What Others Miss

Maro had barely cleared the ramp before the commander was leading him past the waiting officer. He breathed in fresh, chilly air as he glanced around. Most ships never accumulated much scarring. Not since the war. Clean graphite-colored flooring with few scuffs and stark white ribbed walls. Much the same was overhead: white-painted beams and lengths of pipe packed between rows of lights. And dozens of crew converging on the landed transport with an arsenal of cleaning supplies.

“With me,” Sangoku called after finishing conversation with another sharply-dressed attendant. Through a freight-sized doorway they left the hangar, passing beneath a thick steel frame and into the airship. Ahead were narrow steel passageways crowded with more pipes and cables. Following Sangoku and the others up a steep flight of metal stairs, Maro brought to mind the long years he’d spent on ships just like this. Perhaps even this one. Living on an airship was not so different from Toshu, save for the sun and plants. But the living spaces were almost exact. Efficient. They passed into a wider hallway with far more tailoring. There was even a real ceiling.

Maro hadn’t been on an elevator in some time. He had to grab onto railing to avoid crumpling to the floor as they ascended. Sikimi caught his eye as he steadied himself and Maro raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. She smirked. The door opened and they were in full-sized corridors. Polished floors reflecting the lights overhead. Oak paneling running along the walls beneath painted arrows directing passers-by to Sector C or the mess hall, though nobody who worked here needed reminding where they were headed. It smelled like nothing. Their footsteps carried brashly down the halls and mixed into the droning of hundreds of people moving about the airship.

He was at the back of the group and that was wrong. He was still a Major; those people walk ahead of Captains. His feet had put him behind, maybe to check the surroundings, or maybe because he wasn’t sure the chain of command saw him in his rank. In the Service one always knew where one stood. It took him three corridors to notice he didn’t, but he was still nodding to passing officers by rank. He could hardly remember a time without airships, or before the Union. They were both ubiquitous, but clearly more so near the Core. Nobody else was impressed. The others held double-file with purpose to their strides. Maro still couldn’t fathom why they had gone out of their way to recall him. After a few turns a young crewman broke away from the other direction of traffic and joined the group next to Idiku.

“Captain, you’re in Group B, they’re meeting in about six minutes, if you would follow me…”

Kuzan peeled off without a word to Sangoku, and the others fell in behind him. Not long after, Sangoku stopped at a set of double doors with Theater | 414A written on a plaque.

“They’ll have your kit ready, Netamit.” He nodded. “Like we discussed from Si’adad.”

Sangoku patted Kumi’s shoulders and he walked in. Maro could make out about twenty seats in a semi-circle arrangement. Just the three of them now.

They wasted no time and immediately turned back into the corridor. Sikimi was looking at her slate again. Maro was beginning to wonder how many more halls they were going to pass. He hadn’t made a presentation since he got on the plane to Toshu with nothing but a duffel bag two hours after leaving the review board in Dafrada.

“I haven’t had a decent meal since we left the Eimikai,” Sikimi said aptly as they walked past a food court. “I’ll be back, Commander.”

Sangoku huffed a laugh. Maro hurried to keep up with Sangoku. The commander still held an amused expression. It irritated him. The man was a brick wall.

“Where did you end up after the city, sir?”

“Oh, the Service kept me busy. Stopped a traitor from selling energy charges to some would-be terrorists. There was a seminar with the ISA, and then a brief stint in Sakaichii working for the local ren.”

“What was in Sakaichii?”

“A lot of fat people.”

From what Maro had read that was uncharacteristic. They arrived at another nondescript room with 431A on its plaque. It was dark and empty with carpeted floors and a conference table. The overhead light wasn’t much help.

Sangoku’s face was flat now. He pulled up a chair and put his hands on the table with a sigh. “So. Why you.”

Maro nodded.

“There are thousands of zarikiya the Pasana can call upon. And yet,” he started with a knowing glance. “We went out of our way to recall you. Why do you suppose that is?”

“Your guess is as good as mine…” Maro wasn’t interested in Sangoku’s interrogative technique.

“Te’qaye.”

Maro huffed. “Of course.”

“I am the first to admit, a lot went wrong over there. But,” Sangoku leaned back in his chair. “We learned a great deal. And you were a marvel for the junior officers.”

“It was a bad operation from the start.”

“Despite that… it was the first time we saw a field destabilization. It showed us a— a new frontier for harmonic weapons.” Sangoku clapped his hands together. “In short, we know why the freighter fell, Maro. This group will find out who is using harmonic weapons. And correct them.”

Maro tried not to fidget as the implication of this came to mind. The Union was nearly six life-cycles old. Since the Proclamation there had of course been unrest that ebbed and flowed with the Union, the burdens of administering the entire world having occasionally risen as a tide, but Maro could think of no time when energy harmonics had entered the struggle on the side of chaos. Few there were who could even feel the energy fields and manipulate Zari, most of whom were adopted into the Pasana his’e.

Maro took a breath. “You want zarikiya who can feel what others miss.”

“Zarikiya are in short supply these days. It was a miracle I could get Idiku and Amapim, too.”

He flinched at Sikimi’s name.

“But you are the only one who knows what field destabilization is like.”

Maro wanted to remind Sangoku who was responsible for shelving him and call to attention that little motivational discrepancy. He wanted to shout and storm off and leave this blasted ship and resign from the Security Service and maybe take up a job as a pilot or join the Security Forces. He wanted to finally express his frustration after twelve turns of the eastern sun numbing his feelings and drying his strength. Maybe, then, it was that same numbness which made him feel none of that. In place of his indignation was… relief. Embarrassing, spreading through his chest like a mouthful of stew dinner after refusing lunch. His face kept still and he looked at the table.

“This is your opinion or the Palaren’s?”

Sangoku sighed. “I will not apologize for convening the review board. You hadn’t left your flat in four weeks and, remember, you quite literally starved yourself to death.”

“People process things in different ways.”

“I will not be made the enemy.” Sangoku stood and took out a palm-sized slate from his coat. A double chime sounded in the ceiling, then a nasal voice calling for section chiefs to prepare for a course-change.

The floor leaned, barely, a long slow bank he felt in his knees one could mistake for vertigo.

“We’re going to Dafrada. The director is very eager to get this project started ASAP,” Sangoku said, still tapping.

The wall flickered to life with an aerial survey: dull scrubland across which a long, ragged scar of wreckage was strewn.

“QC Thır. The freighter that went down. Cargo of pala concentrate.” He glanced at Maro. “Not anything anyone’d bother to steal.”

“So the ship was the point, then.”

“Analysts think so.” Another tap, and the image swung to what looked to be the remnant of the ship’s underside repulsor drive. It was split open like a seed pod, its housing oddly clean. “It’s like it just popped apart. Something turned the repulsion wells every which way.”

Maro said nothing. He was looking at the edges of the metal, which were too even, like the pieces hadn’t broken so much as stopped sticking together. The back of his neck prickled.

“So what do you have?”

“I’d rather hear what you make of this.”

“I don’t know. It’s a feeling.” He adjusted himself and leaned back in defeat. “I’m not an analyst.”

Sangoku set the slate on the table. “Think about what that ship was. A freighter. So reliable, you can’t get nearly anything without at least a couple going through your town every few months.”

“You think this was done intentionally.”

“If someone can bring down a freighter, they can bring down a cruise ship. A carrier. Hell, even one of the aeropoleis. And the fear that could come of it. The world has been safe since the Proclamation.” Sangoku let that sit. “The world has been safe and it’s not time to allow something of this scale now.”

“Is it a harmonist? A zariki?”

“Hm?”

“The cause, I mean. Could it be?”

Sangoku shook his head. “I’ve never heard of a zariki doing something from that range. But if it is, we can’t survive anyone learning it can be done twice.”

Maro inhaled sharply. “I’ll bet the Pasana are worried.”

Sangoku turned off the display and studied Maro. His amusement was gone again for a moment and the look was something measuring. Then he reached into his coat again, drew out a small paper pad, and wrote two lines with a pen.

“A gift from on high,” Sangoku said, noticing Maro’s eye.

The door slid open on a gust of warm air that smelled of fried dough.

“Sorry,” said Sikimi, balancing a tray against her hip with bowls of noodles, some sort of leaf-wrap, and two steaming cups. “They were out of the good broth.” She set the tray down on the table and stretched out her arms. “They must hate me.”

Sangoku put his notepad away. “Surely not?”

“Aw, thanks for caring—”

“I’ve been looking forward to the broth for the past few days!”

Maro snorted. Sikimi shot him a scandalized look as Sangoku stormed out.

“The broth’s that good?” asked Maro.

“Well, you be the judge.” She pushed one of the cups toward his hand. “When did you have breakfast?”

He didn’t. “Isn’t this the bad broth?”

“You have to have something to set your expectations.”

It was bittersweet with hints of chicken. For a few minutes the room was just chewing— more from Sikimi than Maro— and the ship’s hum. He found himself watching Sikimi as he watched everyone, out of habit. She ate quickly, looking up between bites. At the table, and at him. Her eyes were friendly and never stayed on anything long enough to contemplate.

“So,” she gestured lightly, tearing off a portion of the leaf-wrap. “How are… things?”

“You understand this is all very unsettling.”

“You tanned.”

“So I did. You put your hair up.”

“Mmh.” She swallowed and put down her utensils for a moment, which freed Maro to take a substantial mouthful of broth. There was nothing bad about this broth. Nothing good either. Like at Toshu.

“I hope you don’t have anything against Kiran.”

He snorted again. “What do you think?”

“I think you got some skills you didn’t know you had.”

“I think you don’t—”

“Was it ideal? No, but—”

“Just…” Maro sighed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… Look, I’m glad you’re back.”

“I am too,” he said reflexively.

They sat in silence.

“Fondest memory?”

Maro put his hands up. “Always memory with you!”

“I collect them.”

He thought for a bit. “Fine. I admit it: there were lots of times I got in a flow state pruning flowers from pala branches. There was a lot of time to think over there. So I thought. Stop smirking.”

She had a knowing grin about her.

“I’ve said nothing.”

Maro gave an incredulous look.

She pointed a spoon at him. “I’m a little jealous about your flow state.”

“You’d last a week.”

“Couple of days. Then I’d need a talking buddy.”

He laughed, a short, dry thing that surprised them both. She let it settle before she spoke again, and when she did the grin had gone softer.

“I did get a look at your file, you know.”

She shouldn’t’ve. “Oh?”

“Twelve turns of stable behavior.”

“I take it ethics aren’t as important when it comes to your friends.”

She shrugged. “It was boring.”

“You’re boring.”

“You could have thrown a tool at someone.”

“They were too busy driving crawlers at lookout towers.”

She tore the last quarter of the leaf-wrap off and slid the larger piece toward him. “Long back, maybe you don’t remember, you reviewed one of my joint reports. You told me it was terrible prose.”

Maro turned the wrap over in his fingers. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Sure. The comments you left on the doc were the most you I’ve seen.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“I know.” She said teasingly. “That’s why I’m telling you.”

It was easier to believe her than he’d expected, and harder to hear. Somewhere in a drawer in Dafrada, a Major with an office still existed. She’d held onto that idea, apparently, for safekeeping. He pressed his hands into the table and felt the small rattling from the ship’s vibration. The leaf-wrap was cold and dry with more texture than flavor.

“It’s good to be back.”

Sikimi nodded.