Bullets sent puffs of ash and ice flying as they impacted around Anja’s position, forcing her to duck back down into her impromptu foxhole. With a wordless grunt of frustration, she popped her rifle up and fired blindly in the general direction of the base entrance. The rest of Neryn’s squad joined in, and for a moment they had respite from the incessant barrage.
Then it started again.
“Ugh,” Anja said, ducking back down and glancing at the Ysleli currently sharing her foxhole. “Neryn, remind me when we get back to requisition some stun grenades from Xim Len’s folks.”
“You have a perfect memory, sir,” Neryn said, eyes still trained towards their assailants. He poked his head up and fired a triple-shot burst before ducking down again, a poorly-aimed volley of return fire hitting significantly to his left.
“Obviously,” Anja groused, rising up to fire her own barrage. “So you had best remind me about the grenades, since I will remember having asked you to do so.”
“Sir, I…” Neryn slumped against the side of the foxhole. “Noted, sir,” he said resignedly.
“Good man,” Anja said with a grin. “Now get ready, they look like they might push at us again. Another round of fire in three, two-” She broke off, raising her hand to her ear. Neryn did the same, listening to the scratchy communicator before casting a puzzled look in Anja’s direction.
“Sir,” he asked, “I think the translator is acting up. When Captain Jesri says ‘shock and awe’, does it mean-”
The rest of his question was drowned out in an immense roar of noise as the Subtle Blade shot into view overhead, the plume from its engines kicking up yet more dust and ash in the no-man’s-land between their position and the base. The ship settled down low in the ashfall, dirty plumes from the drifts cutting the visibility to almost nil and coating everything with a thick layer of black soot.
Neryn swiped a hand across his face to clear his goggles, his hearing returning enough for him to hear Anja’s manic laughter as she cheered the ship’s descent.
“Come on, Neryn!”, she called out, vaulting the rim of the foxhole in a single spry jump. “Time to move!”
He safed his rifle and clambered out of the hole, dusting himself off inasmuch as anyone could under the circumstances. Visibility was still terrible, although the relative quiet told him that the ship had finished landing. The rest of his squad had joined them, forming up now that the immediate threat had passed. “Sounds like they’ve stopped shooting,” he observed. “Is Captain Jesri going to try and talk with them?”
“Nah,” Anja said, her face still locked into a contagious grin under her respirator. “I asked Tarl to do it.”
Neryn blinked, flipping his rifle’s safety off. “The warfather, sir? Are you sure-”
“TARL ADDRESSES YOU,” boomed the ship’s external speakers, the sound causing another cloud of dust to briefly puff upward from the ground. “SEND YOUR REPRESENTATIVE TO SPEAK.”
The squad traded dazed glances, their hearing once again overwhelmed by the noise. Neryn felt Anja clap him on the shoulder roughly. “See?”, she shouted in his ear, her voice muffled. “Natural diplomat! Come on, I want to be there when they start.” She pointed towards the ship, where the clearing dust had parted to show three cloth-shrouded figures advancing slowly from the direction of the base entrance.
With a sigh, Neryn began to jog towards the ship. No matter how much he learned, he still felt like he was in over his head.
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It took some time for the three Ysleli from the base to reach the ship against the driving wind carrying its flurries of snow and ash. They had no respirators, making do with swatches of thick, dirty cloth wrapped around their faces. Their unprotected eyes squinted suspiciously at the contingent standing by the ship hatch. Jesri and Anja hung back, hidden behind the Ysleli soldiers - they didn’t want to complicate the discussion with explanations of who and what they were.
The three representatives stopped several meters from the group in a wary huddle. Now that they were closer, Jesri could make out some distinguishing features amid the featureless swaddling rags. One moved with the weight of age, walking with a stoop and placing his feet as if every step pained him. Another stood straight-backed and defiant, glaring at Tarl with burning eyes. The third was shorter and thinner than the other two but walked with purpose, shoulders squared and head held high beneath a voluminous and concealing cowl.
There was a thick tension as the two groups stared at each other through the slowly settling dust. The elderly Ysleli spoke first with a thin, high voice roughened by the ash and stinging air.
“So it is the warfather after all,” he said grimly. “Have you come to finish what your spearbrothers began?”
Tarl gave him a bemused look, tilting his head. “Elder father,” he said, “I was sent away by the baronial council some time ago. My spearbrothers and I only learned what had become of Ysl when we returned today.”
The old man closed his eyes, his face tight behind his ragged wrappings. “It is all of Ysl, then, and not just Risal? Will there be no aid from Sitrl, long life and glory to the king?”
“Sitrl is dead,” Tarl replied, his hands balling into fists. “He was killed in the same attack that caused this cataclysm, by the enemy the barons were too blood-shy to fight.” His voice turned rough with anger at the mention of the barons and their reticence. “Had he lived, things may have been different.”
His words sent a pang of grief over the old man’s face, but the taller, younger Ysleli stepped forward before he could respond. “So you claim no knowledge of the thefts and murders?”, he spat, his tone harsher than the air alone could account for. “All spearbrothers serve the warfather. Did you not order them to steal our food, to kill us if we protected our lives?”
Tarl’s face darkened at the man’s tone. “You overstep,” he rumbled dangerously. “My men are not oathbreakers, and I…” He seemed to deflate somewhat, although his anger still seethed behind his eye. “I am not the warfather. Without Sitrl to keep them in check the barons demanded my title and barred me from Ysl. Those few who saw it as an injustice followed me into exile, and they are the only ones I name spearbrother.”
“How convenient,” the young man shot back, taking a step towards Tarl, “that you were indisposed while your former brothers butchered us over scraps of food and left the rest to starve and die. Do you value your oath to serve that little, or are you just a co-”
Tarl was already striding towards the man with claws splayed wide as he prepared to shout the fatal insult, but the third Ysleli struck the young man across the face with a vicious backhand before he could close the distance.
“Enough,” hissed a voice from within the cowl, high and melodious despite the tension it carried. Its owner pushed the hood back, revealing a thin face with burnished orange-gold scales and deep-set black eyes. “Please forgive the child his impudence, warfather. He will not speak further.”
Tarl’s eye widened and a murmur went up from the Ysleli troops. “Ah, hmm,” he muttered, quickly turning back to the stooped elder. “Elder father,” he said quietly, “perhaps introductions are in order?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve neglected the formalities,” the old man tsked, shaking his head. “I do apologize. My name is Erlir. The brainless one on the ground is my eldest’s eldest, Ralik. The beautiful one all of your men are staring at so shamelessly is Leral, his sister.”
Several mundane items in the vicinity became objects of fascinated study for the soldiers. Jesri shook her head in amusement; some things were the same everywhere. Leral gave Tarl an intricate semi-bow, her head tilting sideways to expose the pale golden scales of her throat.
Tarl acknowledged her greeting with a slight inclination of his own head, then turned back to Erlir without acknowledging Ralik in the least. “You have my thanks for the introductions, Father Erlir. Will you enter my ship, so that we may speak more comfortably?”
Erlir bobbed his head in acceptance. “I will take what comfort remains, given the situation,” he replied dryly. At a sharp gesture from Tarl, two of Anja’s squad rushed forward to escort Erlir into the airlock, followed closely by Leral and an abashed, partially dazed Ralik.
Anja walked over to stand beside Jesri, a smirk on her face. “My boys are growing up,” she whispered in mock lamentation. “I give it one day before I have to stop a fight over Leral.”
“No bet,” Jesri muttered back. “I’m going to go inside and listen to the negotiations. You coming?”
“Nah,” Anja replied. “The ones still in the base may get nervous with Erlir and the others out of sight. We should keep a force posted and ready in case they decide to investigate on their own initiative.”
“Good thought,” Jesri agreed. She clapped Anja on the shoulder, then turned to follow Tarl back into the ship. The soldiers around the ramp were still animatedly discussing Leral in hushed voices, their faces bright with excitement under their respirators. It occurred to Jesri that she really didn’t know much about Ysleli civilian social structure, something she resolved to fix if she could corner one of Anja’s squad alone. Somehow she doubted that Leral’s presence was going to be a calming, rational influence on the Ysleli.
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“Why have you come?”
Erlir’s question hung over the table for a second before Tarl responded. Jesri could see the visitors from the base tense up when he spoke, trepidatious and wary despite their relatively amicable conversation earlier.
“The base you occupy is important,” Tarl explained. “It was formerly run by Trelir, a minister to Sitrl who was revealed as a traitor shortly before the attack on Ysl. It is because of him that Ysl was attacked. We believe there is something in this base which may aid us in our fight against his master.”
Erlir shot Tarl a disappointed glance, then shook his head. “Soldiers. Can you look outside and tell me Ysl needs more fighting? If this was the work of the ones you fight against, warfather, then I say you have already lost. Spare us from more of your efforts.”
A ripple of anger crossed Tarl’s face, although he managed to keep it uncharacteristically far from his voice when he replied. “Elder father, Ysl was attacked without provocation. This enemy will attempt further harm to Ysl whether I fight it or not. Defending oneself is not seeking conflict.”
“Ah, but isn’t it odd,” Erlir said wryly, “that the more vigorously we defend ourselves, the more people seem to be convinced we’re worth fighting. We did not have sentries posted out of mere prudence, and you are not the first to come here seeking entry.”
“We are not bandits,” Tarl rumbled darkly. “I am not your enemy, elder father.”
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Erlir peered across the table owlishly. “Would you be, warfather, if I told you to leave empty-handed?”
Tarl returned his gaze silently for a few uncomfortable seconds, then surprised Jesri by baring his teeth and laughing quietly. “What a low opinion you have of me,” he chuckled, closing his eye briefly. “An assessment purchased dearly from my former spearbrothers, no doubt, so I cannot say it is undeserved. Do you know the Oath of the Spear, elder father?”
“Vaguely,” Erlir sniffed. “Although of late I seem to remember it more than those who swore it.”
Tarl winced at the barb, then shook his head. “I pledge my spear to the king and forswear its use save by his word,” he recited. “It’s an old thing, and I doubt most of the spearbrothers give it the thought it merits. Particularly the second part, since it is by far the harder half to observe.”
“And now that there is no king, have you forsworn your spear or or your oath?”, Erlir asked. “It would seem you must do one or the other.”
“Never my oath,” Tarl answered immediately. “But as with all things, there must be allowance for circumstances. Kings change, or die, and the oath continues. We may not receive commands, but for most things we know how a king would command. In the absence of a king, we are sworn to the king that should be.”
“Preposterous,” Erlir scoffed. “You may hide behind a vacant title, but that simply excuses you to do as you wish. If the soldiers that slaughtered our kin and stole food from our childrens’ bellies say the ‘king that should be’ wishes his armies to be fed at all costs, who could say otherwise? Who holds such petty kings accountable?”
“Me,” Tarl said grimly. “I have never aspired to anything more than war, elder father, but what we are faced with now is war in its farthest extreme. We have no latitude for anarchy. Even unified and striving to our utmost, we will likely fail and perish.”
“And yet you insist this confrontation is necessary?”, Erlir asked. “Have you considered that the problem may merit more than a warrior’s solution?”
“This enemy is not amenable to other solutions.” He pointed a talon at Jesri, still staring at Erlir. “Do you see her?”, he asked. “She and her sister are the last of a far mightier people than ours. Those two alone killed every soldier you’ve found dead in that base.” The three representatives looked warily over at Jesri, who smiled at them.
“Our enemy destroyed their entire civilization across thousands of stars, all in an instant,” Tarl growled. “It has reduced Ysl to ruins. Left unchecked it will do the same to every civilization. I do not credit myself with the judgment necessary to be king, but even a simple warrior can see what our path must be.”
Leral crossed her arms, glaring at Tarl. “If this enemy is as great as you say, what can you hope to do?”
“We came here to answer that question,” Tarl replied. “Will you let us enter the base?”
Erlir smiled sadly. “Was it ever truly a request?”, he asked. Tarl opened his mouth to reply, but Erlir waved his objections away. “I don’t doubt your sincerity,” he said. “I believe you believe what you are saying, and that you will be steadfast in the fulfillment of your oath. That does little to assure me of your intentions, however. If anything, it makes you more dangerous.”
“I will consent to letting you retrieve what you seek,” Erlir said with resigned finality, “not because I fear being your enemy if I refuse, but because I believe you would kill even a friend who stood in your path. And, furthermore,” he said with a thin smile, “I plan to exact a price. We require food, medicine and breathing filters if we are to give you this thing.”
Tarl regarded Erlir in stony silence for a few long moments before nodding, his face inscrutable. “Acceptable,” he said. “It will take some time to arrange shipment, but we have some modest supplies on the ship. I will provide these at once if you permit my men to begin searching the base. I understand there may have been some structural damage, so that process may take some time and I would like to start it immediately.”
“No,” Leral said suddenly. “No soldiers in the base.”
Tarl bristled, turning a baleful eye on her. “I hope you are not implying my men would engage in treachery.”
She blanched at the menace in his tone, but quickly recovered to stare back at Tarl defiantly. “Most of those who made it to the base are townmothers and their children,” she said, her voice a low snarl of anger. “Many of them fled when the soldiers killed the men of their villages. They were the lucky ones. For some others, the soldiers came back and took them to their camp,” she spat. “I will not make them suffer a spearbrother in their home again.”
An uncomfortable silence gripped the room as Tarl contemplated her words.
“Send me,” Jesri said. “My sister, as well. Lend me some of your guards to help. The rest of our squad will take their place on the perimeter, outside the base.”
Erlir and Leral shared a glance, and Leral nodded slightly. “We agree,” Erlir said, moving creakily toward the door. Leral rushed to lend him her arm, and he straightened up gratefully. “You and your sister will come back to the perimeter with us,” he said, “and we will tell the guards there not to shoot the rest when they follow.”
Jesri nodded back. “Give me a bit to prepare, I’ll meet you in front of the ship.” She walked over to Tarl as the representatives left, Leral supporting Erlir dotingly and Ralik moping along behind.
Tarl looked down at Jesri as she walked up. “These are not the sort of negotiations I am accustomed to,” he remarked.
“You did fine,” Jesri replied. “They’re letting us in, and all they want is the food and medicine I suspect you were going to offer anyway.”
“If only they had such a warm view of my intentions,” Tarl remarked wryly. “They seemed to think everything I said was a threat.”
“Well, yeah, you walked up to a bunch of traumatized refugees and started thundering on about a warrior’s duty and invincible enemies,” Jesri shot back. “It was a good effort, Tarl, but you can’t talk to refugees the same way you talk to soldiers, even beaten soldiers. They’ve spent the last several months being chased from their homes, hiding in a hole in the ground from roving gangs. They were utterly powerless, now they’ve scraped together what little they could and made a safe place - not to thrive, but to hide in terror.”
“I don’t understand,” Tarl groused. “I was polite, I requested rather than demanded, I held my tongue even when they insulted me.”
“Well, except for when you tried to kill Ralik,” Jesri pointed out.
Tarl glared at her. “Even they recognized the boy had gone too far!”, he objected.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, only the power dynamic is important. Even if you were unfailingly polite and respectful, they still know that you could easily take the base from them if you felt like it. That makes everything you say a threat. That’s why they can’t let your men in, and that’s why they won’t let Anja and I in for free. They’re not placing themselves at the mercy of soldiers again.”
“Hmm,” Tarl murmured contemplatively. “Perhaps. I would rather they not question my motives at every turn, though. It’s irritating.”
“They can’t trust you right now,” Jesri explained. “Or anyone, for that matter. As long as they remember the feeling of strangers deciding whether they live or die, they won’t risk it.” Her eyes grew distant for a second. “There’s more sides to war than you can see from the top,” she said. “It’s not strategy and logistics and glorious battle. It’s seeing your child die from a festering gut shot over the course of a week while you sell your body to buy medicine. It’s seeing your neighbor’s family murdered at the whim of a drunken soldier and living with the guilt of feeling happy that you were spared. It’s not being spared next week.”
“I thought war was your purpose,” Tarl objected, looking disturbed. “You fight better than any ten of my men. It surprises me that you could be so skilled at combat and still find it so distasteful.”
“I have to, Tarl,” Jesri replied. “You’re not wrong, war is my purpose. Not fighting, but war, and that requires an unflinching acceptance of what war means.”
“I’m not ignorant of war’s cost,” Tarl said thornily. “But I am an experienced warrior, as are you. You must know that there is a certain allowance to be made for what is necessary, even if it is unpleasant. The alternative is pacifism, which is a naive ideal.”
Jesri nodded. “Humanity faced the same dilemma and rejected both options,” she said. “We chose a third way. Neither pacifism nor rationalization, but mindfulness.”
“How do you mean?”, Tarl asked curiously.
“If you had to design the perfect soldier, Tarl, what attributes would you give him?”, Jesri asked. “More than just strength and skill. Humor me and give it some thought.”
Tarl did so, mulling the question for a moment. “I would make him brave, implacable, iron-willed,” he answered. “One that would not recoil from the sight of war.”
“You think they didn’t try that?”, Jesri asked, smiling sadly up at Tarl. “Making an unstoppable killing machine is easy, Tarl. We were able to do that for centuries before they got around to making Valkyries, although we seldom did. We had laws against it, actually, after the first few attempts went poorly. They only got permission to make us because they could finally get all of the inconvenient emotions right. Empathy, sympathy, compassion, everything that flies in the face of combat.”
“But why?”, he asked in confusion. “Why would they intentionally make you conflicted about your purpose? To create a living creature for a singular task and then force it to constantly doubt its actions… It seems needlessly cruel.”
Jesri burst out laughing, startling Tarl. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, fighting off the urge to giggle. “It’s not really funny, it’s just that Trelir made the same observation.” Tarl’s face shaded from surprise to indignation, and Jesri hastened to explain.
“When I was very young, we had words written on the wall of our creche,” she said. “We were too young to understand, then, but they were there as a reminder and a warning to the staff. ‘The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.’ Old words, even then, from an even older story about a man who defeated all of his foes only to be struck down by his closest friend.”
“Stories of betrayal and vengeance are common everywhere, it seems,” Tarl said approvingly. “We have a similar story where the hero shames the betrayer with his dying breath by laying his greed and dishonor bare before the court.”
“The quote is from the murderer,” Jesri replied, “barely able to recognize his friend after seeing what price his victory had exacted, and fearing what a monster further victory would create. It’s the same reason they took us to bake cakes and fingerpaint after we practiced headshots at two hundred meters,” Jesri said wryly. “They stopped trying to create the perfect killer and started trying to focus on creating a person that would fight wars well.” She spread her arms, indicating herself. “Behold, the painstakingly optimized soldier.”
Tarl shook his head in irritation. “Humans confound me. So their purpose in making you was what? To avoid the inherent unpleasantness of war? To satisfy some sense of moral obligation? It seems so trivial a thing to expend so much effort.”
“Oh, it’s anything but trivial,” Jesri sighed. “And the problem is that it was anything but unpleasant. When normal human soldiers were sent to war, they adapted to it. We were able to overlook it or even take pride in it for centuries prior, but we developed as a society and it started to register that maybe we shouldn’t be letting ourselves get that comfortable with war. We spent centuries more trying to figure out how to lessen the psychological impact of combat on the human psyche, but it turns out there was something fundamental in the human mind that couldn’t help but change when it made the decision to kill.” Her voice turned grim and she fixed Tarl with a chilly stare. “What followed was trauma in the best case, otherwise madness or something darker.”
“So your creators made you able to kill without consequence?”, Tarl wondered. “That seems like a dangerous trait to give a soldier, albeit useful.”
Jesri shook her head. “Not without consequence, quite the opposite. Humans couldn’t both make war and hate war for long - kill enough, and they would find ways to justify the killing in their minds or go insane from the dichotomy.” She jabbed a thumb at her chest. “Our minds are made more flexibly, we can act without cognitive dissonance warping our thoughts. The worst things in war, the ones that changed humans irrevocably, we can face them and return whole. ‘Let no man abide this deed but we the doers,’” she murmured, her eyes like hard flint. “But most of all, more than the resiliency to fight war as it must be fought, our reason for being was our unchanging objectivity about the nature of what we did.”
“War is a rejection of civil society, yet civil society requires it to survive. We had to be skilled and cunning and brave and all the other things we’ve always known were necessary for a warrior, but the key that was missing for so long before us was hate,” she said softly. “Not of the enemy, but of war itself. To be the perfect soldier you have to hate the necessity of war from the core of your being, pure black and cold. It’s the counterbalance that saves you from the thrill of victory, remorse joined to power. You can’t fight for any reason other than to stop the suffering.”
“But you fight for vengeance,” Tarl pointed out. “You and your sister both.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” Jesri replied, walking towards the door. “They’re waiting for me. I need to go change before I head out.”
Tarl looked at her clean grey environment suit, barely touched with ash. “Is something wrong with what you’re wearing?”, he asked.
“I’ve been working ass-to-elbows with the crew all day,” Jesri said. “I stink like male Ysleli. Given what Leral said, walking in there like this would be… not ideal.”
She walked quickly out of the cramped conference room, leaving a confused Tarl standing alone. After a minute of contemplative thought he raised a hand to his scarred face and sniffed it, then left for the bridge.