It was getting difficult for Donovan to discern who in the mass of people was angry about what. A large percentage of the crowd seemed to consist of Human Action Party supporters, chanting, “I say freedom, you say now! Freedom! NOW! Freedom! NOW!” but there was a solid cooperationist block on the other side of the street, including a group of hundreds of exos, of all different erze markings, silently holding hands with placards hanging around their necks: HARDENING IS A HUMAN RIGHT and WE ARE NOT PETS and EARTH IS BIG ENOUGH FOR US ALL. Donovan kept the most vigilant watch on one cluster of demonstrators pushing aggressively close to the barricade with signs that read: TRUE SAPIENCE! NEVER NEGOTIATE, NEVER SURRENDER. SAUL STRONG WEAK WINTER. Apparently, Saul had made enemies among the most militant Sapience rebels for consenting to come to the Round and talk to the government at all.

  Overhead, a cloud passed in front of the sun, plunging them all briefly into shadow before clearing again. “First Soldier Gur orders the zhree to withdraw from Earth, and now Strong Winter and the sapes are being allowed into the Round. The world’s gone completely scorching sideways,” Jet muttered in disgust, off comm so only Donovan could hear him. “Are you regretting picking DeGarmo for Prime Liaison yet?”

  Donovan stiffened. “I didn’t know this would happen.”

  “No one did,” Vic said, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Donovan caught a glimpse of three new chain links added to the tattoo on her arm. “It’s obvious even the sapes weren’t expecting this, not so suddenly. Maybe it is a good time to get them to talk.”

  “D’s old man wouldn’t have stood for this,” Jet said. “He’d have a better option.”

  “Maybe,” Donovan said, but his teeth were gritted as he said it. He didn’t appreciate his best friend reminding him of his dead father’s stone-cold virtues, and even though he couldn’t refute Jet’s pessimism about the whole Future Summit, he still wanted the transition talks to succeed. Including bringing in Saul. Because what was the alternative? Civil war?

  A violent scuffle was breaking o
ut between the True Sapience supporters and the cooperationists; several people were on the ground. The nearest SecPac officers armored up and moved in to control the outbreak, causing other demonstrators to shout and throw rocks at them. Donovan’s exocel rose and he took a step forward, instinctively wanting to go to the aid of fellow stripes, but at that moment, three muddy green petroleum-burning SUVs came into sight, rolling up the boulevard through the Ring Belt toward the gate of the Round.

  Donovan made his hands unclench as he stepped back, keeping his attention on the approaching vehicles. The President and other government officials attending the summit were flying directly into the small private airport inside the Round, but Saul and the delegates from the Human Action Party insisted on arriving in their own vehicles. Though he had no desire to see Saul again, Donovan was the one SecPac officer who’d met and spent time with the infamous Sapience commander personally and could identify him with certainty. He’d had no choice about being assigned to SecPac’s welcoming party for the sapes.

  The appearance of the SUVs was met by loud cheering from some parts of the gathered masses and deep boos from others. “Clear the gate,” Thad ordered. One by one, the vehicles pulled into the inspection area and the heavy outer barricade closed behind them with a solid clang. Donovan took a deep breath, then strode forward ahead of the other officers.

  The passenger-side door of the lead vehicle opened and a thick, booted leg stepped down. Saul got out. He looked much the same as Donovan remembered him; his wide, stiff-jawed face had perhaps a few more furrows in it than before, and the smooth center of his shaved head had grown a bit larger. He was wearing scuffed fatigues and a military vest, and looked as if he might have come straight from a Sapience training camp or a bunker in the woods. The only thing missing from the picture was an assault rifle over his shoulder.