Part III: War
This is no war of chieftains or princes, of dynasties or national ambition; it is a war of peoples and of causes. —Winston Churchill, Radio Broadcast, 14 July 1940
Atl-Verazlan Compound, Veraz
Krandermore, Survivor’s Refuge
4453.2.24 Interstellar
Janus threw the pack of supplies onto the roof-mounted rack and strapped it down. Koni threw her day pack into the back of the buggy, which Fury playfully caught and put her paws on top of it. Koni showed the door.
“How was the meeting with your mother?” Janus asked.
Koni grunted. “Not as well as I had hoped. I think she and the rest of the family expected me to simply confirm the dissolution of family Tlali-Acamatl and the execution of my aunt, Citlalmina.”
“And you didn’t?” Janus asked, surprised.
“No,” Koni said, punching the side of the buggy. “You’ve infected me with your indecision, Janus Invarian. I thought the choice merited more time.”
Janus chuckled. “I’m sorry for spoiling your unerring sense of self-righteousness.”
Koni gave him a hooded glare.
“Will we be required to stay longer?” Janus asked.
“You would allow it?” Koni asked, surprised.
Janus shrugged. “I’ll know in a few minutes. I have a theory I’ve asked Ryler to validate.”
“Heads up!” Mick said, tossing something their way.
Janus caught the spinning object. It was a canteen. “What is it?” he asked suspiciously.
“Nothing interesting,” Mick said. “Water, sugar, salt, potassium, and a few of the local extracts for taste and, uh, vitality.”
“Why do I feel like ‘vitality’ should be in quotes,” Janus asked, sniffing the open lid.
“I’m not drinking that,” Koni said.
“Probably shouldn’t,” Mick said with a wink.
Janus took a swig. The drink was refreshing, and Mick had never steered him too far wrong.
A dozen Verazlan rangers were forming up around their own buggies on the other side of the yard. They were an apology of sorts, a concession Lira had managed to obtain from the city with Tialli’s quiet but insistent support. They were there to provide an escort through the rest of the sun-side territories and maybe beyond that.
If what Janus had heard from the Motragis’ secret comm network was true, they would need it.
“Here comes Ryler,” Lira said, walking over to join them.
“Did I miss something?” Koni asked.
The cultist headed toward them from the yard entrance, his staff in one hand and the data cube tucked under his other arm.
Fury pressed her nose against the buggy window. She seemed to sense something was happening, too, or maybe she was just lonely.
“Did you check the scores?” Janus asked.
Ryler nodded somberly. “We’re back in first place. We’ve got nearly a two-thousand-point lead.”
“What about the compartmentalists?” Mick asked.
Ryler sighed. “It’s what we were afraid of. They’ve dropped back to sixth place. The only way that could have happened would be if they’ve done something drastically damaging to this region or if they’ve stopped moving.”
“They’re waiting for us,” Mick said.
“It was always a risk,” Lira said. “They don’t have to win. They just have to stop us from winning.”
Janus, however, was staring at Koni.
“What?” Koni asked. “Do I have something on my face?”
“It’s you,” Janus said.
Lira frowned and looked at the two of them.
“What in the ancestors’ name are you talking about?” Koni asked.
“It’s her,” Janus told the others. “The externality. It’s been her this whole time.”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Nah,” Mick said.
“That’s not possible,” Koni said. “The externality was that my family was in danger and that family Tlali-Acamatl would have risen to power.”
“I’m sorry, but no,” Lira said. “My trading contacts have told me your mother planned all this months ago, maybe even years. The council of elders had statements prepared in advance—warrants, seizures, detailed instructions, things that take days to draft and approve.”
“Tlali-Acamatl’s action groups have been all but destroyed,” Mick said. “They might have formed up again with the bits and pieces if the Veraz ranger contingent hadn’t swept them all up wherever they were hiding.”
“You must be wrong,” Koni insisted. “My mother is furious with me. I’ve delayed the executions by at least two weeks.”
Ryler shook his head. “I’m sorry, Koni, but Janus is likely correct. The score only concerns the impact that our actions have on the survivability of the region. We brought you here, and the score went down. We protected you from assassins, and the score went up. We had nothing to do with Atl-Verazlan’s defense, only yours. That leaves only a few possibilities: that your mother would have done something out of character if you had died; that saving your aunt or some member of Tlali-Acamatl was vital to the safety of the region; or that something that you have yet to do will have a profound impact on the future.”
Koni was not yet convinced, but Janus was sure. Koni was the externality, the finger on the scale of this region’s survivability.
The scientist and engineer in him was disciplined enough not to leap to conclusions beyond that. He knew that the longer Koni stayed with them, alive and unharmed, the higher their score climbed. As he got into the driver’s seat, he tallied the things he didn’t know, like how the Cult calculated the score, whether the improvement was short or long-term, and what sacrifices their algorithm would deem “acceptable.” After all, this was the same Cult that had decided that wiping out the population of Irkalla would be “better” for the inhabitants of Survivor’s Refuge.
And he hadn’t lost sight of the fact that Koni was no saint. She was a Verazlan—a proud and domineering aristocrat. She was capable and brave but also legalistic and prone to pursue her honor to others’ detriment. She’d almost ruined a trade agreement, caused hundreds of deaths, and started a war. Almost.
“Are you all right, Janus?” Koni asked from the passenger’s seat.
Janus nodded and started the buggy.
He wasn’t sure if Koni was good for Krandermore, but he also needed to think of his people. They were in the middle of the Trials. It had been fourteen days since they left Midnight Hollow, and they still needed to make it past the dangerous grounds closest to the terminator and back around through the coldside portion of the race. For now, he needed to focus on finishing the Trials.
***
Wayfinder Tiersen retracted the cable antenna into the storage unit under his right shoulder blade and looked at the team. “The uprising in Veraz was a failure. All members of house Tlali-Acamatl have either been killed, arrested, or fled. There is talk of removing the lineage from the Verazlan records. I think the only thing stopping them is that there is no precedent for this level of betrayal in the clan’s history.” He looked at Brago. “Your daughter is an exemplar of all our opponents stand for.”
The other members of the team shifted uncomfortably, waiting for Brago’s reaction. Tiersen knew he’d taken a risk, but Brago was at his most useful when his Fury was channeled against the right obstacle.
“Is she alive?” Brago asked through clenched teeth. The colossal man was like a giant spring, waiting to unwind.
“Yes. She and most of the elders of your family are being held pending the availability of the appointed judge.”
“Don’t toy with me, priest,” Brago said, his deep voice almost a feral growl. “Say what you have to say.”
“The judge is Koni Atl-Verazlan. Since the city council, including her mother, were all aware of the plot, to the extent of encouraging it by inviting Citlalmina to Koni’s victory banquet, they were deemed unable to give an objective verdict. Of course, Koni almost died that night, so she can hardly be blamed for wanting your entire family dead.”
“Why didn’t she, then?” the Motragi sharpshooter asked.
“Verazlan Judges aren’t known for long deliberations,” the coldsider agreed, looking up from her disassembled weapon.
Tiersen cursed inwardly as Brago’s eyes slid from him to the rest of the team.
“Sounds like a bad sale, Brago,” the Pugarian trapmaker added, crossing her large forearms. “Priest’s hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” Tiersen said irritably. “She obviously wanted to attend the executions herself, and Invarian wouldn’t let her delay.”
Brago spat. “I’m not interested in stories, Tiersen. We’re here for a job. What more do you want?”
“To make sure you do it this time,” Tiersen said, his voice modulator going flat as his throat constricted. “If you don’t kill Invarian and his team, your daughter will die. If you do, the judgment will fall to one of the weaker families, one that might still be cowed by your family’s reputation—what’s left of it, anyhow.”
“They’ll die, priest,” Brago said, turning to walk away like a moving mountain. “There is nowhere for them to go.”
***
SSFG-04 Survivor’s Voice
Orbit of Krandermore, Survivor’s Refuge
4453.2.24 Interstellar
Architect Donnika stood in front of the observation blister’s armored window, her glowing blue eyes flicking over the ship’s report. “Your pets have finally figured it out.”
“Spying on them, Donnika?” Nikandros asked almost languidly.
“I’m assuming you’re doing the same. You know what they’re driving into. It’s over.”
“A matter of opinion,” Nikandros said, coming to stand beside her.
Krandermore truly was a rare beauty to behold. On the left side of the display, the barren but radiant sun-side of the planet, as baked and harsh as fabled Mercury of the Sol system. On the right, the cold and perpetual darkness of coldside, as gray and crater-marked as Irkalla, although rockier without the constant solar bombardment.
And in the middle, the thin sliver of the Twilight Valley, only a few thousand kilometers wide, in which water cycled and life flourished. “Have you considered what the Oracle’s pronouncement means, Donnika? About my team’s survival and your failure?”
Donnika clenched her jaw but didn’t answer.
“Have you considered you might be wrong?” Nikandros asked.
“Of course I have,” Donnika said. “I’m not one of the devolved savages you think will be our saviors. I’m a scientist.”
“You’re jeopardizing the survival of an entire region over an article of faith.”
Donnika glared at Nikandros’s reflection in the window, but she refused to turn toward him. She knew all too well he would view that as a concession. “Fine. Conceded the race, and I’ll spare the Verazlan girl. I’ll even put team Invarian on ice with the rest of our champions. We can thaw them out in a generation when the consequences of their meddling have dampened out.”
“And Irkalla?” Nikandros asked.
“Fifty years of joint observation. If we see even a prototype of an interplanetary craft, we crack every dome open and start over.”
“A generous offer,” Nikandros said. “I refuse.”
Donnika turned to look at him, incredulous. “I just offered you everything you asked for during the arbitration. Does winning matter so much you’ll risk your team and the region just to score points with the consensus?”
“No, of course not,” Nikandros said. “I’m not here to score points, Donnika. I’m here to win it all.”