by Matt Levin
If the Junta was already in control of the colony, that meant they had the hangar. And the Exemplar. Any path to getting back control of her ship involved outmaneuvering the Junta.
“Plus, they shot my people,” Nadia interjected. She was torn: she could understand why Boyd was upset—and she knew from the primers that the Ikkren Horde was unequivocally the aggressor in previous decades—but at the same time, it wasn’t Derek who had killed Mason and Gage in cold blood.
Derek turned and regarded her, stopping in his tracks. “You must be one of the new arrivals. The refugees,” he muttered.
“I am,” Nadia said. “Nadia Jibor,” she introduced herself, shaking Derek’s hand, after realizing she hadn’t introduced herself earlier. “And this is Boyd Makrum, my guide to the area. He’s a Calimor native.”
“I gathered that,” Derek said, shooting Boyd a glare. “My team and I figured your people were trying to make a move on Calimor. And that explains what the Junta is doing here.”
Boyd stopped too. “What do you mean? The Junta’s probably here in force because you all have been shooting them.”
Derek brought up a file on his wrister. “My team salvaged a few files from a Junta field computer we came across earlier,” he said. “It’s a bit long, but it’s coming from Junta high command.” He pressed a series of buttons, dispatching the file to Nadia and Boyd via their network. Nadia’s wrister buzzed, indicating reception of the Junta file.
She skimmed through the first few paragraphs. It was a set of orders from the Junta leadership, ordering its forces to take control of the biggest abandoned Calimor plantations in advance of the refugees’ arrival. Then, the plan was that they could capitalize off of the refugees’ desperation and sell the plantations back to them. Or extort them through other means.
Nadia arched her eyebrow.
Boyd finished skimming through the file almost immediately afterward. “For all we know, the Horde could have been planning the same thing. Or the entire thing could be a fake! Or—”
“—Derek,” Nadia interrupted, flashing the man a smile, “would you mind if I had a private conversation with my guide?”
Derek seemed taken aback. “I...okay? I’ll just go stand guard. I’ll give you all a shout if I see our pursuers.” Derek hiked back up a steep incline to the ridge, giving him a vantage point of the preceding cavern.
Nadia pressed a button on her wrister, setting up a private channel between her and Boyd. “I understand your concerns about him,” Nadia said, “but we don’t have any reason not to trust him.”
Boyd sighed. “I mean, I get that. But things were different back when I was a kid. The Modrin people were practically the boogeymen to anyone growing up in the outer rim. Forming the Horde was their idea, after all. And they were the ones that started the war with the Union.”
Nadia couldn’t remember exactly the chain of events that had led to the formation of the Horde on Ikkren a decade ago, so she appreciated the refresher. “If I remember correctly, the Horde split during the war,” she said. “And the new leadership has been peaceful ever since.”
“That’s true,” Boyd said. “Or at least, that’s what the media says. I wasn’t here to see personally. None of my people were. But the reason we had to leave in the first place was because of the Horde.”
“I completely understand,” she said. Her voice was gentle. Maybe all the arguing with Russ had made her better at seeing other people’s points of view. Then she wrinkled her nose. Even if that were true, she’d never tell Russ.
“I realize I’m coming off a little paranoid here,” Boyd said. “And you’re right, only one side took shots at us. But they might not have realized we weren’t with Derek. I’m just saying...we need to think about the worst-case scenario here.”
Nadia nodded. “The thing is, from my perspective, I already am in the worst-case scenario. My people have nowhere to go besides Calimor, our entire leadership was wiped out before we arrived in the system, and we don’t even have food supplies to last the rest of the year.
“My people are in the bottom of a hole, and the only option is to climb our way out. Maybe that means making some bad decisions here or there. Hell, I can almost guarantee we will. But we can deal with those when the lives of 40 million people aren’t hanging by a thread. And if we want to make a home for ourselves in this system, we have to trust people at some point. Give them the benefit of the doubt...just like I did with you.”
Boyd looked at his feet, but he nodded along as she spoke. “Yeah. Damn, when you put it like that, I dunno...it’s just hard to appreciate the stakes of all this. I mostly just wanted to come out here to get away from work for once and reconnect with my childhood.”
“That’s all well and good too. In this instance, I need to go with my instincts. And my instincts are telling me we can trust Derek.” And that the Junta shot two of my people, she thought.
“All right. I’m not sure if I’m there yet, but you’re the boss on this. I’ll follow your lead,” Boyd said.
Nadia nodded appreciatively, and the two headed back up the slope to find Derek, who was still dutifully watching for any approaching Junta soldiers. They patched him back into their channel. “I think we lost them,” Derek said.
“What do you say we team up?” Nadia said. “If the Junta are trying to take control of the settlement to extort us, then I say we figure out a way to take control of it first. And if your people need Calimor to expand, we can work out something mutually agreeable afterward.”
“We could link up with the rest of my party,” Derek said. “I sent out a coded message while you two were talking. Hopefully, they’ll get back to me soon. If the Junta haven’t gotten them, that is…”
“Even if we really are going to ally with the Horde on this,” Boyd sighed, “what’s the actual plan here? If the Junta landed a bunch of troops, I don’t think we’ll be able to shoot our way out of this.”
“Actually,” Nadia said, flashing a grin, “I was hoping you could come up with something. This used to be your home, after all.”
“Well...I don’t know if we could set a trap, really. We don’t have the numbers, and nothing in here has power. We could lure them into the caverns and cause a rockfall, but that could destabilize the entire colony. Can’t bring in air support. Both Ikkren and the Preserver are too far away to provide backup.”
Boyd paced back and forth, and Derek shot Nadia a glare that said is this guy really serious?
“Nothing in here has power,” Boyd said, repeating himself. “That’s it. These Junta troops would focus on occupying the physical settlements, because they don’t know any better. But they’d be wrong.”
Boyd turned to face the two of them, his expression lighting up. “Control the main power station, and you control the entire settlement.”
“But you said everything in here was dead,” Derek said. “How would we restore power?”
Boyd locked eyes with Nadia. “We have something they don’t,” he said.
Of course, Nadia thought. They had a resource equipped with code fragments of the Preserver’s computer that could interface with the Arcena’s power station, thanks to Vincent’s upgrades. One that could jump-start the system before infusing the colony’s operating code with encryption that would lock the Junta out.
“The Exemplar,” she said.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
It had gotten far quieter on the Preserver. Isadora would occasionally meet with the other sixteen staff members they had awoken—now split officially into administrative, security, and science divisions—but she had been missing meeting with Nadia, Russ, and Vincent while they were all aboard.
Russ and the medic he had defrosted for his expedition had departed the previous evening, taking two of the Preserver’s shuttles to a transit hub in the Natonese asteroid belt, where they would book passage on a commercial liner to cover their tracks.
Nadia still hadn’t checked in since landing on Calimor, but Isad
ora wasn’t too worried yet, especially given Nadia’s penchant for not sending reports as frequently as Isadora might have preferred. By her reckoning, Nadia had only been planetside for less than two full days. She probably had her hands full.
And as the most introverted of the original four, Vincent mostly kept to himself. Isadora looked over a list of dossiers he had forwarded to her, recommending possible first-wave colonists for Calimor. As she and Russ had decided, about half had some amount of EDF experience. She had to input a code to access the files as part of the new encryption system Vincent had devised. It was the first time she had ever accessed classified information.
She flipped through the dossiers, lingering on each file only briefly. Her eyes were drawn to each individual’s family status: a huge portion were married, but none of their spouses had been tapped for the first wave. A small handful of spouses were listed as deceased in transit. With about 20% of the Preserver’s population having perished during the journey, Isadora was surprised having deceased children or spouses wasn’t more common.
She realized, however, that most of the crew would have been close to their relatives. Even if children were in separate wings, they would be close to their parents. It seemed likely that the vast majority of the 10 million pods lost to space would have all been related to each other. Isadora wasn’t sure whether that was supposed to be a silver lining or all the more disturbing.
Still, she didn’t relish having that conversation with the handful of colonists whose loved ones had perished. Maybe I should write letters, she thought, that they could read once they had fully thawed.
Satisfied with the dossiers, Isadora created a new text file on her wrister. Dear [future colonist], she wrote, feeling her heart drop as she tried to figure out what to say next. I regret to inform you that—no, scratch that, it wasn’t like she was turning someone down for a job—I am utterly sorrowful—no, that sounded weirdly poetic—I am deeply saddened to inform you—there, that sounded okay.
She tried imagining what it would be like to be in one of these people’s positions. Her thoughts returned to her own experience of being woken up: the vulnerability, the utter confusion, the cold. Isadora tried to picture what it would be like for the gratitude at being alive and safe across the galaxy to turn to terror at learning the fate of her loved ones.
A lump formed in her throat from the mere image in her head. Her heart hammered away in her chest, signalling the onset of abject panic. She was half inclined to rip her wrister off, storm out of her cabin, and go check on her daughter’s cryo pod. Maybe seeing the steady lines on the readout terminal next to Meredith’s pod would calm her.
Instead, she took a series of long, deep breaths. Slowly, she returned to normal. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to work on the condolence letters, she thought, closing the file on her wrister. When would the best time be, then? was the question she didn’t dare ask herself.
Luckily, she didn’t have to.
Her wrist device let out a small chirp, informing her of the receipt of a video message. She opened the file, and her device spat out a holographic projection of the Union prime minister’s creased face.
“Prime Minister Satoro!” the recording of Tricia Favan said. Isadora smirked. She still didn’t have an official title, but Tricia insisted on referring to her as “prime minister” nonetheless.
“I actually have some good news this time,” the recording of Tricia continued, adopting a more serious tone. Considering that the only previous message Tricia had dispatched to the Preserver had been to inform them that they were barred from settling on any Union planet, Isadora didn’t see how the current message couldn’t have been better than last time.
“It took a good bit of arm-twisting, but I finally rammed a proposal through Parliament authorizing the leasing of an old diplomatic office in downtown Obrigan City to your people. I figured it’d make a good embassy.
“It just makes practical sense. We have embassies in the capital for the Junta and the Horde, and we used to have one for the old Calimor settlements. And your people are a legitimate political entity.
“And the building already exists, so there’d be no construction costs. Obviously, you’d be responsible for staffing the embassy, but I figured we could work something out while your people get on their feet, financially. I think I have the votes to pass a series of zero-interest loans to cover food and lodging expenses, at least for six months.
“I know I’m calling it an embassy, but the offices are big enough that you could do your own work there. I figured being cooped up on that ship is probably starting to get to you by now.” The projection shrugged. “Or maybe we’re different.
“Plus, look...I still feel bad about how those settlement charter referenda went. Consider this my personal apology.” Tricia looked down for a few seconds, fixated on something beyond the recording screen. “Anyway, that’s all I had. I hope you’ll take us up on the offer. Feel free to send a message my way if you have questions, or if you want to work out logistics.”
The recording ended, and Isadora went through a dizzying set of emotions.
The first was raw elation. Suddenly, the universe was finally giving her the opportunity to get away from the Preserver, from the harsh lighting and the bleak, utilitarian interior and the gripping sense of loneliness that Nadia and Russ’ departures had only amplified and the utter disruption of her body’s circadian rhythm.
The second was suspicion. Channeling her best inner Russ, she tried to figure out what, exactly, was Tricia’s game here. Isadora even narrowed her eyes to put her in the right mindset. If she was next to Tricia’s own headquarters, it would be far easier for the Union to spy on her, imprison her and hold her ransom, or even have her killed.
The third—and by far the strongest and most long-lasting—was a stubborn refusal to leave Meredith’s side. Even having to work in a separate wing of the Preserver from Isadora’s daughter’s cryo pod felt like a compromise. Could she really leave her daughter behind, in the care of mostly strangers, while she journeyed to the other side of the Natonus System?
She felt another panic attack coming at the mere thought of it, necessitating another minute of calming breath exercises. Then she let her logical side take over.
Her paranoia was probably unfounded…right? If the Union wanted her dead or captured, literally nothing was stopping them from outright destroying the Preserver or sending in waves of marines to bring her in. And Tricia was right: it would be perfectly normal for the refugees to have an embassy in Obrigan City. They were just as legitimate of a foreign political entity to the Union as the Ikkren Horde or the Enther Junta.
And with Meredith, Isadora tried to focus on the positives she could accomplish if she were to relocate. Even if she felt eminently unqualified for every other aspect of the job that had landed in her lap, she was no stranger to politics.
She had spent countless hours knocking on doors or attending community events in her district back in Seattle. She tried to imagine what she could accomplish if she had easy access to the Union Parliament. She could build relationships with individual members of Parliament, learn who to lean on, and maybe figure out a way to slowly undo the prohibition on settling the system’s more habitable worlds.
All those things would help Meredith. Maybe they’d even facilitate bringing Meredith and other “nonessential” crew—Isadora hated that term—out of cryo sooner. If she could cut months off of the time it would take before she could wake up her daughter, even if it meant temporarily leaving the Preserver, wasn’t that worth it?
She already had her answer.
But she wanted a second opinion, and with both Nadia and Russ gone, her options were fairly limited. She quickly sent a message to Vincent, requesting a meeting. Being that it was the middle of the Preserver’s day cycle, she was hardly surprised when the man responded mere seconds later, inviting her over.
Isadora gathered herself and headed down the hallway to the wing of dormitories wh
ere Vincent had taken up residence. She passed two of her aides, talking in hushed tones over a shared datapad. “Keep up the good work,” she said as she passed. Both flashed genuine smiles back.
Gotta keep morale up, she thought, knowing that many of the other crew had no easy exit from life aboard the Preserver. She resolved to take the entire initial staff roster on a vacation when things were more stable. Anyone’s guess when that’ll be.
Arriving at Vincent’s cabin, the utter mess immediately struck Isadora. Vincent had shown little willingness to throw away the wrappers his nutra rations came in, with crumpled-up, recycled aluminum litter scattered around both his desk and the floor.
Each cabin had its own clothes-cleaning receptacle, using water and air recycling systems to keep each crew member’s garments fresh. Vincent had apparently decided to just toss both clean and dirty clothes—to be honest, Isadora couldn’t really tell which was which—on his bed, eschewing his actual cabinets. But Isadora couldn’t question Vincent’s work ethic or his abilities.
The man spun around in his chair and put down the datapad he had been perusing when she walked in. “Hello,” he said quietly, a soft, friendly smile on his face. He didn’t apologize for the mess. Can he even tell his room is a mess? Isadora wondered.
Isadora shook his hand and sat down in a chair opposite him. “What’s on your mind?” Vincent asked. Isadora took a deep breath and launched into an explanation of the message she had received from Tricia. As she explained everything, Vincent listened with rapt attention, nodding along as she went.
“Well that seems promising,” he said after she finished.
“That was my first thought,” Isadora said. “Then I wondered what Russ would say if he were here.”
Vincent snorted. “He’d probably be afraid the Union was planning on assassinating you.”
“And that’s exactly what I thought,” Isadora chuckled.
“That doesn’t seem likely though,” Vincent mused. “I think the prime minister is being genuine. Having an embassy is normal for anyone beyond the bounds of Union authority.”
