The Continent

by Keira Drake

  “There was a beacon inside the pod,” I say. “It was activated almost immediately. How could the search have been so difficult?”

  He gives me a sad smile. “Those beacons were designed to be detected within a radius of twenty or so miles. We collected the pod more than three hundred miles from the plane’s last known position, and far to the south of where we thought it might be. We were searching largely in the northeast, along the Kinsho mountains. Either the pilot’s bearing was incorrect—entirely possible, as forensic analysis of the debris seems to indicate more than one very serious mechanical failure—or he sent his transmission long before the plane actually crashed. Or, potentially, both things occurred.”

  Forensic analysis. I dare not ask. I swallow and press the issue further. “The pod was collected, though. And on the third day, I saw a heli-plane—”

  “And the plane saw you, my dear. Pursued by a pair of Topi into the woods.” He opens his hands in supplication. “There was nothing to be done.”

  “Nothing to be done?” I echo, stupefied. “You…you knew I was in mortal danger, yet you did nothing to save me?”

  “Even if the plane and search party had been equipped with the tools required to rescue you—”

  “Weapons, you mean.”

  “Yes. Even if such equipment had been available, you know the principal law of the Spire—we do not take up arms. That law is binding, inviolable, and without exception.”

  “But you have tranquilizing guns—and sleeping gases! I have heard of their use against criminals and the like.”

  He shifts uncomfortably and exchanges a glance with Mrs. Pendergrast. “As I say, we were not properly equipped.”

  “I see.” A silence passes. “And so, the pod and the…wreckage were collected.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And I was left to die.”

  “Vaela, I assure you that—”

  “With all due respect, Chancellor, I think I have heard quite enough of your story. Perhaps it is time that you heard mine.”

  To the immeasurable discomfort of the five people before me, I tell it all. I recount every terrifying moment of the heli-plane’s failure. I illustrate the horror of being captured by the Topi, and explain in bloody detail how Noro came to rescue me. I describe the agony of my grief and loneliness in the wake of my parents’ death, as well as the slow process of my eventual healing. And finally, I tell of the attack on the village of Hayato—and of the utter peril in which the Aven’ei now find themselves.

  “I wonder,” says Mrs. Pendergrast, the first to speak, her brow knit in tight concern, “that in light of all this terrible trauma, if you might tell us something of the accident itself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The malfunction,” she says, “of the heli-plane. Any details you might provide could surely prove useful in the prevention of future disaster.”

  “Oh, of course,” I say, momentarily embarrassed by the fact that this had not occurred to me at all. “There was… there was a great shuddering, and shaking.”

  “Of the fuselage?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “The plane shook terribly, and then smoke was visible from the forward panels—and the craft would drop in sudden shifts and bursts.” My throat goes dry in the recalling of it.

  “Mmm,” Mrs. Pendergrast says. “And what was your perception of this malfunction?”

  “My perception?”

  She smiles. “What did you think had gone wrong, dear girl?”

  “I…I don’t know,” I say. “Aaden…he said that there were systems in place to prevent failure of the aircraft. Redundancies—I believe that was the word he used. But things went terribly wrong, and…I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. I am not a mechanic.”

  “Of course not,” she says, her smile at once bright and sympathetic. “Of course you cannot be expected to understand the technological failures of such complex machinery. We only wanted to know your observations, Miss Sun.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot provide much more. I only know there was a shaking, and a drop in altitude, and then I saw the plane spiraling downward, once I was in the pod—a terrible, slow spiral, as it were, inconsistent, with great periods of gliding—until it crashed.”

  “This,” the Chancellor says after a dreadfully long silence, “this is beyond anything I would have expected to hear. Vaela, I have no words.”

  Mr. Lowe, at the far left, also struggles with a response. “What you have endured is unimaginable, and you have my most abiding compassion. How inconceivably terrible to watch the fate of those aboard the plane unfold!” He shakes his head. “But I am also deeply troubled—deeply troubled—by what you have brought to light in relation to the war on the Continent.”

  “As are we all,” Mrs. Pendergrast says, a politician’s pity stamped on her face. “What a sad state of affairs it has all come to be. Three hundred and forty years they have raged against one another—to see it come to this, it’s an absolute tragedy.”

  The finality of her tone creates a knot in my stomach. “The situation is dire, to be sure,” I say. “But it is not without hope.”

  Mr. Chamberlain frowns, his pointed mustache angling downward like two thin spikes. “Did you not just say that the Aven’ei will surely be destroyed? That it is only a matter of time before it comes to pass?”

  “Certainly it is hopeless if they are left on their own,” I say. “That is why we must intervene, and quickly.”

  “Intervene?” the Chancellor says, looking genuinely perplexed. “Surely you are not serious.”

  “I could not be more serious, sir. The only reason I returned to the Spire is to request your assistance.”

  “Miss Sun,” Mrs. Pendergrast says crisply, “we have never intervened in the war between the Aven’ei and the Topi, and we shall not do so now. It is dreadful that this fate has befallen the Aven’ei, but—and please, forgive my bluntness—one cannot deny that they have brought it upon themselves.”

  I clutch the edge of the table, stunned into temporary silence. “What…what a ghastly thing to say!”

  She blinks in surprise and looks over at Mr. Chamberlain as though for support.

  He nods, pats her hand, then turns to address me, fixing me with a rheumy stare. “Mrs. Pendergrast has only stated what the Chancellery knows to be a fact. It was the Aven’ei, Miss Sun, who began the war in the first place. In all your time on the Continent, did no one make this known?”

  I sit rigid in the chair, the breath gone from my lungs. It cannot be.

  “It is true,” the Chancellor says, nodding gravely. “When asked about the particulars of the quarrel, the Aven’ei were most forthcoming about their role in how it all began. It was down to territorial disputes, if I remember correctly. The Aven’ei once inhabited a much larger piece of the Continent, but even so, they weren’t satisfied. They pushed outward, the Topi fought back—bitterly so. And as we have seen, the might of such an enemy can grow into a fearsome thing with the passing of the years.”

  I fight to regain my composure. “If that is so, must those who now live pay the price for the actions of their ancestors?”

  Mr. Chamberlain smiles. “To pull the tail of the cat is to invite its claws. The Aven’ei alone unleashed the fury of the Topi; alone, they must keep the beast at bay.”

  “But they cannot do so, can they?” Mr. Lowe says quietly. “It has all gone far beyond their control. They must have help, and how, in good conscience, can we leave them now to die?”

  Mrs. Pendergrast is thunderstruck. “But what would you have us do, Oliver?”

  Mr. Lowe turns to me. “Will they relocate?”

  “To the Spire?” Mrs. Pendergrast says in a shrill voice, putting a hand to her breast. “Surely you must be joking!”

  “It is a peaceful solution, Tara,” he replies.

  She sniffs. “They are uncivilized.”

  “They are not uncivilized,” I say frostily. “But in any case, they will not emigr
ate, even in the face of certain death.”

  “And well they shouldn’t,” says Mr. Chamberlain, who I have started to suspect is rather a pet of Mrs. Pendergrast’s making. “The Continent is their home, and they certainly do not belong here.”

  The Chancellor regards me with undisguised curiosity. “If you do not mean to petition for their relocation, then what is it you wish to ask of us?”

  Gathering my courage, I rise and move forward to the table. “I have drawn you a map,” I say, “marking every key point of battle, and every settlement of which I am aware—Topi as well as Aven’ei.”

  I take the parchment from my hip and roll it out on the table, pinning down the corners with my fingertips. “You are brilliant leaders—brilliant, and resourceful. In your hands, this map is but a blueprint—and you are the engineers.”

  The Chancellor blinks. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  I tap the paper. “Build walls. Destroy access points. Create defenses the likes of which have never been seen on the Continent! Spirian construction is vastly superior to anything the natives can contrive—don’t you see? You can save the Aven’ei without ever raising so much as a finger against the Topi. You have the power to end this. You have the power to stop another war.”

  Mr. Lowe gets out of his seat in order to take a better view of the map; Mr. Chamberlain and the still-silent Mr. Wey follow suit. Mrs. Pendergrast remains in her chair, her back straight and stiff, her pale blue eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

  “The Topi are gathering here,” I say, indicating the settlements in the south. “Likely they will advance through the Vale and try to pin the Aven’ei against the sea. They could travel through the mountains, of course, the Aramei and the southern Kinsho—but this is very unlikely. It would be far easier for their numbers to pass through the reaches of the south.”

  “And will the Aven’ei retreat?” Mr. Lowe asks. “Gather with their forces in the north?”

  “I do not think they will leave the south, sir. I think they will make a stand.”

  Mr. Lowe studies the map intently. “Defenses might be made before the Topi set out. It is not a bad idea. It is not at all a bad idea.”

  Mrs. Pendergrast sucks in her breath, her dark red lips pursed like a deathly kiss. “And who shall pay for it, sir? We in the North are not so inundated with wealth and raw materials that we should be inclined to jaunt off to the Continent and erect walls for a bunch of savages.”

  “Mrs. Pendergrast,” Mr. Lowe says hotly, “you have only just announced your plans to construct a colossal amphitheater in the heart of your capital city. How is it that you can spare so little when you have already amassed a store of both funds and materials?”

  “Our civic objectives are none of your concern,” she replies. “Nor is the state of our treasury. I will ask you to tend to your own purse, and keep your nose out of mine.”

  The Chancellor holds up his hands. “Let us not bicker with one another like children. Vaela has put a reasonable point before us, and I think we should give it our fair consideration.”

  “There is nothing to consider,” Mrs. Pendergrast says flatly. “I refuse to contribute.”

  “As do I,” Mr. Chamberlain puts in, nodding. “We haven’t the resources.”

  The Chancellor turns to Mr. Lowe. “And you, sir?”

  Mr. Lowe looks at me, his sapphire eyes burning with intensity. “The West shall give all it can to see the Aven’ei protected. It is the moral thing to do.”

  “If you want my opinion,” Mrs. Pendergrast says, “that’s the most foolish thing you’ve said all day.”

  He smiles. “I most certainly do not want your opinion.”

  “It is down to you, then, Mr. Wey,” the Chancellor says. “We have heard nothing from you at all as of yet.”

  Mr. Wey returns to his seat and folds his hands in his lap. “I say no.”

  The Chancellor does not seem surprised. “Do you wish to give a reason?”

  “It is a simple matter,” he says, and shrugs in resignation. “If we intervene, Spirians may die. Construction of any kind will take time. It is not worth the risk.”

  Mr. Lowe makes a derisive noise. “Are you saying that the blood of a Spirian is worth more than that of an Aven’ei?”

  “Don’t act the innocent, Oliver,” Mr. Wey says, pointing a wrinkled finger at Mr. Lowe. “You yourself toured the Continent not five years ago. You went to see the war, just as we all have done.”

  “And vowed never to do so again.”

  “So you say,” Mr. Wey replies. He is quiet for a moment, then straightens in his chair and adds, “For the sake of courtesy, and in the spirit of candor, I will answer your previous question: yes. The blood of a Spirian is worth more. I say it without malice, sir. It is only what I believe to be true, for my duty lies with my own people.”

  Mr. Lowe looks back and forth amongst his fellow Heads of State, color rising in his cheeks. “Is that the way of it, then? This is what you choose?”

  “The majority has spoken, Mr. Lowe,” the Chancellor says. “The Spire must act as One.”

  Mr. Lowe turns to me, anger and frustration glittering in his eyes. “I apologize on behalf of the Spire, Miss Sun. Apparently, peace is now far too priceless a commodity to share.”

  “Now, Mr. Lowe,” the Chancellor says, frowning, “I think that’s a bit unfair. Peace is not a thing to be given, but to be chosen.”

  “Do not speak of peace,” I say quietly. “Do not. Your words are but air, as weightless and empty as the breath in your lungs. You talk of resources and coin, amphitheaters and treasuries—as though any of these things are of consequence when the lives of thousands are at stake.”

  Mrs. Pendergrast rolls her eyes. “Your naïveté does not become you, Miss Sun. Things may not be accomplished without coin and resources. This is a fact.”

  “The Spire is a land of plenty. It could be done, and every one of you knows it.” I rise in a cold fury and fix my gaze upon the officials at the table. “Mr. Lowe alone shall sleep with the conscience of a man who understands the value of human life. As for the rest of you: do not doubt for a moment that the blood of the Aven’ei is on your hands.”

  I burst through the doors in my rush to leave the Grand Hall, for suddenly the dark corners of the room seemed to press in from all sides. I hear the Chancellor calling to me in worried tones, asking me to return. But I do not stop. I want to be free of this place, this great nation that will do nothing to save the people I have come to love.

  At the front of the building, a hundred or so steps lead down to the main road. I pause halfway down, looking for the car sent by Mr. Cloud. A drizzle of rain—no more than a fine mist, really—dampens my skin and hair.

  The Chancellor appears at my side, breathless and distressed. “Vaela, my dear girl, please—will you come back inside?”

  I look up at him, angry tears burning my eyes. “They all said you would refuse, you know. The Aven’ei. Almost to a man, they said that you would turn your back.” I shake my head. “But I said they were wrong, and I believed it, Chancellor! I believed in the Spire. I believed in you. And now I must go back and tell them that all of this was for naught. No help is to come. Only death.”

  He wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, a puzzled expression on his face. “Go back? Whatever do you mean?”

  “You don’t think I intend to stay here, do you?”

  “But of course you must stay here! You have inherited a sizable fortune, my dear, and you have your work with Mr. Sussenfaal—”

  “I should stay in the Spire to draw maps?” I say, incredulous. “Tell me, Chancellor—what has a map ever brought to me but grief, or death, or heartache? Piss on your maps. I am going back to the Continent. I will have Mr. Cloud make the arrangements.”

  I turn away, but he catches me by the shoulder. “I don’t think you quite understand me, young lady. You will not be returned to the Continent. I wouldn’t send another heli-plane to that foul place for all t
he gold in the Chancellery.”

  I smile unpleasantly. “You do not have a choice, sir.”

  “I beg your pardon? You forget yourself, Miss Sun, and—”

  “It is you who forgets, Chancellor. My parents died on the Continent. By law, I may reside for as long as I wish in the nation where they were lost—to grieve, to mourn, to spend my days in vigil if that is what I desire.”

  His eyes narrow. “That regulation refers to the North, South, East and West. There are no nations on the Continent; only savages pretending at civilization.”

  “I will be returned to the nation of the Aven’ei,” I say. “If you refuse me, I will make it my life’s purpose to visit every corner of the Spire, recounting every detail of what has taken place. I will omit nothing—and I dare say the common folk will find your decision to abandon the Aven’ei as horrifying and unpalatable as I do. You know how much your Spirians like a good cause.”

  His lip curls in anger. “You dare to threaten me?”

  “I dare nothing, Chancellor, for I have nothing at all to lose.”

  He leans toward me, his face inches from my own. “You would incite a war—the very thing you claim to abhor so passionately.”

  “No. I would educate a people as to what their peace has truly bought: a government that amounts to no more than five people sitting at a table, deciding the fate of the world.”

  He gives me a sardonic smile. “A great many things are decided at tables, dear girl. The fate of the world is but one.”

  “Make your choice, sir. Shall I sing my song to the people of the Spire, or will you send me to the Continent, where I belong?”

  He regards me coolly before speaking. “Have you been in contact with anyone since your arrival yesterday? Friends, family, anyone at all?”

  “No. I presume you want me to keep it that way?”

  He nods. “You died once, and seem intent on dying again, only with greater success this time around.”