One World One People

Part I

Heavensfire

Prologue

Peter Chen caressed the scaly surface of the craft, breathing deep as his fingertips bounced across the cool, rough surface. It did not resemble any spacecraft or, for that matter, any atmospheric craft he had ever seen. He hated it for that, how it inspired the darkest corners of his imagination to associate it with anything other than what it was. Discomfort was no reason to avoid a formative experience but he shifted his feet as he thought of climbing into the device’s maw. He couldn’t shake the thought of being eaten by some great black dragon.

While he did not enjoy being beaten half to death by hired thugs on Karotún, or stabbed through his forearm by a very determined assassin on Honshu, he considered those events invaluable experiences. Early in life he learned that being able to throw a punch didn’t mean shit if you couldn’t take one.

He strained his mind to associate the craft with seed pods that dropped from ornamental trees back home. That made him the kernel, the germ. What would thus sprout from the strange soil thousands of kiloms below? As he thought of what it meant to climb into that vehicle and get dropped like excrement onto the planet they presently orbited, he wished like hell that he could just take a punch instead.

His hand twitched and he fought the urge to run diagnostics again. No amount of diagnostics would make the interior feel less like a coffin, nor unwrap the nerves that knotted deep in his gut. He always got nervous before a mission, before actually touching his feet on the ground of whatever dusty rock the Federated Alliance deigned to send him. He had read every hundred-page brief, studied every relevant third-party account, and overanalyzed every scrap of unconfirmed intel and still he was anxious. There was a certain comfort to be found in boring, routine professionalism and he prided himself on his disciplined examination of drudgery. On more than one occasion, it was detached, dispassionate study of the facts beforehand that ultimately preserved his life.

He drew his hand away as he heard approaching mag-booted footsteps clanking against the steel grated floor. From around a corner appeared Surj, one of the ship’s mechanics whom Peter had befriended to the limited degree he allowed himself friends. His leathery skin, thick turban, and long nose marked him, in Peter’s mind, as Gilakistani, likely from one of the western land masses in the southern hemisphere.

You should go take a piss, Surj laughed, walking over and giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder. You don’t want to blow that first impression with your new friends.

I’m more likely to lose my lunch, Peter replied, his stomach gurgling an objection as he added, which is why I haven’t eaten anything for a day and a half.

Sounds like hell. Surj scratched the back of his neck and shook his head. You, my friend, are a glutton for punishment.

Occupational hazard. Running on empty helps me acclimate to the local cuisine a lot faster.

Hadn’t thought of that, he said, stroking his chin and looking at Peter with pity. He glanced inside of the drop-pod’s cockpit and sucked air through his teeth. You really gonna fit in there?

So they tell me.

You ever ride in one of these before?

Only in simulation.

Surj raised his eyebrows as if to say haha, okay. Even making a stupid face, he still had the bearing of a soldier, his jaw muscular and his face lean. He moved like one as well, having never adopted the hunched-shoulders-shuffle of his fellow wrench jockeys. Peter suspected he came from a military family but hadn’t asked.

Never rode in one myself, but I knew a guy who did.

And? Peter crossed his arms.

You should go take a piss.

Peter nodded and made for the head, chuckling as his boots clanked heavily against the grated metal floor. Corvette-class skirmishers were build for speed and maneuverability, not comfort. When the war began, most of the warships were posh cruisers filled with cushioned beds and carpeted floors, their exteriors retrofitted with plasma cannons and flak guns. Comfort on the inside, brutal weapons of destruction on the outside. Newer ships like this settled for metal floors, bunks just large enough to accommodate humans, and onboard temperatures that meant that the crew wore their uniform coat even when off duty. Twenty years at war will change your priorities.

On his way to the head, he flipped through docs on his digitab, scanning war records, troop placements, and other pertinent intel. His subject spent three months on the infamous Tangiers training base, which seemed a rotten coincidence. Before the place was burned to a crater just last year, it had trained some of the absolute worst of the Feudalist army. People who burned their prisoners to death, people who slowly crushed the bodies of suspected spies beneath millstones, people who punished uncooperative village elders by hanging them with soft ropes until they fell unconscious and then reviving them over and over until they died of exhaustion. People who, in Peter’s mind, no longer had the right to call themselves people.

He looked forward to the day when they would answer for their crimes.

The Feudalist Navy was less than a third the size of the Federated, their remaining worlds were remote and isolated, and their leadership too fractured and quarrelsome to rally a decent defense. After seventeen long years of fighting with billions of casualties to show for it, the war was nearing its final blows. The only outcome left was victory for the Alliance of Federated Worlds, provided that Alliance didn’t erupt in a civil war itself. Officially, the end would come in three-to-five years.

As he urinated into the shiny vacuum-sealed bag, he listed the steps of his preflight checklist. Briefly, his thoughts turned to his mother and how he really ought to message her soon. It would be Malcolm’s birthday in a few months, and while he had already arranged an autosend, he still felt guilty that he wouldn’t be able to call her as he had done every year since his brother’s death. If you want it to mean something, she had told him, take up his fight. He buttoned himself up and walked back to his pod, the cool metal echoing beneath the stamp of his boots.

When he came back to the drop-pod, Surj had been joined by two engineers—the two-meter bean-pole called Bosch, who had been raised on an asteroid base, and the obese gearhead everyone called Marbles. Peter suddenly realized he never actually learned the man’s name. After the usual pleasantries and encouragements, Peter squeezed himself into the strange black padding in the pod’s cockpit. He didn’t know the name of the material, but he marveled a little at how it felt soft and squishy when he first pressed into it but then became firm when he shifted about.

Quit your fidgeting, you’ll be fine, said Marbles as he double checked Peter’s harness straps.

Are they supposed to be this loose? Peter asked, pulling the one across his chest until it was three fingers away.

If they’re too tight—Marbles gave his customary exasperated sigh—then you’ll lose circulation in your legs. I’m assuming you want to keep your legs?

Peter responded with an irritated sigh.

Right, then. Looks good, just relax and it will be over before you know it.

He gave a thumbs-up to Bosch, who gave his customary slow nod and tapped a few buttons on the wall console. The canopy lowered over him and sealed shut with a hiss. Like a coffin. This coffin included a small viewing window at his eye level, the purpose of which Peter really couldn’t imagine. Why not mount a camera to the nose so I can see where I’m going to land?

His body suddenly tensed as his claustrophobia triggered. The simulator was more spacious than this, wasn’t it? This was the wrong craft—some order had gotten mixed up. Breathe, idiot. He had never experienced this kind of fear in his life, and he had been in plenty of tight spots before.

Marbles snapped his fingers at him, holding up ten when Peter gave him his attention. Ten. Peter took a deep breath and calmed his nerves, forcing his fists to unbunch. Nine. He thought of home, sitting with his mother and brother on a sandy beach or watching whales from the cliffside. Eight. His heartrate slowed as he felt himself starting to trust the process and the technology that now held him so firmly in his grip. Seven. He thought of Sir Aidan. Noble, savage, brutal Sir Aidan, who trained at the same base as those other Noble, savage brutes. Was he a born-again democratic reformer? A crass opportunist hunting for a crown of his own? Something may need to be done about the valiant Sir Aidan.

Six. When Marbles got to six, Peter suddenly wasn’t thinking about Sir Aidan or his mother or his home world or his breathing. When Marbles got to six, Peter’s pod jettisoned from the craft, shooting several kilometers away from the FAV Barracuda within a few seconds. The drop-pod hissed as its seals tightened against the vacuum of space and his viewing window was filled with deep blackness. Something above him exploded.

He screamed in spite of himself and felt ridiculous the moment he realized it was merely the pod’s guidance rockets doing their part to push him to the Caledonian soil in one piece. His ears pulsed at the howl of the rockets, like hearing a lion roar while your head is inside of its mouth. He realized he was struggling against his restraints, his hands instinctively reaching to cover his poor ears in vain. He tried to take some deep breaths but they were all shallow and panicked. He closed his eyes and pictured himself sitting atop a scenic hill overlooking the turquoise waters of Crystal Bay, gazing at the gigantic super rays that swam in the tide and silently kept watch over the world.

The shuttle began shaking, rattling as though it was trying to come apart. This was it. This was how he would die: screaming and squirming while the universe itself sucked the air from his lungs and boiled his blood in his veins as the craft he had entrusted with his life fell apart around him. Not an unforeseen outcome, he realized. He had forged his intelligence career exposing enemy pressure points by building complex, intertwining ops like scaffolding around Feudal power structures; it was a matter of time before one of his schemes collapsed around him like balsa wood.

The craft jumped, then ceased its shaking and rattling. Around its hull, he heard the familiar rush of atmosphere that harmonized with his rockets’ burn. Flames crept over the viewing window and it looked for several moments as though the night sky itself was somehow ablaze. Within moments, all he could see was fire.

He stared into the flames, readying himself to accept their judgment. We all must pass through the flames of this life, that we might be refined as God prepares us to enter into his joy. His last sincere prayer had taken place two decades before, but he prayed now to the god he had left in the dust of his childhood, then to the gods of this world, then to any god that would listen.

As though in response to his prayer, the flames receded, a pale blue sky now filling his vision. The roar of atmosphere and rocket burn fell quickly silent. His craft allowed him a few moments of blissfully soundless gliding and he relaxed while trying to ignore the itch on his nose which would be dealt with when he was safely planetside. He felt his feet tilting downward as gravity held him fast. Any moment, the chute will pop and I’ll glide to the ground like a feather. Any moment …

He needed more distractions. He sang a children’s song, naming the hundred and eight worlds in alphabetical order. He expected the chute to pop by Corythos, but as he rounded Levensten, the acid-burn of dread began to rise in his chest. Was something wrong with the chute? He knew it was too loose. Should he have checked it more closely, or worse, did all of his fiddling shake loose some critical doodad that this stupid ship needed to activate its bloody parachute?

He closed his eyes in what was meant to be a simple blink but quickly transformed into a full-on blackout. A memory crept around the edges of his mind, Marbles casually mentioning something about ejecting. There must be an eject control within the pod. His eyes darted about and he tried to wriggle his hands free. Everywhere he looked, he saw only more jet-black interior, the panels around him defiantly plain and devoid of buttons. He forced his breathing to slow, wishing he could see how close the ground was when something began to rumble above him like thunder.

The retro-rockets. He cursed himself for panicking as the craft deployed its small fins to the side of him with a whine. Gravity shifted as his viewing window filled with clouds. His heart finally slowed and he took deep, calming breaths. What good would all that struggling be if I really were about to die? He closed his eyes once more, imagining the red midday sky of Hasper and its purple sunset as well. He was tempted to imagine a hand caressing his, but the memory brought only guilt. He opened his eyes.

Just when he was starting to feel comfortable, the rockets suddenly stopped and something boomed behind him, shifting his craft so that he was in standing position once more. His body jerked and bounced a few times as he felt the chute somewhere above him fill with air, and he finally saw the tops of a few trees in the distance. It’s almost over. That wasn’t so bad. As if it sensed his comfort, the ship thumped hard onto the ground and tumbled over, resting finally on its side.

Now … how do I get this goddamn thing open?

He felt around with his hands, certain that he read somewhere that the emergency release was somewhere in reach. As his fingertips pressed against another blank panel to no effect, the pod suddenly hissed and the front cover pushed itself out. Automated, that’s right. It slid upward until there was just enough room for him to wriggle out. He pushed one of his hands out of the grippy padding and flicked open the chest harness’s latch. Carefully wriggling from the craft’s grip, he stumbled onto the grassy plain where the ship had landed.

First things first. He strapped his armor on, taking care to quickly but accurately align the contacts between each piece as he went. The air was moist and thick, tasting of pine and pollen rather than the salt and fish of his home. As he connected his helmet, he scanned the horizon. Trees and clouds, as far as the eye could see.

He reached back into the pod to grab a small bag containing his essentials: his smooth flat digitab, a chemics set, a nan-injector, and a pistol. He opened the bag and removed the gun, strapping it to his right thigh with his faithful black superpoly holster.

Map, he said. His helmet’s viewscreen displayed anoverlay, the two nearest settlements highlighted in blue. A red circle blinked about twenty kiloms east of them, in one of the few areas of the grid that wasn’t populated solely by trees.

He listened, closing his eyes and concentrating on the enhanced audio receptors of his suit. Birds, small scavengers, the whisper of a slight breeze through the myriad leaves, and a babbling brook. At the sound of water, he felt suddenly very thirsty and in need of something cold to splash on his face, so he focused on it and walked about fifty paces north, where a stream flowed out of the forest and bent through the meadow. He unclipped his helmet and pulled it off his head, shuddering with joy at the feeling of fresh air moving across his skin. Stale recirc’d air from the Barracuda’s life-support system couldn’t compare. He took a cup and a small vial out of his bag, resisting the urge to sink his face into the cool, clear stream.

He filled the cup, then dripped a few drops from his vial into the innocent-looking water. It clouded the liquid with its native pink at first, then turned bright red as it mixed. Peter sighed. Allaquillids, great. Two months of diarrhea to look forward to! He emptied the cup and rinsed it in the water, then took his larger canteen from the bag and filled it up, adding a few drops from a vial marked with green and purple triangles. He took a sip from the canteen, drew the coolness of the stream into himself. Something in the distance boomed like a gunshot.

He flattened himself on the grass immediately, sliding his helmet over his head with one deft hand and strapped the small luggage case to his back, being careful to stay as flat as he could. The sound grew louder, like small bursts from a submachine gun not unlike the one he now unfastened from his leg. He thumbed the ammo switch for flechettes, but rested his thumb beneath it in case he needed to switch to plasma.

From the far right tree line emerged a rider wearing bulky armor, whipping his mount hard toward Peter’s drop-pod. A dozen others followed, all of them armed with guns and swords. They really use swords. I figured fifty-fifty that Weng was just fucking with me. As his helmet scanned them, it brought more weapons to his attention: daggers, maces, clubs, and even spiked flails. He chuckled under his breath at the sight.

He stopped laughing when a group of equal size suddenly broke from the opposite tree line, also riding for his downed craft. Which side is mine? How the hell am I supposed to tell? His helmet had highlighted a variety of sigils painted upon their chestplates, but none of them matched any of those described by his research. A snake wrapped around a spear, another a circle of thorny branches with a bloody fist in the middle … but no sign of the trees with interwoven branches and roots. The second group converged upon the first, who arrived at the pod just ahead of them.

Peter held his breath as his helmet enhanced the audio around his targets. The leader of the first group pointed a finger at the leader of the second, sounded pissed. No weapons drawn, must be allies. His helmet continued scanning the symbols on their chests, but nothing looked like his target symbol yet. Slowly, he began to crawl toward them, waiting for the midday breeze to mask his movement through the swaying tall grass.

He froze when one of the platoon leaders looked in his direction. Did they see him? He flicked the thumb switch on his pistol to plasma rounds, ready to incapacitate any would-be scouts. His helmet suddenly erupted with alarms and it took him a moment to realize what it was telling him; the dingy vest worn over the leader’s armor bore the image of three trees, the branches and roots interweaving. Releasing a sigh, he stood and waved.

The two groups mounted and galloped toward him so quickly that he thought they meant to trample him, but they all reared their horses away just before impact became imminent. For a long moment, they stared at him and he stared at them. Finally, the first leader spoke.

He was a little stunned that it was a woman’s voice emanating from the armored figure, and sighed at how ridiculous her words sounded. Their language was a mishmash of flowing syllables and sudden guttural stops, as though a deep-space collision was made into spoken word. He had already started the linguistic analytics of his cochlear comp, but it would be several days before he was ready to speak it for himself. Several days of nonsense sounds. Nonsense sounds and dysentery, what more could I ask?

The leader was asking different questions, over and over, until finally Peter raised his hand. She either understood his gesture or was stunned.

I’m looking for Aidan Franklin, Peter said, hoping he pronounced the name correctly. Any chance you know where I can find him?

Chapter 1

Twin tendrils of smoke danced into the sky, blending with the murky clouds of the muggy late afternoon. Aidan took a sip of tart pomegranate mead and frowned as those wispy snakes spun around each other, twirling gleefully into oblivion. They came from Klauston but what did they mean? Perhaps the Zumbarindian Army finally finished their ramps and ladders, and were fighting their way into the city even now, slaughtering Marke and Ygretta with impunity. Or had Marke managed to rally his five thousand troops into a strategy by which they could defeat forty thousand entrenched enemies? As the warmth of the mead radiated from his stomach and spread into his chest and fingertips, he knew that this was but a distraction from the more pressing business in his hands.

Looking upon the seal that graced the envelope in his hand filled him with both fear and pride. Pressed firm in the green wax was the image of a tree with hissing snakes for limbs. The last time he looked upon that symbol a man was trying very hard to kill him. He came closer than most. The twisting, bunching scar at his side, where that foe had planted his parrying dagger, still felt like a foreign object stuck in his flesh, a broken fingernail which he hadn’t fully removed. At the time, the injury seemed justified when measured against the result; the threat of Peyrola was removed. Nothing of worth comes without cost.

As the war stretched into its second year, that cost was beginning to seem like more than he could afford. How many of his allies had breathed their last when they fought the deputy’s army at Graydon Forest? How many at Deadman’s Hollow, at Fort Gaublai, at Klauston? They had not been killed by his hand, but it was his voice that had mustered them to battle, his legend that drove them to dangerous acts and valiant deeds which sometimes turned the tide of battle but more often only meant more bodies at his feet. They were grown soldiers—they knew the risks. He would not dishonor their memories by infantilizing them; he forbid himself the full weight of responsibility for their demises. However, the sliver of guilt he permitted was some days enough to crush him, if he allowed it. The work is not done. Mourn when you are certain that their lives were not given in vain.

Taking a deep breath, he ran his fingers under the wax seal, the snake-tree crest cracking and crumbling from the assault. The script within matched the sweeping and ornate style of the address on the back, albeit smaller and more menacing.

To the Leaders of the People’s Uprising:

It is with deepest sorrow that I must write these words, for who among us has not thought ourselves more clever, more insightful than those above us? Nonetheless, my duties require me to give a response to your request for aid and arms.

It is the intention of the Seven Stewards to withhold any further support from either cause, popular or royal. This decision was not made lightly but was nonetheless unanimous. Our fair islands have already shed too much blood, lost too many of our precious souls to be of any real material use to either faction in the field. Much as we would like to continue fighting, we must look instead to the protection and welfare of our own shores and not become entangled in the affairs of the distant mainland.

I sincerely hope that this missive is received with the same measure of goodwill and respect in which it was composed. Know that all of you are never far from our thoughts, and we pray every morning without fail for a swift and just resolution to this terrible war.

Cordially,

Lord Federico Gonzala

Duke of Mazíd

Standing Marshal of Peyrola

He wanted to crumple the paper and throw it in the nearby hearth, lighting a fire just for the occasion. He let his mind linger on how good it would feel to rip it in small pieces and scatter it to the wind. He pictured the remnant of the People’s Army sailing to the shores of Peyrola and forcing the letter down Marshal Gonzala’s arrogant throat. Then I could watch from the islands as everything for which I’ve sacrificed is brought to ruin just so I could make a point.

He folded the letter, calmly, and pressed it into the inner breast pocket of his doublet. It was not addressed to him alone, after all, but to the leaders of the People’s Uprising. He would show the letter to the Council and let them feast their squabbling eyes on every godsdamned word.

In the distance, the spindles of smoke still rose. Aidan sighed, reminding himself that no amount of worry would put those fires out, whosoever’s they might be.

After finally reaching the bottom floor, he walked into the muggy murk of the afternoon with a familiar routine in mind. The streets were lined with mounted banners all bearing, at long last, the same crest. While the Council had been displeased by the independent spirit of his actions at Klauston, they had adopted the three trees with branches and roots intertwined as the official crest of the People’s Uprising. The walls of Greenspire likewise displayed the crest and, to Aidan’s great relief, were half as tall as those of Klauston. He stepped onto the top of one of the east wall’s towers and stood for a moment next to a guard dressed in simple plate with a rusty conical helm.

Civilians aren’t allowed up here, the guard said, looking at Aidan with impatient disgust. Get down those stairs a’fore I crack your skull.

Aidan sighed. The man’s lily skin, so white it was nearly translucent, marked him as a Saukasi. While he hadn’t outright called Aidan a mud-faced shitskin, Aidan could still feel the familiar wordless hostility that he only ever experienced from those who harbored some mysterious hatred for his darker skin.

Like most Iridonians, Aidan had long since developed an insulation to this particular prejudice. Most Mardoni were likewise so inundated with the casual assumption of superiority held by even the lowest Saukasi that they eventually learned to accept such abuse with silence lest they invite its increase. Most days, Aidan would have brushed aside the infraction, introduced himself to the fat-lipped scoundrel and feasted on his embarrassment and apologies. Today was not one of those days.

Let’s make a wager, Aidan said through his teeth. He pointed to the mace the fool held at his side. "You try to strike me with that club, and if you succeed, I’ll happily vacate the wall."

Has your brain gone to splinters? The guard scoffed, looking Aidan up and down as though there was little to see. Get the hell off this wall before I—

Aidan’s fist smashed into his pock-marked nose with a spray of blood. The man grunted and stumbled back, his free hand reaching clumsily for his face. Aidan grabbed the haft of his mace and smashed the edge of his palm into the right side of the guard’s neck. His opponent made choking sounds at that and released the mace. Aidan sprang back, holding the weapon in front of him as the man tried to recover himself.

Crazy shitskin, he sputtered, blood freely trickling from his shattered nose. I’ll see you hanged for this!

You there! Voices shouted from behind Aidan. He turned to see three guards running toward them, pistols drawn but not aimed toward him. The group came within ten paces before its leader waved his hand to signal his men to stand down. They holstered their weapons and the leader removed his helm, saluting Aidan with a fist over his heart. A thousand apologies, my lord, for whatever Toriss has done.

You would be well advised, Aidan said, tossing the mace hilt first to his confused opponent, to give your unit a lesson in manners.

As you say, m’lord, the man said, muttering something to his soldiers and jerking his head toward the expanse of wall that stretched along the southern end of town. Aidan followed, pausing only for a warning glare to the guard he had just trounced.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Captain Thomias Fargrim emerged from the far side of the gatehouse and nodded to Aidan. Though his build could best be described as lanky, he walked with the disciplined march of a man who had never left a job half-finished. He knuckled his forehead and Aidan returned the gesture.

The captain jutted his chin toward the forest beyond the wall. Yohannson was seen leaving the city gates with a hunting party this morning, but they returned by midday with some fresh-killed stags.

If you sent a message, I never received it. Aidan looked sidelong at the guard captain, hoping to discern whether he was about to lie to him.

I sent no message, he admitted. His steward was clearly visible near the market, no doubt purchasing vegetables and spices for the impending feast. I know you are busy—

"You need not apologize; I am busy. Aidan sighed, trying to relax his shoulders as a fresh ache began springing from them. It is unlikely that Lord Yohannson would leave the city without his steward. You made the right decision."

The others were quiet today, far as I could tell. They stayed within the walls, at least.

Aidan nodded as he leaned his elbows against the parapet and gazed into the misty forest in the distance. Though only a year had passed since the Battle of Graydon Forest, those days he spent living in the woods among the outlaws seemed like a different life. He felt the same about the time he spent on the sandy frontier of New Mongolia. Perhaps in a year, the People’s Revolution will feel like another different life. How many lives must I live?

Sir, Captain Fargrim said, scratching anxiously at his neck, this sort of work still makes me a bit jumpy on the inside. I joined this movement to get rid of the King and his little puppets, not spy on our own people.

I would not have asked this of you if it weren’t important. Aidan wanted to apologize but knew it would ring hollow because he had no way to rectify the situation. The People’s Council voted to stay; as an extension of that Council’s will, I am merely ensuring that their edict is followed.

No disrespect, sir, Fargrim said, "but I’m not sure the Council would see it that way."

"Just another momentary unpleasantness. Doing what is right is not as important as doing what is necessary."

I know how to do my duty, sir. Aidan raised an eyebrow at this response but heard no rancor in the man’s voice, only dutiful acceptance.

Hold your head high, my friend. That is all.

Captain Fargrim knuckled his forehead and walked back toward the gatehouse, where the sentry and two patrolmen were waiting. Aidan looked down the stretch of wall toward the next tower about a hundred paces away. He strolled toward it, glancing as much as he could at the sprawling village outside of the wall. The city of music was fast becoming the city of too many mouths. While Yohannson hunted and feasted, the residents of Greenspire were beginning to look gaunt and lean on the twice-a-day rations that the Council had implemented. The lines that stretched for half a kilom from every designated food dispensary, the three hundred new squatters living in the fifty abandoned shacks of the serfs’ quarter, and the sullen glares Aidan caught citizens giving to guards, soldiers, and Landborn dandies were ill portents indeed. By the time Alkanza takes Klauston and turns toward us, food riots may have sacked this city from within.

He stepped down the winding staircase, finished with his afternoon stroll. As he made his way through the neighborhood marketplace filled with empty stalls being used by vagrant refugees, he could not help but wonder how many more they could possibly support. If Alkanza ever discerned the slender thread that supported their food supply and decided to send a single division to sever it, the riots would return for certain. And the Council would look to him to put those riots down.

The air in the keep was cooler and drier than outside, and he shivered a bit as the heat of day was pulled from his skin. He marched up the stairs and returned to the sitting room where he had formerly pondered those distant spires of smoke. Charlene stood before the large round spool repurposed as a table at the center of the room. A map was spread before her that was large enough for its corners to just touch the edges of the circular surface. Her eyes were ablaze with a determined inner fire, as they had been since the siege began two weeks ago.

Four thousand soldiers is all it would take, she promised, placing four black Kahess pieces on one end of the map. We have around three, two who are currently serving. A single conscription could give us what we need.

Conscripts, Aidan said, sighing, to take on a hardened army of foreigners whose armor alone make the locals piss their pants in terror?

She clenched her jaw and Aidan worried for a moment that he had initiated yet another fight. She took a breath and stood a little taller. Let me show you.

She arranged the white Kahess pieces in a loose ring around Klauston. She seemed to have a never-ending supply of them, and from what Aidan knew of the Zumbarindian Army, she might have need of unlimited pieces. When she had encircled the city with three- and four-piece platoons, Aidan felt the all-too-familiar sensation of his heart sinking. She began.

We wait for nightfall, then hit them here—she moved a black knight toward the west gate, then took another and placed it near the pieces on the south gate—and here. We begin the strike hard and fast, lances first, followed by musketeers and then swords. When the Zumbarindians recover and mount a defense, these divisions sound alarum. Then we hit them here.

She placed a black keep in the midst of the troops stationed near the southeast. Aidan could see the merits of such an attack, unexpected in the dead of night. Starting with a heavy charge was sound strategy against tired and still-mustering forces, but whether they could vacate the field to allow for an effective follow-up plaz volley seemed doubtful. If they could, he believed the two-strike assault would devastate the stunned and frightened enemy. If they were actually surprised.

What of the other thousand? Aidan asked, trying to keep from sounding weary.

They’ll stay in reserve at first, cover our retreat if the initial strike goes poorly. Otherwise, they strike here. She moved the final black piece, a knight, to the east gate. With sufficient aggression, I think we can break the siege. Not to mention …

She placed thirteen black pieces in the walls of the city, all of them clustered in its center.

Do you have a method by which we can establish communication with Marke’s troops?

No, but I expect they will organize a sortie once they see the enemy in chaos.

Hmm. He looked at the strategy, considered what intelligence they had gathered on the Zumbarindian camp organization. There were several elements in this equation that she was either forgetting or ignoring completely. What about the swift responders?

The swiftness of a cavalry strike will render them useless, Charlene said, knocking down two of the knights stationed outside the west gate. By the time they have mounted their horses, there won’t be any room for them to maneuver.

And what of the riders here? He pointed to the east gate, then the north and northeast. Or here and here? Will they sleep while alarum horns are sounded across the clearing? Alkanza is said to be quite skilled at drawing his enemies into traps.

So am I! Charlene shouted, hammering her fist into the table and knocking over several pieces. Don’t you think I’ve considered the risks? Our reserve horsemen will take position behind the musketeers and pikemen and counter any charge that might attempt to flank them!

That might work, Aidan said, doing his best to sound supportive, but if it doesn’t, our losses will be total. Any troops who escape from the carnage that results should our knights fail against a superior force would surely desert.

Godsdamn it, Aidan! Charlene shoved him and he stumbled back. "We have to do something!"

I know, he said, holding his hands up.

Ygretta is trapped in that damn rathole, along with the bulk of our forces!

I know.

Then why do we not wet our blades with islander blood? She spat. You did not hesitate to slaughter the Peyrolans by the thousands, why will you not punish the Zumbarindians?

The Council doesn’t want it, he said, sighing as he resigned himself to the words. They have forbidden us from intervening outside of their commands.

You’re The People’s Champion—de facto marshal of the army. If you gave the word, the troops would follow.

Would you place a crown on my head, Charlene? Would you have me liberate these people only to crush them beneath my own boot?

That’s not fair. I only—

"You only meant that I could countermand our Council this one time, right? This is the exception."

Well … that is …

"I thought the same thing when I wrested the army from Lord Hugh. We won that battle, but what I did was wrong."

How many of us must die for the sake of your conscience? Will you doom your own friends to starvation just to prove a point?

No. He fumed at the suggestion, walked to the spool table, and shoved the map and pieces all over the floor. "But I will not usurp the Council’s authority. I will not lead these people out of the darkness of one tyranny only to exchange it for another. The cost is too great."

"Nothing of worth comes without cost. You taught me that, Aidan. Why do you now shrink from the enemy?

Please hear me. Things being equal, I think your plan has a good chance of succeeding. But Alkanza is no fool; we cannot move forward with a plan that assumes he is.

Charlene walked to the door, shoving him to the side when he made to open it for her. She looked over her shoulder as she walked out. "Then I dearly hope your precious Council survives long enough to pull its collective head from its ass. Or else Marke, Ygretta, Duncan, Roger, Doctor Barker, me, and you will all die and nothing will change."

He grabbed the lip of the spool table and hurled it into the far wall. The smack of splintering wood against stone was like a thunderclap of plaz discharge and a guard peeked his head into the room after a few moments to see what had happened. Aidan stood panting, his rage somewhere between a simmer and a rolling boil. The guard quickly backed out and shut the door, leaving Aidan to stew in the anger that Charlene had stirred. He was not angry with her, nor with her plan. He was angry because he knew she was right.

His cloak flapped with an evening breeze as he left the keep in a huff. The gray mists of twilight blanketed the city in a muggy haze. He despised the extra heat the cloak added in the sweltering heat waves of early summer, but it was more important to him at the moment that he walk the streets without being recognized. He needed to be alone with his thoughts, to formulate the arguments he was preparing to deliver to the Council that very night. If the bloody Council doesn’t act soon, or allow us to act, I might have to dress like this just to avoid assassination.

He wandered to a small inn on the edge of town called The Bloody Egret. His stomach gurgled as the scent of roast eel and braised antelope wafted into this nostrils, and his mouth watered as though voting in favor of the stomach’s resolution. Before he could think of anything else, his mind conjured images of bowls and plates of food sitting before him and he could think of nothing else. Aidan shrugged. The vote is unanimous.

Soon he was sitting at a table with a bowl of roast eel over wild rice, his hachi sticks at the ready. He felt guilty for a moment, buying extra food when his rations really ought to be sufficient, but that shame was quickly overpowered by his insatiable appetite. When he was half-finished, sighing happily with the simple clarity that eating sometimes brings, a band of raucous young soldiers in Kannitick Plate burst through the door, laughing and chatting with one another as they unholstered their weapons and hung them on the coat hooks along the wall. He couldn’t help but smile, recognizing them as part of Charlene’s division not only because they bore her crest but because they constantly bragged about how happy the Lady MacGuire would be when they informed her of their success.

Mind if we borrow a few chairs, gramps? One of them asked, already grabbing the chairs opposite Aidan.

"Gramps? Aidan asked, setting his hachi sticks to the side. He pulled his hood back. How old do you think I am?"

Nicely played, Zinzer, one of the women in the group said, giving the inquirer a playful punch on the shoulder. As she spoke, Aidan recognized her as Sir Andrea. You just insulted The People’s Champion.

Zinzer’s eyes bugged out of his sockets and his jaw nearly scraped the floor. He sputtered a bit, clearly reaching for either an apology or change of subject. His mates somehow laughed even harder at his sudden misfortune than they had when they came in. The innkeep peaked his head from behind the kitchen window, annoyed at the noise.

It’s quite alright, lad, Aidan said. My hair is beginning to pepper with a little gray. No harm done.

Really, my lord, he said, bowing at least half a meter lower than necessary, I am sorry for the mistake. Please believe I meant no—

Enough. Aidan said, his tone suddenly serious enough to shock them into silence. He looked the man in the eye, frowning with every muscle in his face. You must perform for me a service to earn my forgiveness.

The room, so loud and joyous only a moment before, was deathly silent. The rest of Zinzer’s group looked blankly and fearfully at one another, dreading whatever Aidan might be about to order. Zinzer swallowed hard and said, Anything, my lord.

Aidan smiled. You must share my table and tell me of your adventures.

Zinzer breathed out, chuckling and smiling as his platoon did the same. My good lord champion, it would be my honor.

They feasted together on their collected soldiers’ rations of stewed beets with fried potatoes and thickly sliced dried venison, regaling Aidan of their adventure.

So we drove the herd of antelope through the east end of their camp, Sir Andrea said, laughing madly, and they just …

Her eyes widened as she aped fear, jerking her head left and right as though dreading the herd. Her fellows laughed at her clowning and Aidan chuckled along. In the back of his mind, a voice much like his father’s was chiding him for engaging in such gross idleness during a time of crisis. He quieted it with another swig of mead. As she continued her story, he half-listened while living it vicariously. I belong on the battlefield, not holed up here like a rat.

… setting fire to the siege ramps.

Wait, Aidan said, putting his cup down as he was about to take another drink. What did you say?

Sorry, sir, I thought you knew about our mission. We destroyed most of their ramps and even a trebuchet they were building around a boulder, Andrea said, looking nervously at her comrades.

Ah, yes. Aidan hoped they didn’t notice the genuine confusion that had been writ on his face only a moment ago. There are many missions to keep track of, but I remember that now.

He was grateful, in that moment, for his pitch black skin that so readily concealed his blushing cheeks. He couldn’t believe that Charlene would sanction a mission like this when he was in the midst of trying to curry favor with the Council. No doubt her motives were pure, but her methods, as usual, were a fucking mess. The Council would want an explanation for this. But that could wait until later.

Using antelope as a diversion. Aidan chuckled. Where did you get the idea?

That’s the interesting part, Zinzer said, leaning on his elbow and gesturing with his fingers. Lady Charlene once told us that—

I am looking for The People’s Champion Aidan Franklin, good sir, someone announced loudly to the innkeep at the kitchen window. He often sups here and I need to speak with him. Have you seen him?

Aidan recognized the voice for he knew its owner well. A fierce-looking young man with skin black as night wearing Kannitick Plate scanned the dining room for his former sire’s presence, and Aidan resisted his impulse to hide. He took a moment and sighed before standing, wishing very much he could stay and hear the rest of the story.

I am here, Idris, he said, rising. What news is worth interrupting my dinner?

My lord, Idris said, nervously looking at the soldiers around Aidan as well as the few Common diners in the hall. I’d … I don’t think I should say here.

Aidan pursed his lips and stared with deep regret at his half-full mug of ale. Very well. I bid you all a good evening, gentle sirs and ladies.

The platoon raised their mugs in salute as he followed his former student out the door. Sir Nali, the young Mardoni lass who was formerly Ygretta’s squire, stood outside the door with impatience painted across her face. She straightened at the sight of Aidan and saluted respectfully. He waved the gesture away.

With respect, sir, she said, her voice possessing an edge to it that Aidan had only ever heard from Ygretta herself, "my platoon came to the craft first, Idris was just—"

Surveying the meadow, Idris said, his tone matching hers, "instead of galloping full speed into a potential trap."

Enough, Aidan said, shaking his head at the two recently elevated knights. I will credit both of your platoons, or neither. Where is he?

Idris and Nali turned around, sparing one last glare for each other as they looked to the man standing silently behind them, eyes idly wandering over the buildings and the soldiers around him. He was about as tall as Aidan, with short raven black hair matted to his head, his eyes noticeably more slender than most Caledonians. The armor he wore was familiar to Aidan; the sleek and smooth Kannitick Plate favored by Federate soldiers. This man is going to stick out like a two-headed ox. Not a great quality in a spy.

On behalf of the People’s Council, I welcome you to Caledonia, friend. He offered the offworlder his wrist to clasp. The man stared at it for a moment, then gripped Aidan’s hand and moved it up and down. Aidan withdrew his hand and raised an eyebrow. Your name is Peter Chen, correct?

The man looked at him quizzically and then seemed to understand. He tapped a device that protruded from his ear, a slender metallic disk that curled around the back. Aidan understood; he had been made to use a similar device on New Mongolia until he learned its native tongue. It took him three months before he was comfortable enough in the language to use it out loud; he prayed the Federates had improved the technology.

Aidan looked him up and down, satisfied that he appeared in decent physical shape. Is there anything else I should know about him?

Idris and Nali exchanged hesitant expressions before Idris told him, He doesn’t like horses and he won’t ride them.

Aidan sighed heavily, giving the man a reassuring nod when he looked at him with concern. Of course.

In spite of himself, Aidan began chuckling at the ridiculous situation. What man didn’t know how to ride a horse? The two scout platoons followed his lead, chortling along with their commander. After a few seconds even Peter Chen joined in, laughing at his own expense with the rest of them, which had the distinctive effect of making the rest of them laugh all the harder.

Chapter 2

Aidan dismissed his former squire and the other knights and looked the visitor over. His nose was nearly flat, his lips thin like a pair of slender blades, and the slender shape of his eyes reminded Aidan of the Menkhál. The man smiled politely and waited. His armor was the dark blue matte of the night sky, upon his hip rested a pistol with myriad thumb switches. Aidan had carried one like it on New Mongolia, so he knew it was capable of burst fire or single shots of plaz or tiny metallic fragments called flechettes. A formidable weapon and one that made the weapons of Caledonia feeble by comparison. Like racing a paper glider against a space cruiser.

Can you speak any of our language? Aidan asked, enunciating his words so slowly that anyone else would be offended. Peter raised his eyebrows a little at the question.

"Do you know any words?" Aidan looked carefully at his face for any reaction besides confusion. Although he had been sent in supposedly good faith by the Alliance of Federated Worlds, this man was still a spy and spies could not be trusted. There was a possibility, in Aidan’s imagination at least, that this offworlder spoke every Caledonian tongue fluently and was merely aping his muteness in order to gather information. After a few heartbeats of a blank stare, Peter once again tapped the device swirling out from his right ear. Aidan decided that either his ignorance was genuine or that the man was the most skilled actor he had ever encountered.

Follow me, he said, stomping past him toward the keep. After ten paces, he turned around to see that he walked alone. He took several steps back toward where Peter still waited and windmilled his arm in a large unmistakable gesture. The agent jogged forward until he was close beside Aidan, gazing at every building they passed, whether it was a three-story merchant’s manor or a spartan peasant’s hovel barely better than a lean-to.

When they entered the keep, he gazed wide eyed at the tapestries on the wall and the statues in the niches with a fascinated interest. Aidan worried that he may become too enraptured in his scenery to keep up, but he never stayed behind more than a few paces whenever he examined something. They entered a small