by Fonda Lee
Soldier Werth’s voice trilled louder than he’d ever heard it. “Donovan! Armor down!”
He obeyed. His exocel receded slower than it had risen, retreating like melting snow.
“High Speaker, he is not dangerous,” Soldier Werth insisted. “Your guards have no need to be alarmed.”
The Soldiers lowered their limbs and fins warily. “Not dangerous?” the High Speaker said. He stepped close to Donovan. “You are marked as a Soldier. You are part of an erze. You have an exocel. So are you zhree or human?”
Donovan hesitated; he had a feeling the question was a trap. “I’m human, zun.”
The High Speaker’s fins riffled in satisfaction. He stepped away from Donovan and addressed the circle of tense zhree zun. “I commend all of you for creating this … ingenious relationship with the natives. However, a plan to maintain the colony with exos is dangerously flawed.” He gestured at Donovan. “You have endowed a hostile, unpredictable, and primitive species with zhree biotechnology. You’ve brought them into your erze and treat them almost as equals. But as this one just admitted, they are not zhree. They are humans. What is to prevent them from turning against their benefactors? From becoming a threat to all of us? You had enough difficulty with humans before they were Hardened.”
There was a silence so profound it made Donovan squirm inside. He felt his father’s gaze burning, watchful and silent. The Prime Liaison had said almost nothing this whole time, and the High Speaker had ignored him. He was just a human, after all, not even as interesting as an exo. The circle of zhree fins fidgeted. Opaque eyes opened and closed, exchanging anxious glances. Donovan got the impression Administrator Seir was holding a silent consultation with his fellow zun. Finally, he said, “High Speaker, your concerns are understandable. But they can be dispelled. The exos are an asset, not a threat.”
Nurse Thet waved one fin, a subtle interjection. “There are fail-safes that ensure this.”
“Explain.”
“The Hardening process is controlled by Nurses; only zhree determine how many exos there are,” the Nurse said.
“Even the number already in existence is foolhardy.”
“Humans have a strong sense of social hierarchy and group loyalty, just as we do. In exos, the area of the brain governing those traits is further strengthened; they are as faithful to their erze as we are. Furthermore”—the Nurse paused, glancing uncertainly at the circle of humans—“exos cannot armor to attack zhree.”
The High Speaker brought his gaze around, two eyes snapping shut as another two flew open. He pointed at Donovan. “That one battle-armored in front of me.”
“Only because you ordered him to,” Soldier Werth said, fins moving stiffly. “He could not have harmed you.”
The High Speaker moved back toward Donovan. “Is that true?”
Donovan’s mind stuttered. Was it? He was confused. He’d never had to keep up with such a long, complicated conversation in the Mur language before, and listening to erze masters so at odds with each other was not normal. “I … I’m not sure …”
The High Speaker stepped closer. “Strike me.”
“Zun?”
“You heard correctly. Strike me, if you are able.” The zhree dignitary raised a limb and jabbed him in the chest with stiff pincers. Armor against armor, the stabbing limb punched into a spot not far from where one of Kevin’s bullets had fractured a rib. Donovan sucked in a gasp of surprise. He heard it echoed from others throughout the room.
“I gave you an order,” said the High Speaker. “Do you usually disobey a zun order?” The pincers shot forward again.
Donovan stepped back and shoved them away. “Stop that.” He’d never spoken in such a disrespectful tone to a zun. But no zhree had ever tried to hurt him before. The High Speaker’s gaze was steady and curious; he was prodding a strange creature with a stick, waiting to see what it would do. The foreign Soldiers tensed in anticipation behind him.
Donovan’s fists clenched at his sides, armor bristling visibly across his shoulders. He felt the weight, not from the dozens of zhree eyes on him but from his father’s stare. His father was watching him, willing him to stay in control. This was a test, he knew, but not one he cared to pass. He shook his head, torn between the compulsion to obey and the determination not to be goaded. Even though the foreigner wouldn’t be able to understand him, Donovan said, through clenched teeth, “You’re not a zun of my erze. I don’t answer to you.” Seemingly out of nowhere, one of the High Speaker’s other limbs arced around and smacked him across the temple. White flashed across his vision.
“Son of a—” Jet started forward. All of them—Donovan’s fellow soldiers-in-erze—moved with him, but Soldier Werth sang out, “Stay where you are!” with such authority that they froze in mid-step. “Grand zun.” Soldier Werth took a stride forward, voice vibrating with suppressed anger. “We can show you records to prove our claims. There’s no need for you to mistreat a human of my erze to make a point.”
The High Speaker gave an incredulous flick of his fins. “Control yourself, Soldier. It’s just a human.”
Heat rose up Donovan’s neck and burned across his rigid face. The sapes accused him of not being human, but to the High Speaker he was nothing but human. No matter his markings, his armor, his training—he was still nothing of regard. Not worthy of simple respect. Before he could stop himself, he took an angry, involuntary step forward, exocel springing into ridges up his arms—
Before abruptly dropping.
He felt the astonishment around him almost as a physical blow against his suddenly unarmored body. Donovan stumbled back, stunned, not realizing for a second what had occurred. He grasped for his exocel with his will. Nothing happened. A sick sense of panicked déjà vu emptied into his veins. It was just like the night in Dr. Nakada’s lab, only far worse, because this time, no one had sprayed anything in his face. In front of the zhree zun, and his fellow exos, and his father, his exocel had fallen all on its own. Donovan let out a choked noise, his body folding.
“What the hell,” Jet breathed.
The High Speaker was staring at him with great interest. Nurse Thet spoke up, a little weakly. “It was designed as a safety measure long ago when humans were being Hardened for the first time. A surge in hostile intention toward any zhree reflexively triggers exocel inhibition.”
Donovan’s face burned. He wanted to flee from the room. It was all he could do to force himself upright and bite out, “How long does this last?” Even as he asked it, he felt faint sensation creeping back into his nodes. With fear and humiliation winning out over aggression, his exocel was crawling to life, numb and tingly.
“You will recover once you’ve calmed down,” said Nurse Thet. “There’s no permanent damage.”
Donovan couldn’t bear to meet the eyes of anyone else in the room. He imagined thrusting a bladed hand into one of the High Speaker’s big yellow eyes, and his feeble control wavered. If he ever tried such a thing, his exocel would shut down like a tripped circuit. Shame warred against anger, and he stifled a groan.
Soldier Werth’s voice was tight, almost staccato. “Are you convinced, High Speaker?”
“Perhaps.” The High Speaker seemed unsure now. “If exos are as loyal and dependable as you say they are, and your fail-safes are reliable, then your plan has merit. But there is only so much you can change a creature’s essential nature. Your Hardened humans are an experiment, one you are staking the future of this colony on. I am wary of what the consequences might be.”
“Earth is our home, High Speaker,” Administrator Seir said. “Those who have not lived here do not appreciate its unique, alien beauty. We have a responsibility to this planet, and to the humans who have put their faith in the promise of being a protected member of the Commonwealth. Earth may be far from the homeworld, but it is still a colony of the Mur Erzen, and it deserves the same regard as Sirye or Hestia. Do not be so hasty in declaring it a lost cause.”
“I will consider your plan.” Th
e High Speaker began walking. “I would like to see the rest of the Towers now.”
The foreign Soldiers fell sharply into step to accompany him. As the exos took their places alongside, Jet picked up Donovan’s uniform shirt and handed it to him. Donovan snatched it from his friend’s hand and shoved his arms through the sleeves angrily. He didn’t look at anyone as he fastened it. He and Jet rejoined the honor guard as it escorted the High Speaker to a waiting vehicle flanked by Builders. One of the accompanying builders-in-erze caught Donovan’s eye. Their gazes met, and the man nodded in cordial recognition. It took Donovan a moment to realize it was Danielson, the hefty, rough-skinned man from the construction site who’d waved Kevin’s silver SUV through only thirteen days ago.
Thirteen days ago, the world had made sense.
Donovan’s father was suddenly behind his shoulder. “We will talk later. Wait for me at home.” He did not wait for Donovan to reply but walked past him, following Scientist Laah into the vehicle.
Soldier Werth hung back as the other zhree boarded, gathering his exos around him. “What you heard and saw here today is not to be repeated. Not even to your fellow soldiers-in-erze. That is an order. Do you understand?”
“Yes, zun,” came the mumbled replies.
“We cannot afford to have zhree and humans alike roused to a panic.” Soldier Werth paused. His voice grew quiet, his fins as flat and scowling as Donovan had ever seen them. “I warned you that some zhree would have different attitudes toward humans. The High Speaker has spent his life on the homeworld, far from hardship and conflict, and cannot appreciate the complexities of the colonies.” Donovan saw the exos exchanging nervous glances. Soldier Werth never vented his frustration with other zhree so openly to his human subordinates. “What happened just now doesn’t bode well for the rest of the visit, but perhaps the situation can be salvaged. We shall see. You are dismissed from ceremonial duties; return to your assignments.
“Donovan.” Only one of Soldier Werth’s eyes was looking directly at him. If it was even possible, his erze master looked … apologetic. “You are excused from duty for the rest of the day.”
Donovan didn’t wait for the High Speaker’s vehicle to leave before hurrying to escape.
Jet came after him. “Where are you going?”
“You heard Soldier Werth. I’m excused.”
“Wait.” Jet caught up to Donovan, who kept on walking. “What happened back there—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Jet reached a hand to his shoulder to stop him; Donovan threw it off and spun to face his partner. “That shroom,” he spat, “the High Speaker—the one who makes the big decisions about what happens to Earth—is a dick. He made me look like a complete tool in front of all those people. He’s never been here before but he’s ready to throw our whole planet under the bus. Isn’t that complete crap?”
“Yes, it is. Very, very much a heap of crap.” Jet looked at him with urgent concern. “So where are you going?”
Donovan glared at him. “You’re on duty right now, Officer.” He started walking again. He knew he was being unfair, snapping at Jet out of his own anger and humiliation, but he didn’t stop. From the corner of his eye he saw Jet standing there, looking after him. Donovan rounded the walkway, out of sight.
He followed the curve of the main tower’s exterior causeway to the vehicle bay, stewing under a dark cloud the entire way. Most of the skimmercars parked in the bay were unmodified; he’d have a hell of a time handling the zhree-designed controls. He plowed past them to the row of loaner electricycles, intended for use within the Round by any humans on official business for their erze. If you were a squishy, there was a sign-in procedure, but an exo body signature activated any of them without preamble.
He picked one out—they all looked the same—and swung his leg over, settling into the seat. He gripped the handlebars and waited impatiently for the sensors to verify him. The machine hummed to life and Donovan leaned forward, taking it out of the Towers and into the streets of the Round.
He took the first major concentric boulevard exit off the spoke road and flew through traffic, accelerating until the wind stung his eyes, passing archway turnoffs into each of the Round’s pie slice–shaped districts. He didn’t live far from the Towers, but instead of taking the familiar turn into his neighborhood of well-appointed human dwellings, he kept going. He’d rather drive than sit alone in the empty house. Jet had asked him where he was going, but right now, he didn’t know and he didn’t care. He felt so … ignorant and used. For the last two weeks he’d been yanked every which way—by his parents, by Sapience, by SecPac, and now by the High Speaker. He was the son of the Prime Liaison, and exo, a uniformed SecPac officer, and yet he was powerless. Powerless to influence his father, powerless over his own exocel, ultimately powerless, as all humans were, over what happened based on the whims of some distant alien authority.
He took the turn off toward SecPac Central Command.
The national command center for the Global Security and Pacification Forces was a sprawling campus of buildings and training fields. On first approach, it wasn’t much to look at. Donovan still remembered being twelve and arriving with the other brand-new trainee soldiers-in-erze, all of them standing on the front lawn, rubbing freshly striped hands and thinking, This is it? Next to the soaring, curving, fluid lattice metal architecture elsewhere in the Round, SecPac Command was … disappointingly old-school human. Commander Tate had welcomed them with a speech that day: “Our duty is not glamorous. It comes without ceremony or thanks. It is dangerous and misunderstood. You have been marked as soldiers, not to wage war but to bring peace. To ensure that the War Era remains in the past, and that Earth moves toward the future.”
He didn’t take the road up to the main Comm Hub building, where dozens of screens covered the walls in a glowing, shifting ring of grid maps and satellite imagery, and where dispatch controllers, talking into headphones and sipping from mugs of strong coffee, monitored patrol teams across the entire country. Instead, he steered onto a side road. He circled behind the officers’ common hall and past the Scroll—an enormous stone sculpture engraved with the Accord of Peace and Governance. He drove past the firing range, where a group of trainees was practicing. There, far from the other buildings, hidden by a row of trees and surrounded by a high fence topped with security cameras, was a nondescript structure everyone called the Pen. The Pen was where valuable or high-profile captured terrorists were kept for questioning—deep in the Round with its layers of zhree security, far from possible jailbreak attempts—until they were turned over to the justice system for trial and sentencing.
Donovan passed his hand under the reader at the security gate and it admitted him. He parked the e-cycle near the front of the concrete block building and approached the heavy steel doors. He buzzed for entry, and a few seconds later, the impenetrable-looking entrance swung open to reveal a small lobby, with another double gate of steel bars at the end of it and an enclosed office to one side, behind a waist-high barricade. As the doors behind Donovan closed, the warden heaved himself up from behind his desk and came out of his small office. “Officer D. Reyes,” he exclaimed.
Donovan had only been inside the Pen three times, once on trainee orientation and twice to deliver suspects. He did not, to his embarrassment, remember the warden’s name. “I, um … I’m surprised you remember me, sir,” he said.
“There’s only one of you.” The warden was a man in gradual but inexorable transition between well-built and overweight. His slicked hair receded well past his brow, and his broad shoulders stretched the yellowed fabric of his uniform tightly across the back of his neck. “When you first came through here as a trainee, I said to myself, the Prime Liaison has got to be a stand-up man if his son is earning his marks just like the rest of us.” He held a large, striped hand out to Donovan, who shook it. The warden had a strong grip. He’d probably been in a combat role years ago, back when there hadn’t been as many exos a
nd squishies could run ops instead of desk jobs. “What can I do for you?” the warden asked.
“I’m looking for a prisoner who was brought in from Rapid City the night before last. A woman who goes by ‘Max.’”
The warden checked the log, then blew out a heavy breath. “You got authorization?”
No, he most definitely did not. What he was doing would probably get him into a lot of trouble. He looked left and right, then leaned toward the warden conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “Actually, this isn’t an official visit. My father wants some questions asked, off the record. He knows this suspect, he thinks she might have more information to offer. But he doesn’t want anyone to think the Liaison Office is stepping on SecPac’s toes, you know what I mean? Political reasons. So he sent me.”
The warden nodded in understanding. He was inclined to trust an exo officer. “I take it I ought to keep this visit off the register, then.”
“That would be best,” Donovan agreed wholeheartedly.
The warden opened a short swinging door in the barricade and ambled around to let Donovan through the secure gates. He opened them one at a time, using a large ring of metal keys, bolting them back shut behind them. Donovan tugged experimentally on the bars. The Pen was surprisingly old-fashioned. It seemed devoid of zhree technology. Just straight walls, square cells, and metal bars. Not so different from civilian prisons, or the stone cell that had held Donovan in the Warren, minus the machine-gun wielding guards.
The warden chuckled as if he’d seen the same skeptical reaction before. “Old human stuff does the job fine around here,” he said. “The terrorists are just squishies. That’s what you armored kids call us old farts these days, isn’t it?”
