“Did you leave family on Earth, Lieutenant Cutter?”
“My parents, a brother, and two sisters.”
“Do you hope to see them again?”
He smiled sadly. “Not in this life.”
Kesteluni lifted his chin and locked eyes. It felt like she was hugging him. He wanted to cry. “But in the next?”
“I hope so.”
“If living well matters, then you will.”
He grunted. “The friends and families of those I’ve killed would argue differently. They likely felt the same way about their loved ones.”
Kesteluni paused to consider his comments. There was a slight upturn to her nose that made her resemble Disney’s Snow White. “There is no contradiction in the idea of two warring peoples both living good and fulfilling lives.”
Cutter leaned back, struck with the simple but profound truth in her words. “Doesn’t that make killing my enemy worse?”
Kesteluni tilted her head the way a proud mother does when her child learns a valuable lesson. “It makes killing your enemy more difficult, and that is the way to peace, but only if your opponent believes as you do.”
A small child ran up and whispered in Kesteluni’s ear. She nodded and whispered something in return, then got to her feet. “I must go now, Lieutenant Cutter, but I know my people are in good hands.”
Once she’d gone, Cutter spoke to Tanavuna with admiration in his voice. “You are one lucky man, Tanavuna.”
“Yes, I am very lucky,” he said, watching his wife disappear into the darkness, “as Kesteluni reminds me every day.”
“She doesn’t seem like the type to do that.”
“She speaks no such words. She does not need to.”
* * * * *
Chapter 4
Inside a J’Stull Airship over R’Bak, Six Months Later
“The air is calm today, Silci,” said the airship’s captain. There was no hiding the nervousness of his grin. “It is surely a good omen.”
Seated in the captain’s own chair, Yukannak, the satrap’s silci—an archaic J’Stull word best translated as “representative with authority”—praised his own good fortune. The captain’s evident worry hid Yukannak’s own. At any moment, a radio call could order his arrest if the next wave of his fellow Kulsians found out what he’d done, and floating two thousand feet above the hills below left him no path for escape. He thought about leaping to his death if that happened, but while Yukannak was many things, suicidal wasn’t one of them. He’d spent his life talking his way out of one difficulty after another, and while his most recent transgression was unforgiveable, habit and ego nevertheless gave him hope. It was also likely they would never learn what he had done. Still, the time might come when, under Kulsian torture, he regretted passing up the chance to die quickly.
“A good omen it is, Captain,” he said in a well-practiced tone of friendly tolerance. An airship captain wasn’t the social equal of a silci, but he wasn’t a peasant, either, and needed to be shown the proper respect. Especially since men with guns obeyed the captain’s orders. “It bodes well for my mission to Imsurmik. Rest assured the satrap will hear of your competence and that of your crew.”
“My lord is too kind.”
Heavy double shutters blocked sunlight on all sides, save for slitted view ports. The sunlight from the planet’s parent star, Shex, always punished R’Bak’s middle latitudes, but the approach of 55 Tauri’s primary meant a deadly increase that thoroughly baked it. The resulting Sear had already turned the once-green plant life on the rolling hills underneath the airship to a crusty brown. Peering through the slats only gave Yukannak a general impression of the terrain, but what he saw gave no comfort. Should he need to flee Imsurmik, there was nowhere to go except into the wild, and while his survival skills in the cutthroat world of Kulsian politics had kept him alive long after he should have been dead, his skills in the open country were non-existent.
The gravity of Kulsis wasn’t much different from R’Bak, but the heat was another matter. Temperatures on Kulsis ran to the higher end of what the human body could endure, and Kulsians had long since adapted. Under the grueling Sear on R’Bak, though, his lungs ached from breathing air heated to the point of pain. Yukannak knew it was an illusion, that his lungs really weren’t baking, but it felt that way.
Cooler air filtered through the vents in the gondola floor as hot air seeped out of identical vents in the roof. The temperature variance wasn’t great, but, inside the airbag’s stifling control cabin, it felt like a cool breeze. The heavy clothing and face paint necessary to combat sun damage itched and chafed. His skin was particularly sensitive to it since he had spent the past few years mostly living in space, so he noticed even the small improvement of the airflow.
Remaining rigid, he tried not to show his discomfort. Several hours after takeoff, the ground began to creep toward the airship, and, in his peripheral vision, Yukannak saw the captain watching him. The level of water in the glass provided for him showed a definite downward cant, but again he resisted showing a reaction.
“Docking towers in sight, Captain,” called the helmsman, staring ahead through a system of telescopes designed to cut down on glare.
The captain pulled down a flexible tube that extended upward into the airship’s framework. “Grappling crew to your stations.”
Yukannak had always disliked heights, and the irony wasn’t lost on him. For a man who’d traveled from Kulsis, to be uneasy at flying a few thousand feet above the ground made no sense. But it was the unfathomable nature of distances in space, and the fact that concepts of up and down were only relative there, that kept it from bothering him. Once they were on the ground again, he’d be fine.
Time crept by as the airship lined up with the docking towers and the crew attached the clips. Heavy ropes ran up the poles to raise and lower the ship using several large beasts to turn winches. It was a slow process, with lots of jerks and stops, but eventually Yukannak stepped out of the gondola onto the powdery soil of the plateau north of Imsurmik.
“Greetings, Silci Yukannak,” said a man with the white-painted face of a J’Stull. A red smudge on each temple marked him as a commander, which immediately pumped cortisol and adrenaline into Yukannak’s veins. The fight or flight impulse nearly overwhelmed his self-control, but the only outward sign of his inward struggle was a twitch of the left eye. “I am Subitorni. Welcome to Imsurmik.” Using one finger, the J’Stull motioned for the four guards with him, each with various designs on their white paint, to retrieve the silci’s luggage.
“Your courtesy is appreciated, Subitorni,” Yukannak said. “I look forward to working together, as I’m sure we both wish for the Harvesting to go well.”
“We do, Silci.”
“How goes the early collection?”
“I am told it exceeds estimates, but, as you may imagine, my duties lie elsewhere. In the meantime, there are worse places to prepare for the Sear than Imsurmik.”
“It has its charms, then?”
“It does indeed. And this man knows them all.” With that, Subitorni motioned for another man to step forward. He was shorter and heavier, with a green-painted face marked by yellow stripes on each cheek. Once close enough, Subitorni lowered his voice so the guards couldn’t hear. “This is Zeesar, an important local militia leader and a man who knows more about the ways of the city than even the F’ahdn. He is the yuzbazzi of Imsurmik, a man who the F’ahdn relies on to enforce his will. Because time is short and the harvesters are flooding the city in larger numbers every day, I asked him to act as your guide.”
Zeesar turned his right hand so the forefinger touched his lips and the pinkie finger pointed at Yukannak in the local gesture of respect. Having read up on Imsurmik’s peculiar customs, Yukannak knew that if the middle finger touched the bottom of the nose it was an insult. His didn’t.
“I am honored to be of service to our beloved satrap,” Zeesar said, his eyes cast down but his mouth tilted up at the corners, �
��through his trusted and most respected silci. I pray that my humble efforts will prove worthy.”
Yukannak smiled in turn. While nothing about Zeesar relaxed him, he knew the man’s type well; his loyalty lay with whoever could do him the most good, and, at the moment, that was Yukannak. That intuition, well-honed in the crucible of Kulsian politics, is what had allowed him to survive so long in what often proved a short-lived and sometimes fatal profession. Particularly for one of his background. Familiarity with Zeesar’s type was not a substitute for trust, though.
“I suspect your efforts are rarely humble, Zeesar,” he said, “but thank you. I’m sure you will prove a great help to me.”
With all his luggage unloaded, and the airship’s crew preparing to return home, Yukannak walked with Subitorni and Zeesar toward the edge of the plateau more than half a mile south, the guards trailing behind. They’d gone fifty paces before he asked if they had to walk the entire way. Instead of answering, Subitorni smiled and led them ten paces more, stopping at a waist-high dirt mound, where Yukannak spotted tracks in the ground that abruptly ended with no further sign.
Subitorni made an upward motion with his hand. Ahead, a man hidden in a clump of scrub trees stepped forward and, using the heel of his boot, kicked the ground. It made a hollow sound, as from wood. Then the creak of hinges needing oil preceded a large square rising from the dirt, leaving an opening into a dark space underneath. A small vehicle rumbled up a ramp and out onto the plateau floor.
With instincts honed over decades of dangerous in-fighting to read the slightest facial clues in possible enemies, Yukannak focused his peripheral vision on Zeesar and was rewarded by the militia leader’s brief, nearly imperceptible squint in the direction of the J’Stull commander. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Although nobody else would have given the expression a second thought, it told Yukannak two important things: Zeesar had been surprised by the trap door, and that surprise meant that Zeesar didn’t expect Subitorni to be keeping secrets about events outside the city. By Subitorni’s own words, that should have been Zeesar’s responsibility.
“Please forgive the need to walk so far, my lord,” Subitorni said, “especially with the sun high overhead, but the Offworlders are rumored to be in the area. They have aircraft of an unusual design that are small and very fast.”
“And you do not wish anyone to know of this entrance?”
“We do not.”
Strictly out of habit, Yukannak took the chance to drive a wedge between two of the power brokers of Imsurmik, as doing so might reveal ambitions he could exploit. “So only the F’ahdn’s most trusted advisors know of its existence?” he asked.
“Yes,” Subitorni said without thinking. Then, rethinking his answer as Zeesar’s nostrils flared, he said, “but not all of the F’ahdn’s advisors, because it was only recently finished and some have only just returned to the city. There hasn’t been time to inform them of everything. Mostly, though, we are worried about the Offworlders.”
“The growing presence of the Offworlders is part of the reason for my visit,” Yukannak lied. “I am to judge your preparedness in case they move toward Imsurmik.”
This time it was Subitorni whose eyes shifted to Zeesar for half a second. Yukannak was right, there was something between them they didn’t want him to know about. Under other circumstances, his suspicions might have led him to run, except, on the baked surface of R’Bak, there was no escape. So he climbed into the vehicle and maintained a serene expression, all the while remembering the pistol strapped to his thigh.
The trap door measured fifteen feet wide and twenty feet long. Just below the surface, a road cut into the plateau’s bedrock, angling downward in a gentle slope. Two thick metal rods, one on each side, raised and lowered the door through a series of pulleys and winches. Sitting beside Zeesar in the dim lighting during the downward drive, Yukannak could watch the militia leader’s feigned nonchalance. All of it was new to Zeesar, who no doubt realized that digging out such an entrance involved engineering on a massive scale. There was nothing recent about it, despite what Subitorni said, and Zeesar was trying hard to hide his irritation.
Good. Yukannak needed eyes and ears inside the F’ahdn’s circle to warn him of danger, and a disaffected yuzbazzi was perfect. As his mind whipsawed back and forth about his own predicament, he decided that, whatever happened, he would not return to Kulsis alive unless those he’d betrayed lost power.
At the bottom of the ramp lay a large chamber with tunnels leading off in different directions. The vehicle stopped near four others parked along the south wall as the driver spoke to a mechanic who was bent over an engine compartment. Pulling off again, they continued until they came to a large central tunnel with daylight at the far end, half a mile distant. Stopping about one hundred yards from the exit, Subitorni explained that Yukannak’s quarters were in the wealthy section that was cut into the plateau itself. The tunnel, however, terminated in the Inner City where the merchants lived. Surrounding the Inner City was a high, thick wall made from mud brick and stone.
“The F’ahdn sends his apologies, but he is unwell today. Your evening meal will be brought to your quarters or, if you would like to mingle with the people, there are celebrations each night after sundown. Tell the food vendors you are a guest of the F’ahdn, and he will pay for your meal and drink.”
“Are these celebrations for the better folk or for everyone?”
“Everyone.”
Large, loud crowds often hid assassins. Back home he could spot someone who seemed out of place, but everyone on R’Bak looked suspicious to Yukannak. “Then I will eat alone and rest.”
Subitorni left after Yukannak settled into his quarters, and the guards went with him. At Yukannak’s request, Zeesar stayed behind. A servant provided by the F’ahdn brought them cool water from the artesian well that supplied the city, pumped directly into the small kitchen. Heavily padded chairs and rugs of densely woven cloth softened the feel of the rooms, cut as they were from living rock. As a matter of course, Yukannak assumed that even if the F’ahdn didn’t have electronic listening devices, he had some way of monitoring the conversations of his guests.
“Being on the edge of the Ashbands, Imsurmik can be a dangerous city,” Zeesar said. “Especially with so many outlying militias coming here. The local citizens are generally a quiet enough lot, but things are becoming crowded now, and they are wary of the newcomers. Many are only passing through, which leads to thievery and even kidnappings. You may not always be shown the respect you deserve. Should you need a guide, I again offer my services.”
“And I accept them. It is good to get varying viewpoints about who the satrap may and may not rely on in coming days.”
“And the Kulsians as well?”
Yukannak paused. Few people mentioned the Kulsians in such a direct manner. Was he wrong about the listening devices, or was it a trap? “Yes. It is even more crucial for my people to know whom they may trust.”
“Wise. One can never have enough friends.”
“No, one cannot.”
Zeesar rose to leave and let Yukannak remove his paint and rest from his long trip. But first he bent close and lowered his voice.
“Trust no one,” he said.
“Including you?”
That brought a grin. “Especially me.”
* * * * *
Chapter 5
Captain Cutter, recently promoted from lieutenant, stood atop the highest hill before the river valley to watch his platoon’s third training exercise of the day. The men were tired and hungry and sick of month-after-month intensive learning. Everything from advanced small unit tactics and hand-to-hand combat training, to field stripping and cleaning all the platoon’s weapons blindfolded. They’d shot so many rounds on the firing range that the M14s had left their shoulders sore and bruised. Supply convoys had twice brought more ammo, which, due to their proximity to Imsurmik, had to be hand carried the final seven miles so as not to attract unwanted attention.
Griping was epidemic, and Cutter smiled at every second of it; he worried much more about silence than bitching.
His executive officer, Lieutenant Tanavuna, had run the training now for more than two weeks with no input from Cutter. That way, if Cutter took a bullet in the first minute of action, the platoon could still carry out the mission. Being the son of their hetman and married to their healer, Tanavuna was the natural choice. Fortunately, he also happened to be a damned fine officer.
The men in his platoon all came from the same village and had been away from their families for months now, with only a few leaves to visit them. Being separated, they had fewer distractions to interrupt their concentration, and they had rapidly bonded as soldiers. It was Cutter’s version of Army boot camp.
Everyone hated the arrangement, but as Tanavuna’s father was hetman, his word carried the force of law. Once convinced of the necessity for the young men of his village to learn the Offworlders’ way of war, he had agreed to Cutter’s suggestion that they move the training camp a few miles to the west. After two months of standard weapons’ training and drills, Cutter had named Tanavuna as platoon executive officer, and three men named Riidono, Brakkel, and Scussian as sergeants, each commanding one of the platoon’s three squads. His platoon was nicknamed Cutter’s Cutters after the unit he’d led back on Earth, although the name thrust faces into his mind, shadows of the men he’d led to their deaths.
Months earlier, his men had laid out the representation of a town on the mostly barren expanse, and they had used it to practice urban combat techniques. Clumps of brush or trees, hillocks, and boulders all had designations as buildings or other structures. Gullies became sewers, and Cutter tried every way he could to simulate moving through foul sludge to acclimate his men. He didn’t want to play that card any more than they did, but it was a lot better to stink than die, and the enemy would never expect anyone to immerse themselves in raw sewage.
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