by Fonda Lee
Jet cleared his throat. “Sorry I didn’t visit. I was a crap partner. I know I was supposed to support your recovery and all that.” A pause. “Then again, I felt like you were a crap partner first, so there’s that. And you made Vic cry, she felt so bad. So I hope you’ll understand that I was a bit too angry to come see you and not be a jerk about it.”
“At least one of us is smart enough not to do things while squishy-brained with rage,” Donovan muttered. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Neither does Vic—I hope you told her that. It wasn’t her fault; I made her tell me and she can’t lie to save her life.”
“Yeah, I know.” Jet smiled a little more.
“How’re things out here? How’s it going with Leon?”
“He’s a good guy. Quiet. Draws a lot. He’s not you, though.” Jet lifted his coffee mug and winced. He switched the mug to his left hand. “Been a rough few days. I don’t know if any of the guys told you, but there was a huge outbreak in Round Four—they’ve declared a state of emergency. So everyone’s really edgy, worried it might happen here too.”
Donovan noticed now that Jet held his right arm stiffly; his exocel bulged up around the biceps and shoulder. “You’ve taken hits,” he exclaimed. “No one told me that part.”
“Like you needed to know that while you were in jail.” Jet shook his head. “The sapes have started wearing fake erze markings, so from a distance, you never know for sure who’s friendly and who’s a sape. A bunch of us got sent to Flagstaff to go door-to-door, searching for the people who’ve been sabotaging the deep-space antennas. I thought this guy running toward us was marked—until he threw the grenade. All I got was shrapnel, though, no biggie.” Jet set his jaw. “You really can’t trust anyone who’s not Hardened these days.”
How very clever of Sapience. Once exos started distrusting even seemingly marked civilians, innocent casualties would go up and SecPac would be blamed. Worst case, the erze system itself could break down, leaving Hardened and non-Hardened people living in fear of one another. “I wasn’t going to talk about this stuff,” Jet said, glancing at Donovan in worry. “Force of habit, from having you in the car with me. Forget I said anything. You’re on leave; put it out of your mind.” The skimmercar settled in front of the Prime Liaison’s house. “How are things with your old man?” Jet asked, changing the subject.
Donovan looked up at the entrance. “As far as I know, I still live here.”
“I’m on duty this afternoon, so I can’t stay, but I could come in.”
“No, it’s fine,” Donovan said. “I’m just going to take a nap. Therrid has me on these drugs, but they make me sleepy.”
Jet was silent for a minute. “Look, you were right, what you said—I don’t know what it’s like to have parents like yours, and I didn’t go through what you did. I know there are things eating at you, things you haven’t told me even now—I can see that.” He ran a hand through his short, dark hair and sighed. “I’m not going to push you. I wish I could help, is all.”
“You’re out there doing your job, Jet. That’s a lot more than I can say for myself.” He didn’t deserve Jet, not remotely. He got out of the skimmercar.
Jet leaned over to ask, “You’re going to be at the big Peace Day ceremony thing in Scotts Bluff Center tomorrow, for your dad’s speech, right?”
“I’m guessing so. I’ll have to wear a suit and tie and everything.”
“I’m working security, so jump on the comm and find me if you get bored,” Jet said.
“Will do.” Donovan waved after the car and walked up the steps to the house. For a moment, he paused in front of the door, wondering if Anya had been to her home yet, to the dirty green apartment in the TransHabs where her sister waited for news of whether she was alive.
He glanced up at the decorative Peace Day bunting draping from the eaves of the state residence. Peace Day. What a joke—there was no peace, not for anyone he cared about.
He keyed himself into the house and went in to wait for his father’s return.
Donovan rode to Scotts Bluff Center in the Prime Liaison’s official state skimmercar the next morning. It was nothing like SecPac’s agile patrol vehicles; it looked like a traditional luxury sedan built by and for humans, all the overstuffed seats fixed in place and facing one direction, black paint so shiny you could see your reflection in it. The insides, though, were zhree technology; the car ran silently on micro-fission engines, banking and moving multi-directionally the same as any zhree vehicle. Just like electripulse pistols, Donovan thought, trying to adjust his tie in the car’s mirror. Something once wholly human transformed by alien influence. Just like exos.
His father was on an intense conference call in the backseat, while simultaneously signing a slew of documents one of his staffers was pulling up on-screen for him. After he ended the call, he glanced up at Donovan, then looked back down and continued to sign things while speaking to him. “Unfortunately, you’ve made yourself into a minor celebrity—far too many people are going to be paying attention to you today.”
“I could go home if you want me to,” Donovan volunteered. His father had always kept him out of the public limelight at big official state functions, and besides, he wasn’t all that keen to spend the day in this uncomfortable monkey suit, listening to speeches and songs.
His father pursed his lips. “I think in this case your absence would cause more of a stir. Better to make an appearance and diffuse speculation. I’ve asked Damascus and Benjamin to keep the media away from you, but just because you’re not in uniform, don’t let your guard down.”
The streets around Scotts Bluff Center were already crowded with people waiting in line. Ticket hawkers stood on the corners, offering to buy or sell. As the Prime Liaison’s motorcade approached, people left their places and poured onto the sidewalks to take pictures, raising small kids onto shoulders so they could see better. Despite the presence of several SecPac patrol cars and dozens of armored officers, the mood was festive. Today’s Peace Day celebrations would be the largest, most elaborate ever organized, broadcast live around the country, around the world. In addition to the official speeches, there would be a concert featuring several big-name performers, an elaborate stage and multimedia presentation on the history of the Mur Commonwealth, a zhree symphony (listening to a full complement of six-limbed musicians was an experience not to be missed), and erze knew what else.
The Prime Liaison’s vehicle navigated to the VIP entrance. Damascus and Benjamin opened the door for Donovan’s father, shielding him as he stepped out. Donovan brought his armor up to the same alert, ready state he maintained while on duty, and followed his father as he was escorted into the stadium. He nodded to the SecPac officers they passed on the way in. He wished he was in uniform too; how was he going to survive a whole month on leave?
“There’s a seat reserved for you at the front. I will see you afterward.” His father turned and paused, placing a heavy hand on Donovan’s shoulder. Last night, there’d been too many staffers coming and going, working late, helping his father prepare his speech—the two of them hadn’t talked yet, not really, and Donovan didn’t know where he stood in his father’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re here, son,” the Prime Liaison said simply. Then he released Donovan and disappeared into the stadium lounge to greet and be greeted by a lineup of officials and politicians.
Donovan watched his father go, then groaned. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck sitting next to the Secretary of Health, trying to make polite small talk for three hours. He wandered away from the lounge, fishing his comm unit from his suit pocket and slipping in the earbud. At least he could tune in to the SecPac frequencies and monitor what was going on.
The first hour of the program was entertaining, at least. After the opening light show, the band started with a crowd-pleaser, then played two more big songs before closing with a tear-jerking ballad about peace and forgiveness. The stage lights dimmed to a soft glow as a choir of boys and girls walked onstage and
stood holding hands with a clutch of zhree hatchlings, all of them singing the refrain in their respective languages, the strains melding together in harmony. Donovan handed tissues to the Secretary of Health. Part of him wished he could relax and join the crush of teenagers dancing and swaying on the floor, part of him wanted to go home and escape all this silliness, and the remainder of him couldn’t help running a crowd-threat assessment-check every few minutes.
Everyone was staring at him. That’s what it felt like. Sitting there, front and center, he imagined that thousands of eyes were ferreting him out, everyone from the big-shot politicians onstage to the families in the nosebleed sections. They were puzzling over just who, or what, he was: son of the Prime Liaison, SecPac officer, Sapience sympathizer, convicted criminal, messed-up teenager. Donovan’s exocel crawled nervously under his suit, making him feel too hot even though people were wearing hats and gloves and he could see his breath in the air.
A ten-minute intermission was announced; Donovan stood up, restless, turning on his comm unit and scanning the stadium entrances for familiar faces among the SecPac guards.
The sudden roar of engines swept over the arena; three zhree fighters ripped long white trails through the sky, tearing over the stadium as they shot up into low orbit. The crowd pointed and cheered, but a second later, Donovan’s comm unit came alive: “That was not part of the show,” Tennyson said. “Something else is going on.” Another three fighters followed a few minutes later, temporarily blanketing them all in a rolling wave of sound. Donovan looked onstage; the Prime Liaison did not react outwardly but leaned in to say something to the President. Others around them shifted in more obvious confusion and worry.
“Could it be a Rii attack?” another voice, Antonio’s, asked over the SecPac channel.
“There would’ve been an alarm, right?” Katerina’s voice in his earbud. “Could be a training thing? Are we sure it’s not part of the show?”
“Not our job to worry about that right now,” Thad barked. “Eyes on the crowd, stripes!”
An announcement came on over the loudspeaker asking everyone to take their seats as the program was about to resume. Donovan began to obey, reluctantly, then thought better of it and shuffled his way down the row into the aisle. He wasn’t accustomed to sitting passively in the middle of a crowd; an hour of that was quite enough. He opened his direct line to Jet. “Hey, where are you?”
“Entrance of Aisle 17,” Jet’s voice replied a few seconds later. “If you’re coming up here, bring some curly fries.”
“Please rise for the President of West America,” boomed the voice over the loudspeaker. The President took the podium. He was a square-faced man with an engaging, folksy voice and a wide smile. His hands, raised to the crowd in thanks for the polite applause, were unmarked, and Donovan doubted the nominal leader of the country knew more than five words in the Mur language. “My fellow citizens,” the President began. “A century ago, this proud nation rose from the ashes of war. Our founders, the signatories of the Accord of Peace and Governance, came from a generation of survivors determined to forge a better future; it is their memory, their optimism, that we honor today.” Donovan saw his father standing behind the President, applauding at all the right moments. Perhaps half of the audience was actually paying attention to the speech; the rest were too interested in observing Administrator Seir and the other zhree standing onstage. It was rare to see them outside of the Round.
Donovan began making his way up Aisle 17, standing aside briefly for a man carrying an armful of drinks and a woman in a bulky coat going the opposite direction. Something about the woman seemed familiar—he studied her face for a second but couldn’t place it. Curly blond hair, reddish cheeks, and a long neck—he was sure he’d seen her before. She didn’t make eye contact with him, merely continued through the stadium with unsmiling purposefulness.
Donovan knew better than to let a suspicion go; he flipped through his memory, frustrated at feeling duller than usual—due to imprisonment, or medication, who knew—until it came to him a minute later. He whirled around, trying to spot her again in the sea of people. “Jet,” he said into his transmitter. “I just saw Mrs. Guerra.”
“Who?” Jet’s voice in his earbud. “That sape couple on Birch Street?”
“She’s walking down the aisle right now, in a big brown coat. No sign of the mister.”
A short pause as they both ran the same assessment in their heads. The Guerra woman might be here just to watch the show, like everyone else. She might. Or she might not.
“Where are you?” Jet asked.
“Row Victor.” Donovan’s eyes found the woman, and he began hurrying back down the aisle the way he’d come. “I see her. She’s walking across a row now, two-thirds down, ten o’clock.”
“Did she see you?”
“Didn’t recognize me in my civvies.”
Jet said, “I’m coming your way.”
The President concluded his speech by reiterating his faith in the country, in humankind, and in the close ties between the species that would improve life for everyone on Earth and elevate the planet as a citizen of the galactic community. “Happy Peace Day, and may God bless our country and all who live on our beautiful planet!” He raised his hands and smiled broadly. Donovan’s father stepped forward to shake the President’s hand as the massive crowd swayed to its feet in applause.
Thad’s urgent voice broke into Donovan’s ear over the tumult. “All of you on exterior patrol, we just got an emergency alert about a stolen SecPac transport vehicle—might be in the area. License plate number Sierra Papa Five Five Eight—”
Suddenly, Mrs. Guerra threw off her coat; there was a black object in her hand as she jumped on top of one of the seats and raised her arms over her head. “Death to shrooms and traitors!” she screamed. “FOR MAX! FOR SAPIENCE!”
Donovan had almost reached her; he sprinted the last few yards and lunged across the seats.
Jet was faster; from thirty yards away, he drew and fired, putting two bullets through Mila Guerra’s chest. Screaming erupted all around them. Donovan caught the woman as she toppled backward.
He grabbed for the object in her hand as it tumbled from her grip—Oh God, does she have a—His heart leapt into his throat; he half expected the world to disappear in an explosion of fire.
The thing was a fake detonator—an electric toothbrush wrapped in black duct tape. Onstage, the President turned, wide-eyed, as another gunshot rang out and Dominick Reyes’s head whiplashed back, a spray of red scattering across the podium.
Two more shots followed; Donovan would later learn that one narrowly missed the President, who was thrown to the floor by his bodyguard, and the other clipped Administrator Seir across his armored hull as he moved, resulting in a minor injury. At the time, though, all he could see was pandemonium onstage—his father disappearing under an incomprehensible storm of movement and shouting. Donovan was kneeling on the ground with the body of the Guerra woman across his thighs, blood all over his hands and clothes, her open eyes staring up at him in final pain and triumph. He shoved her off his lap, dropped the fake detonator on the concrete, and plunged toward the chaos as if in a dream, plowing upstream against the tide of terrified people stampeding in the other direction toward the stadium exits.
Donovan leapt onto the stage and was suddenly too afraid to go farther; his feet felt as if they’d landed in wet cement and been immobilized. He could see his father’s legs, stretched out straight in dark, pressed pants, his polished shoes pointing up. Benjamin had fallen on the Prime Liaison, shielding him with his body, but now the big bodyguard had risen to his knees and was moaning, rocking back and forth in anguish. Damascus, who’d been posted by the stage entrance, rushed into the commotion, shoving and shouting. There were so many people in the way; someone—a doctor?—stood up, shaking his head.
Donovan found his feet again and took a step forward, then another. “Dad?”
Jet caught hold of him, pulling him back
in a tight hold from behind. “Don’t.” His partner’s voice was like cracked steel, hard and broken near Donovan’s ear.
There were SecPac officers all over the place suddenly, swarming the stage, and Soldiers as well, moving with bristling haste, encircling the Administrator and the other zhree and hurrying them away to safety. The stadium was rapidly emptying of screaming people, but the stage lights were still on, giving the entire scene a glaringly stark white quality, as if the whole thing were actually a theater production—fake, impossible, not real. Certainly not real, because even though Donovan knew in a rational corner of his mind, without having to take a single step closer, that his father was dead, it was simply ludicrous to think that Dominick Reyes could be killed instantaneously by a single, stupid bit of propelled metal, as if he were just an ordinary man.
As fragile, in the end, as any squishy.
As if a switch had been flicked on, he heard the SecPac comm channel come alive with frantic chatter. His earbud must have been blaring the entire time, but he’d heard none of it. “No way they’re in the stadium; the shots must have come from the tower across the street,” someone reported. Thad shouted back, “That tower was cleared. We swept it twice. HOW THE HELL DID A SNIPER GET THROUGH THE CORDON?” Commander Tate’s voice broke through on all channels, crisp with fury. “All units, the suspect is believed to be fleeing in a stolen SecPac transport vehicle, traveling northbound …”
Donovan turned away from the stage, registering the rest of the information with the detached single-minded efficiency of a machine instead of a man. He left behind the people crouched over his father’s body and broke into a run, bursting out of the stadium onto a street filled with people trying to escape into cars and fighting over space in taxis and buses. Jet was right on his heels. “Where’s the car?” Donovan demanded. He spotted their patrol skimmercar among the line of SecPac vehicles parked along the street and pushed his way through the crowd toward it. Jet put a hand on Donovan’s arm, looking as if he wanted to say something to stop him, but one glance at his friend’s face changed his mind. They got in.
