Prelude

Konii was dead and had been for decades.

What remained of it was now an empty land of scorched hills, barren, dead grass fluttering in stale, tepid air. Years ago, the Kaskaren declared it an exclusion zone and sealed it from the world. Barriers sealed off the former nation from anyone daring to uncover what happened.

Lyell pressed his feet into the packed soil. No alarms sounded, no planes scrambled. Even those who laid waste to Konii had abandoned her. Not much was different across the threshold, but no one lived here. He started walking. In the distance, rolling hills rose into mounds, then low mountains. His walk became a hike. The sun loomed relentlessly, yet Lyell continued. It was quiet. Empty.

After a few hours under the heavy sun, Lyell spotted something familiar on an adjacent peak: a massive, twisted, mangled metal shape. He approached slowly, recognizing the ruined remains of a wind-powered instrument that once sang proudly in the mountain breeze. Its chimes were silent and rusted now. He turned away with a sigh, descending toward a clearing below.

He came down off the ridge with the sun still looming. The land eased as he descended, sharp rock giving way to dirt and sparse grass. A village lay before him, its houses scattered and intact. From a distance it looked empty and harmless— houses low against the hillside, faint house chimes dangling in the breeze.

When he came closer, he saw what the distance had hidden. A door resting on the ground, its frame torn up. Dark streaks on walls. He saw a cooking pot on its side next to floorboards warped and stained from soup that had long since evaporated. Lyell did not linger over these things.

At the far edge of the village stood the temple. Its stucco walls had cracked and chipped with wind and time, and the gold above them had lost its shine, but the shape of it was unchanged. It bore many ornate symbols and jewels whose meanings had long faded, and the structure stood tall against the emptiness around it. He was a boy when he first entered this sanctuary, thin and afraid, with no one to tolerate his family or his upbringing. Yet, as it was those many years ago, the door was open.

The air inside was cool. His steps echoed loudly in the main hall, and he quickly fell into shadow. But he was no longer a boy. He lifted his hands and lit the area with a flash of energy, as he had learned with harsh instruction.

He moved carefully, recalling passages and stairways not walked since his youth. He passed plain hallways with endless rooms. He passed through the training hall where he had sharpened his abilities. At the far end of a winding corridor, much lower in the temple, he faced a door. He remembered the elders’ stern admonitions never to go near this wing. Even the lock was formidable. It was a work of art in and of itself. Most of it, of course, rusted and grimy now. He settled his hand on the enclosure and sensed it. It took no effort to summon energy anymore; it was simply there. The pulse moved through the lock like water, shrieking and tearing as it went. The door burst inward and struck the stone behind it.

Darkness. And the squealing echo of what he had just done.

It took a moment for Lyell to remember to light the area again. He stepped over the hissing iron and went into the vast library. A thick must filled his nostrils. Before him were wide shelves of scrolls, books, and artifacts piled haphazardly by fleeing caretakers decades before. His fingers traced ancient spines, searching. Row after row, ladder after ladder. Occasionally, a sporadic creak that reverberated throughout the room. Nothing but forbidden knowledge filled these shelves.

He moved through the library with the patience the elders had tried to teach him. He had only learned too late to be grateful for it. There was a logic to abandonment. People in a hurry still move by habit, and habit meant the most valuable things would have been gathered last, dropped nearest the exit by hands that ran out of time. He worked backwards from the doorway, scanning the innermost shelves.

A book. He almost missed it: wrapped in brown paper, a wax seal pressed with a familiar glyph. The seal wasn’t holding the paper anymore, which had unfolded to reveal what had caught Lyell’s eye. The mark of the first founders, once known everywhere before the Union’s cartographers had renamed the mountains and erased the towns. It was a dense thing, well bound. The kind of craftsmanship designed to last generations.

It was a survey of early energy practices, compiled far before his time. He skimmed through the archaic text, which referred to things simply. What they called it then was just Vinali. A thread. The word that described the indescribable as close as they could. Much of what was written had been drilled into him in this very building: centering, sensing, the drawn-out discipline of learning to feel before you act. Some of it he didn’t recognize. Towards the middle of the book the ink began to fade. He leaned closer.

That was when he heard it. Or maybe he didn’t. Was that a footstep, or just an echo? He dared not move. He could hear more now, slow and methodical. They were coming from above, from the stairs, which led to only one place. He set the book back down on the pile of paper and trash he’d found it. He withdrew into darkness and waited.

The shape appeared in the doorway: a young man, dark outer coat with a high collar, cut plain and practical. A badge on the chest which Lyell could barely make out, yet indistinguishable. Five leaves pressed into a shield.

The agent stepped over the threshold with a light he had been angling low, the behavior of someone who had been trying not to be seen. He had not expected to find the still-warm metal lying in rubble. He stood frozen for a moment. Then something resolute moved behind his eyes.

“Come out!”

The man lifted his free hand and a dim shadow enclosed it. Outside, far above the stone of this place, wind moved across Konii, over dead grass and old village chimes and the long slopes of a nation everyone had forgotten. It disgusted Lyell. His chest started to burn.

Apparently, so was the air around him. The man started, noticed the hazy blue glow a little too late. Lyell had only learned, over a long time and by rigorous instruction, that fighting its presence was more exhausting than accepting it. What it cost him to use it was nothing. What it had cost him to earn that ease was everything.

He released a single, focused point of pressure, which, unlike the tearing flood he had sent through the lock, was precise and quiet. The way one must do such things, if one must. Knees buckled. Flashlight clattering on flagstone. He folded to the ground slowly, with a kind of dignity, and was still.

Lyell picked up the book and tucked it under his arm. Then he stepped over the man and moved back through the doorway. He didn’t need light this time. He came back out through the temple’s open door into air that was cooling now, the dead hills of Konii resting under amber sky. He looked at the book in his hands, then at the sky, then at the hills rolling away into the silence.

He started walking.

Under Review

He was working in the pala field, tossing wilted flowers into a gaping bag with his head turned down. A dense assortment of green and dry brown stretched to the horizon. There were clouds in the sky, but they did not spare him from the humid sun, nor did the occasional quiet whisp of wind. It was tedious work. He had started a few klicks to the east at dawn, a foolhardy choice. Though with the flat expanse of farmland it hardly mattered what direction you started, he supposed. The day was certainly not cooling down. He rather enjoyed contemplating his thoughts in the strangling, muggy silence anyway.

“Lunch.”

He paused. The tawny man behind him tossed a wrapped sandwich his way. He picked it up and set it into his pack.

“Maro.”

Setting his rake on one of the pala plants, he sighed and faced the man. He was not a thoroughly old creature, but everything about him was worn, from his skin to his eyes and clothes. Maro eyed him with contempt, which firmly met a frustrated posture.

“I’m not hungry right now, Tipéko.”

“Eat anyway.”

“I prefer to work.”

“You work too hard. That’s why you’re here.”

Maro laughed dryly. “Says the senior.”

“I told you this at the start, but you either enjoy your time here or I tell the foreman you didn’t get better.”

“Ooh,” mocked Maro, gently unwrapping the sandwich. “Maybe I’ll go serve in the cafeteria, see if that ‘clears my head’.”

“Sorry, those jobs are for people who’ve worked more’n a turn.”

“Hey. I’m traumatized.”

“You’d think a man who spent nearly a fifth of a cycle doing real work would’ve realized how stupid that sounds.”

“A fifth? Twelve turns isn’t a fifth unless you round like a child.”

Tipéko laughed. “Eat.”

It was a good sandwich. Bits of shredded pork and melted cheese. And it did pull him out of the stupor one enters when repeating a task for hours.

“Message came in from the Core. What should I tell ’em?”

He had gotten out of the habit of keeping in touch. It was starting to cause trouble. “The truth.”

“Alright, I’ll say you’re really loving field maintenance but you need a lot more turns ’till the trauma washes off.”

“So, when I say the truth…”

He put his hands up. “In all seriousness, I did hear that the commander might be coming here.”

Maro downed his canteen and stood up. “Why?”

“Your little party’s probably gonna end.”

“Damn. Welp, nice knowing you.”

He had said it as a joke, but there really was no reason to linger.

“You think he’s coming soon?”

Maro grimaced. “I have never heard of an officer from the Core caring enough to visit one of these resorts. These programs are where they dump people like me for half a decade after we blow up a province.”

A dry chuckle. “I was born in the wrong place. People like me do that, send ya to a nice place called prison.”

“The difference being I didn’t mean to.”

Tipéko looked at him for a moment. Then he adjusted the strap of his water bag and glanced back over the field, where two workers had stopped under the heat waves.

“I’ve got people wasting daylight,” he said. “Eat the rest. Then answer your commander.”

Maro sighed. He shouldn’t have rested that long. His limbs were starting to ache and the air was making him lethargic. He turned back to the cactus-tree in front of him, found a yellowing flower attached to a thick, ribbed stem. Up, down, left, right, twist, yank. An entire day of this. He picked up the bag, tied it, dropped it at the end of the row. Grabbed another bag from the crate sitting there and moved on.

There were thousands. Tens of thousands. Here and there he looked up and saw someone else in the distance, some other poor soul who had the misfortune of coming here for his “mental health.” The Core loved sappy stories. Maro was sure that at some point the bureaucrats ultimately responsible for him being here instead of somewhere useful had heard of some soldier finding himself again after slowing down and learning to enjoy nature. Maybe there was romance involved. Whoever it was, they contributed to an air of wanting to “care” for those serving the Union. So, soldiers, those in the Service, Airmen, and whoever else got to hold a gun began to flood these farms— in many cases displacing the farms’ original workers. All in support of feeding the world. Still, the amount of people seeing combat was getting lower. Every turn he heard of more airships converted into luxury cruisers, recruitment cratering, and all the signs of permanent world peace approaching. Maybe one day, civilians would work here again.

Over the next few hours, Maro covered row upon row of pala. They just blurred together. The afternoon peak had eased and the temperature was tolerable again. Color drained from the horizon as the sky turned rosy. And here he still was, pulling flowers. It was important work—they so often grew fungus or became homes for critters that would eat the plants from the inside—but ever monotonous. Perhaps the best work for traumatized soldiers.

He was approaching a lookout tower now. It stood boldly over the flat horizon but was closely nestled between the pala, like a buoy in the sea. He saw it was empty as he got closer. Made sense. No reason to have people sitting all day in the shade. He finished the row and chucked his bag into the empty crate. Just as he was about to grab another, a subdued chime rang out from the tower. Maro stopped and turned his eyes westward. After a few moments, the same chime reverberated from other towers throughout the farm, before a muffled recording of the anthem sounded. Its melody was legible at first, but the other echoes drowned it out until the only thing Maro could hear was a brash, repeating horn. When the music ceased, he picked up his canteen, licked up the last few drops of water left, and began plodding west.

The farmhands emerged from their respective rows as he walked, cheerfully celebrating the day’s end. Maro only watched. Some days he chatted, but today had been an especially useless day. Twelve turns of this, he mused. Twelve harvests, twelve dry seasons, twelve turns away from doing his job. Yet, not even twenty per cent of a life-cycle. One could live for more than seventy through harmony and luck. Despite how little time he’d spent here, the farm began to feel endless.

He could blame the bureaucrats, his team, or his commander. They all played a role in the absolute nightmare of an operation Te‘qaye was. Even thinking about that made his skin crawl. For a moment he saw the city as it had looked from above. Collapsed skyscrapers. Floodlights focused on carnage. Someone shouting over a radio channel drowned in static. The worst part was the flickering of muzzle flashes across the city that he could do nothing about from the air.

Enough of that; there he went thinking again. The road widened near the tower. Half a dozen transports waited there, long electric crawlers with benches welded into their cargo beds. Workers were already climbing aboard, tossing gloves and empty canteens into storage bins. One of the drivers laid on a horn. Maro climbed into the nearest transport and sat at the very back. Around him, people talked about dinner, weekend leave, and a card game somebody owed money on. The trucks lurched west. A comforting breeze picked up. Pala fields rolled by in endless rows. The blurs of stems and bark looked idyllic from this perspective.

He thought back to what Tipéko had said. No one in the Security Service had any reason to come out here except to dump people. Least of all someone like the commander. Maybe he was mistaken. If anyone was coming here, they’d be from the general Security Forces, not the Service. He was sure of it; it had happened before. There was still the matter of the message. Maro wasn’t afraid to admit what he was hoping for, but it probably was just a check-up. With the news he was hearing, there would be no reason to recall anyone. He was stuck here unless he wanted to quit the Service.

By the time they reached the residence hall, the sky had gone purple at the edges. The cafeteria sat at the center of the dorm blocks, low and bright and ugly, with steam crawling from its vents. Workers streamed toward it like fluid.

Inside, the room was loud with trays, voices, and the scrape of benches. Maro collected a bowl of stew, a wedge of flatbread, and pala, of course. He was perusing an open table when Tipéko waved him over.

“Look at that,” Tipéko said. “Another day of hard work. You survived.”

“Barely.”

“Eh. Builds character.”

“I had character.”

“Meh.”

Maro sat across from him. Tipéko had already finished half his meal and was guarding the rest with one arm.

“You answer them yet?”

Maro tore his flatbread in two. “Working on it.”

“So, no.”

“I haven’t read it yet. And I need to consider what I’ll say.”

Tipéko snorted. “You? That’d be a first.”

Maro looked down at his stew. It was too hot to taste anything, but he ate it anyway. For a while they ate without speaking, drinking in the conversations around them. The others were complaining about work gloves and arguing over rules about card games or whether the irrigation pumps would blow out before next turn. Ordinary things. Maro listened and felt, with mild irritation, how easy it would be to belong here if he just bought in.

Tipéko pushed his empty bowl away.

“You know,” he said, “there are worse places to be redundant.”

Maro smiled faintly. “Is that what I am?”

“Eh. You’ve a bad face for cards.”

Maro turned back to look at the crowd.

“Just saying,” Tipéko continued. “Man can do a lot worse than wake up every day to a secure job.”

Maro pursed his lips. Tipéko stood abruptly and collected his tray.

“I’m off. Write something good.”

After dinner, Maro walked back to the dorm block alone. His space was narrow and clean, without much of a personality. There was a cot, a footlocker, and a desk. A square window looked over the dark fields. He sat on the cot and pulled out his slate from the footlocker. After some fiddling, he pulled up the message. No more avoiding it. For a moment he just stared at the shield made of multicolored leaves. Then he noticed the message was from a no-reply address.

Maro Major Lunsi,

Your current placement at the Toshu Pala Farm is under review. Commander Sangoku will arrive tomorrow morning for direct assessment of your recovery and eligibility for future assignments. Please remain on site.

Under review. None of it made sense. He must have been dreaming, too, because he wasn’t jumping for joy at the thought of his recall. Maro set the slate face down on the floor and laid back without undressing. He watched the ceiling until the lights dimmed on their timer. For the first time in twelve turns, he found himself wishing the workday had lasted longer.

Future Assignments

Maro woke before the dorm lights came up. For a few moments, he lay still in the gray, listening to the gradual hum of waking critters bursting into song. The slate was still on the floor where he’d left it. Maro picked it up and shoved it into his footlocker. The lights began to ease up the brightness and he forced himself into his usual routine. Wash, dress, pack, grab a wrapped breakfast for later, field.

Dew on the grounds, he knew that for certain. Dew clinging in the darkness while the dawn sun began to pale the horizon. Workers still gathered in their groups as their foremen wrangled whose assignment was what today. Cold and wet. He joined his group where Tipéko was sorting through tables on his slate while everyone waited for the transports to arrive.

“You’re here early.”

“I work here.”

“Not usually so in these minutes.”

“Call the day auspicious, then.”

“Yeah, ’cuz you’ll be out of here by dinner.”

Maro ran his hand through his hair. “How the…” He huffed. “I should be efficient, then. Before they get here.”

Tipéko looked back at the residence hall. “Do you know you’re not scheduled?”

Maro looked at him squarely in the eye and shook his head with a strict face.

“What the hell,” Tipéko clapped his hands and stashed his slate. “Man hates it here until the last day.”

Maro stretched his arms out, still stiff from sleep, and started after the arriving truck along with the other members of his cohort. He hopped up, rubbing his neck. The morning was taking its time to begin. Good. Regardless, it would still take about an hour for the sun to make pleasant weather, and from there it was a quick jump into tough sweat.

“So, Maro, I hear you go back to the Core.”

No secrets with Tipéko.

“Come now, Rodgio, they only said ‘under review’”.

“Ha, they only ‘review it’ when they need you! Rest of time? Sit on shelf with us.”

“Touché.”

He massaged his neck again, looking up at the now-ruddy-blue sky. There were few clouds and daylight was spreading across like paint spilling on a blank canvas. But as he looked, he noticed a small speck in the distance. Maro blinked, making sure it wasn’t a trick of the light, but it remained. He watched for a couple of minutes, and he noticed it was slightly moving.

“Hey, look! They’re bringing an airship for Lunsi boy over here.”

Chatter quickly sprouted up, only for Tipéko to intervene.

“Focus, focus. Come on, it’s a dot. Probably some cruise ship. Now let’s get off Maro’s back and get to work.”

Maro nodded in his general direction as a show of gratitude. The truck stopped and Tipéko hopped out.

“Flower duty! Again! Ugh.”

The morning settled into its rhythm. Bags filled. Flowers disappeared. Sun hastily burning away the dew. They were more closely packed today; this group of pala had been sorely mistreated. But there was an atmosphere in the group. Every so often someone stopped working long enough to glance skyward. The speck had grown a little, but it didn’t seem to be getting any closer, which more than confirmed for the farmhands that it was, indeed, an airship.

“It has not moved in an hour!” Cried Rodgio. “Why they take so long?”

Thankfully in the next hour a crawler rumbled a few rows close. It was a substantial vehicle, with a wide arm, held together by a tangle of triangles, that hovered over the pala. It whined noisily. And what should have been a distraction helped to drown out the others’ jokes. Up, down, left, right, twist. How tedious, yet how many days had he done this from sun up to sundown?

It was nice to have people picking up the waste. He watched the crawler advance between the rows between picking. The machine’s arm hung over the rows like the neck of some enormous animal, drinking in anything that might disturb the plants. Its sheer size gave Maro an irrational unease every time it got closer. It seemed to be following him. Row after row. It was getting a little too loud. He looked up again and noticed that they and the crawler were approaching a lookout tower.

He paused with a flower half-twisted from its stem. The crawler’s wheels rolled near the tower’s foundation before sliding into the next row. Not dangerous, necessarily. Just careless. Uncharacteristic. He started to keep an eye on the thing. The tower was set upon a few rows’ worth of space, and the gap between the crawler and the tower was getting smaller each time it turned around to clear some more pala. Maro knew he shouldn’t be anxious about it. He was probably misjudging the distance—or maybe it was just programmed to swing wide on these rows, the crawlers had become very precise in recent turns—but now more farmhands than him were warily eyeing the machine. It came up awfully fast on the next row, stopping just before anyone got worried. He looked around for Tipéko.

There he was, at the clearing around the tower, with an incredulous face as if he was sensing something off. Maro wasn’t even working now, he recognized, and it seemed that everyone was doing the same. That crawler was erratic. It was coming back now on the next row, and a low, bassy revving accompanied its vacuum’s whine. Not good. Not at all. Maro finally stopped staring and turned his back on the plants, moving to where Tipéko was standing to ask if something was going to happen. He had just crossed under one of the plants when the crawler jumped out at the clearing, careening towards the tower.

Somebody shouted, and there was a scuffle as people frantically tried to jump away. Then a sharp crack. Maro looked up just in time to see the machine’s arm falling apart as it slammed into one of the tower’s legs. Quite a bit of cursing popped up from everyone around him.

“An actual retard programmed that thing! Who the hell sets it to do that?”

“Ah, crud, this is gonna catch fire. Somebody call the trucks.”

“Is the tower leaning? Does it look like that to you?”

“Oh shit.”

The tower’s upper platform swung sideways with a groan that carried across the field. It was chaos. Workers, Maro among them, racing every way, trying to get out from under the tower, the deafening crunch of wood and metal cracking and scraping. The whole tower tumbled down on top of the crawler. People reacted in the only way they knew how: shouting, cursing, running.

The noise dissipated quickly. But it wasn’t quiet. Among the shouting and panicking, Maro remembered that people were in that tower. He broke into a sprint back to the remains as others remembered the same.

“Maro, come here!” Shouted Tipéko. “Help me lift this.”

He and several others grabbed a slab of wood and hoisted it up, slamming it down behind them. Fragments of wood and shattered glass lay around them. They were about to grab another piece of the tower when a pained scream sounded on the other side of the debris.

“Hold still, we’re coming! Is anyone with you?”

“Jus’ me!”

A relief there. At least they wouldn’t have to wade through the mess more than once. They picked their way through the wreckage, searching for the man. They strained for several minutes dragging away walls, posts, and ladders until they came across him. A beam had trapped him from below the waist against a section of the crawler’s chassis. Every movement drew another cry from him.

“Easy, easy,” somebody said.

“Don’t move him.”

“We need jacks.”

“The trucks are coming.”

Maro shook his head. “His legs will be gone by the time they get here.”

“They’ll grow back.”

“You want him to be in a wheelchair for seven turns?” Maro crouched beside the beam. It was not truly a beam anymore. The impact had twisted wood, steel reinforcement, and part of the tower’s ladder into a single tangled mass. Even if twenty people lifted together, they would never move it evenly enough. The wrong shift would crush the attendant outright. The man knew it too.

“Please,” he gasped. “Get me outta here.”

Maro put a hand on the wreckage. For a moment he only stared. It had been so long. Not since Te‘qaye. Not since the reports and interviews and recovery boards and endless conversations about rest. His hand remained on the twisted metal. Strange how quickly he remembered where everything was. How everything felt.

“Maro? What are you…”

Tipéko’s voice became distant. Maro was aware now that people were watching him. He had almost forgotten that nobody here had ever seen him work. A shadow extended from his hand, pressing itself into the wood. The beam vibrated beneath his palm. Maro closed his eyes and tried his best to feel. Feel the dirt beneath the man. The debris around him. The heat beating down on him, and the components of what used to be the tower. It was easy, enough to hurt. So much time had passed, and so little had been accomplished since he last experienced these sensations.

The shadow became tangible now, like tendrils of smoke. Wrapping around the beam, emanating from his hands. He lifted his arms, twitched his fingers. The beam rose up just a bit, causing gasps to erupt around him. He pushed a bit more…just a bit more, until the beam was high enough. Maro immediately gasped for air. He was out of practice, and this effort was taking its toll.

“Now.”

Nobody moved.

Maro grunted. “NOW.”

Hands rushed in and ripped the man from under the beam. He had started shaking and it hurt; the feeling one gets when training. A shallow breath turned into a huff, until he couldn’t bear it anymore and dropped the wreckage. It clattered to the ground, and so did he. Maro looked up and saw new faces on not-so-new people. He didn’t care. He’d finally done something of note here. He glanced over at the attendant, who was now laying on the ground, broken but free.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

A slow, almost mocking applause developed into heartfelt acclaim. Maro wasn’t in a good place to process any of it. Blood still rushed in his ears. His heart seemed determined to keep pace with the clapping.

Clap. Clap. Clap. The workers parted.

A small group of strangers stood beyond them in dark uniforms bearing the five-leaved shield of the Security Service. A stiff bunch. Rank insignia, unfamiliar faces, a particular unease with the temperature.

The man in the front wasn’t a stranger. He was broader than Maro remembered, more silver at the temples too, but an undeniably familiar face.

“Well done, well done,” said Sangoku, with an amused expression Maro remembered all too well. “An impressive performance from our favorite zariki.”

In Due Time

It was a long drive back to the residence hall. Sangoku had quickly picked up Maro in his own transport after giving him a few minutes to say his goodbyes. Maro had little energy to protest or demand just to finish this day. To the commander’s credit, he made little attempt at small talk on the ride— perhaps as compensation for the celebration, or maybe because any catching up would bring to mind that it was his authorization that landed Maro here in the first place. Maro never decided if knowing this made it easier or worse.

Three others sat in the transport with them— a woman and two men. No one was particularly chatty. On the corner sat Sangoku. There was more silver at his temples than Maro remembered. He didn’t recognize the men, but after twelve turns he didn’t expect to. The people he had come to know were likely packed up and moved on. But the woman he’d recognized— Sikimi. She had an extra pin: a ring with a quarter taken out of it pinned beneath her five leaves. Sikimi only briefly glanced at him, as if confirming it was really him. Maro looked away first.

There was little ceremony as they barreled past the buildings and carried on towards the dusty landing pad that sat apart from the rest of the complex. Seated there was a rather large jet, about the size of a small warehouse. It was dark with an even finish, commanding respect. A ground crew lurched from rest with their arrival. Still no one talked, and Maro’s appreciation for the silence began to wane.

“So, out with it, then. What’s—”

“In due time.” Interrupted Sangoku. “In.”

He headed up the ramp without checking whether Maro followed. The plane’s interior smelled of recycled air disinfectant. Eight seats lined the hull in pairs with smooth fabric and plastic covering every surface. A narrow aisle led toward a sealed cockpit door. It was enough to appeal to more than just military users, but not by much.

“This is Sikimi Major Amapim, Netamit Captain Kumi, and Kuzan Captain Idiku,” Sangoku said, which was the only introduction Maro would get. Everyone inclined their their heads at him when their names came up, and Maro matched it. “They’ll be with us the whole way.”

“The whole way where?”

Sangoku settled into the seat closest to the cockpit across the aisle. “Sit down, Maro Lunsi. You’re shaking.”

Maro hadn’t noticed. He sat. Captain Kumi handed him a strap without comment and brought out a slate. The engines woke beneath them in stages—first a whine, then a bassy hum that rose in pitch before giving way to a far-quieter purr he felt more in his teeth than his ears. It had been twelve turns since he’d last felt a jet come alive around him like this, and his body remembered before his mind caught up. Like an elevator, the floor pushed into his feet. The engines tentatively revved as the plane lifted straight up off the pad.

Below, the residence hall shrank into a scatter of low gray roofs. The fields spread out into a quilt of green and brown, row upon row, the lookout towers reduced to brown squares breaking up the landscape. Somewhere down there Rodgio was probably telling the story already, embellishing the part about the beam. Maro watched until the farm was just a smudge of color against the dirt.

Clouds came up beneath them in loose white strands, thin enough at first that he could still make out the ground through them. He watched until there was no longer anything down there worth studying.

Across the aisle, Sangoku had closed his eyes. Sikimi sat two seats ahead of him, her slate balanced across one knee. The three-quarter ring pin caught the light whenever the plane banked. She no longer wore her characteristic long braid; her dark hair was shorter and pulled into a tight low bun. She held herself upright against the movement of the plane.

Her eyes met his. He looked away, at the cohort he was with. Sikimi was Pasana, he knew that from prior, but the others. Captain Kumi was a beefy man. Teze, probably, but that was the sort of thinking thinking Maro should have quit many turns ago. Idiku had lighter skin and pursed lips. There weren’t many his‘e with characteristic light skin. Urako, maybe.

The transport leveled out. A soft chime came from somewhere overhead, followed by a slight change in the engines. Everyone habitually unfastened their seatbelt. Idiku leaned into the aisle to retrieve something from a compartment beneath his seat. Sikimi put her slate away and stood up, grabbing hold of the overhead cable and walking to the plane’s aft.

“Are we going to talk now?”

“No.” Sangoku replied without opening his eyes.

“It’s not ‘due time?’”

“No.”

Maro let his head fall against his seat for a moment. He could make out the airship in the distance, getting closer with agonizing sluggishness. “When will it be time?”

Sangoku lifted his eyes, irritated. “When it is.”

Kumi tried to hide a smile. Maro folded his arms, which still quivered. His legs, too. He clenched his hands into fists until the shaking eased, then stared at his knuckles and tried, almost by reflex, to draw something inward. Not much; just enough to steady the muscles. One mastered oneself with Zari, and it wasn’t something that easily left. Yet over the past twelve turns he had grown incredibly weak. There was something there, at least, but distant. Thin. Whatever this was, they would expect him useful again.

“Since you’re anxious, I’ll tell you we have a task force.”

Maro turned his attention back to Sangoku, who had sat up and was now staring at him.

“It’s a joint force, all the usual, with authority from the Service and the Force. We’ll meet them at the ship, and then we’ve got some reps from the ISA.”

Everybody looked at Sikimi.

“Adjunct,” she said. Her voice had changed less than the rest of her.

“You’ll be with our group, then?” Maro asked.

“ISA has jurisdiction over part of the work,” interrupted Sangoku. “Amapim stays with us unless that part becomes relevant.”

Maro still couldn’t fathom what would prompt them to spend all this effort grabbing him.

“But yes, Major Amapim is mainly serving our working group. Orders from the Director.”

Maro looked toward Sikimi again. She seemed completely at ease, which bothered him. He wanted some sign that this was as strange for her as it was for him. The two of them under the same leadership, just as before. Like nothing changed. She just picked up her slate and returned to whatever she had been reading. Perhaps she had known she’d be here.

“And the others?”

“Captain Kumi is a fellow at the Si‘adad Harmonic Institute. He worked on field stability. And now he’s with us.”

Kumi didn’t strike Maro as a research-oriented man. Of course, Maro shouldn’t have been assuming anything, but he looked like a special ops soldier. He eyed Idiku.

“I’m a zariki too,” he volunteered. Kumi rolled his eyes. “The Pasana adopted me from the Urako about a cycle ago.”

So he was right. That was less satisfying than it should have been. “You must be very proud.”

“Very much, yes. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Maro nodded. Sikimi was trying to get comfortable in her seat while examining whatever it was she was working on. For the better part of an hour the airship had been a gray smear on the window. The jet crossed some threshold and it was simply here now. A hull they size of a city block, hanging in the air like a storm cloud. A sight to behold, quite especially after only rarely seeing any on the farm. Smaller craft moved around it as bees tending to their queen in deliberate little arcs. The upper hull disappeared above the windows as they drew closer. Panels drawing open revealed hangars passing slowly by. There were maintenance workers around planes resting on stenciled numbers stenciled numbers. Farther forward on the hull Maro saw the corner of the World Union’s seal. A pillar of leaves against a mountain range.

He looked away from that. Nobody was talking. The silence before had been withholding and a little smug. This Maro likened to a reverent awe. They were almost posing for photographs, their eyes on windows, hands on knees or caressing chins.

“Tell me how a repulsor fails, Maro.”

“Sir?”

“You learned enough at the academy. Tell me.”

Maro looked at Sangoku. The commander had the same face he held on the farm, broad and amused, but the amusement was fading. “Because… passive units burn out slowly, they— they get to a point where they can’t invert that much area so…” He racked his brain. “The wells can’t all go at once because of how they’re designed, but they will go, then it’s just physics that determines when the lifting force isn’t enough.”

“How many airships have fallen out of the sky since the Proclamation?”

“What?” It was an absurd question. “Only in testing—”

“None,” Sangoku agreed. “Five hundred and some turns.”

The airship was nearer now and he could see the gantries in one of the hangars. Men among them like seeds. He could feel a distinct lateral movement in the plane now. It felt like the airship was swallowing them.

“A little before dawn, a freighter loses every well she has in eleven seconds. She’s over a great plain, so at least when she does crash there’s not much cleanup to do,” Sangoku said. “Forty souls.”

Maro realized they hadn’t been looking at the ship, but at the waves of air that emanated from the cells along the underside of the ship as they had ever since they were turned on. They were all wary of the same thing and taking care not to betray that. So goes the performers, he thought. He was far less tolerant of this behavior after twelve turns with straight people.

“At this point I’m just a farmhand. You saw,” his voice came out smaller than he wanted. “Why me?”

“Do not think you have gotten weak. You were able to lift four tons like you were in a gym.”

“The Palaren can—”

“The Palaren asks for your service, Maro. That is the matter.”

The plane shuddered as it docked. The repulsors’ rattle faded into a whine as they disengaged and the engines shut down. The silence they brought was grander, dominated by the ship’s ambiance. A low growl that occasionally became a hum. Everybody clicked open their straps and stood up. The last to rise was Sangoku, holding on to the overhead cable and staring down Maro. For a moment his amusement was gone from his face and underneath was just a tired face with elements of fear.

The ramp came down and light poured in from the hangar. Distant echoes of chatter and clanking of equipment. A man in service dress waiting with a slate held to his chest. He stood, and his legs held. Strange as it was that two hours ago he was spent, and now the floor was steady under him and the shaking had simply left. He walked down the ramp after the others. The farm was dim in his thoughts was was the accident, or the fellows who would spend their days just the same without him. I know what to do now.

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.

Chapter 5

It was often difficult to remember they were on an airship, if not for the occasional hum and subtle shift in the floor. There wasn’t much in the way of exploration. A steward brought Maro to a bunk in a cabin the size of a pantry. Sangoku had loaded data from the crash onto his slate, and he sat for a few hours poring over details and reports. He couldn’t make sense of any of it. It was as if the physics of the Thır’s repulsors simply broke. For the rest of the day Maro was attached to his slate. After scanning tables and reports and briefings until his eyes went numb he opened the news. Perhaps on purpose, he had checked out of modern society at Toshu, hearing only talk from around the group and looking at the occasional report.

There was practically nothing new. Celebrity heroes here and there, renewed initiatives to settle city-dwellers rurally, deep philosophical discussions on the virtues of Equalistic society and the social principles governing the World State Council, and so on. Maro had no feeling against those people; there were always those who would make some cause their entire life for a cycle before moving on.

He took a break only for dinner before returning to his makeshift studies. It was not twenty minutes after he’d returned that there was a knock at the door. Sikimi leaned in the doorway with her arms crossed, hair still pinned tight.

“Come. You’ll want to see this.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see. Or are you more interested in scrolling?”

At that Maro chuckled and walked with Sikimi. The viewing deck ran along the edge of the hull, a long curved gallery with benches around cactus-trees. Off-duty crew stood near the reinforced windows in twos and threes, quiet in awe. There was a fluffy blanket of clouds well below them, and out in the distance was the setting sun splattering pink across the clear blue. They had caught the sunset at the point when the rose-cotton became lavender. Above the clouds there was nothing to obscure this impressive view.

“Breathtaking,” Maro remarked. “Though… it wears off when you’ve seen it from the ground for twelve turns—”

“Oh, stop it,” laughed Sikimi. She eyed him for a second. “You should be grateful!”

“I suppose I should. Gave me time to think about—”

“Major Lunsi? Sorry.” Idiku had drifted over holding a set of playing cards. He was coming from a table where Kumi sat and he held a clear yet mildly awkward purpose. “Captain Kumi says you’ve actually seen a field destabilize before. Like, on a large scale. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s it like?”

“Well– Do you mean what it looks like or…”

“I’ve seen it on a small scale, but Captain Kumi said you were a direct witness in an operation.”

His mind flashed briefly back to Te‘qaye. “It’s a visual that’s very difficult to describe, Captain. And it’s loud,” he sighed. “Until it isn’t.”

Idiku’s face fell a little and he slunk back to the table. When he was out of earshot Sikimi said, “You don’t have to discuss it with him. Or me.”

“Noted.” Maro turned to watch the sun’s last hurrah of the day. “What have you been doing? Before this?”

Sikimi sat on a bench and stretched her arms out again. She had a habit of that. “Mostly field work. ISA has been a little antsy over the turns.”

“Fondest memory?”

She giggled. Pleasantly. “There was an old man. Up north, in one of the grain provinces. He kept bees.”

“Bees?”

“Yeah! Hundreds of hives! He labelled them in this tiny cramped handwriting. He told me once he could tell them apart by sound.” She tilted her head back and looked at the ceiling lights, the way someone does when they are watching something that is not in the room. “I was there three weeks. He made me tea every morning, and it was awful, but I never had the heart to say so.”

“That’s it?”

“I don’t know what I was expecting. He was a kind man. Very content in his work.” She picked at a thread on the cuff of her coat. “Some of it was gentle, which surprised me. I’d always assumed it would all be loud.” She smiled, and it stayed on her face a beat longer than it should have. “He asked if I’d come back for the harvest. I said yes.”

He had been in the Service long enough to know what the ISA meant by counter-intelligence, and what kind of lid it kept on things. He didn’t ask how it ended.

“That’s a good memory,” he conceded.

She swung her legs, stood, and brushed her coat. “Your turn. Give me something specific.”

He told her about Tipéko, the sandwiches he ordered him to eat, card games that ran past lights-out with Rodgio and the guys, and the monotonous yet nevertheless brotherly bonds he’d formed. Sikimi liked to play a game of peppering him with questions interjected at the most inopportune times: what did the farm smell like, did he miss the Core, who won the card games.

“Rodgio never won. He just said he did.”

“And you?”

“Never kept score.”

It was small, but sat strangely in his mouth afterward. He walked her to the corridor and said goodnight, and she thanked him for the memories as if she were taking them somewhere.

He lay on the bunk with the lamp off. The ceiling was close enough to touch, and he did, flat-handed, for no reason. Through the wall the ship hummed on. That brief expenditure lifting the beam was enough to exhaust him, but he was surprised at how naturally it had come. He had felt something he couldn’t name.

Man hates it here until the last day. Tipéko had said it laughing. Maro went looking for the hate now, turning over each moment of bonding with each realization that he did not belong there. That whatever was there at Toshu wasn’t for him. For twelve turns he had been nobody in particular, and he had been restless. In a few hours his trials would be over.

So why was he still thinking of the farm?

Cold bled through the glass in the viewing deck. The clouds had dissipated and the land beneath had risen into mountains. To Maro’s left was Rirkuzun, a gray patchwork of shrub and rock and old snow on its shoulders. Spilling down the eastern slope into a broad valley was Dafrada. The seat of the World Union. Quite familiar to Maro, but he wondered if it had changed or if it had really been that long. A sea of skyscrapers intertwined by train rails twisting everywhere, interrupted by the occasional terrace and park. Nothing was old in this city, and nothing existed by chance. Thirty-two million people had the unique privilege of living in one of the most optimized cities in the world.

At the center of the grid was a broad dark monolith of a tower that resembled a sculpture of a pruned tree trunk. It tapered in stages to a crown that scattered sunbeams across the city. The Citadel of the People.

West of it, the airport. It was less a field than a set of dinner plates: Vast discs of stone rested on a forest of pylons hundreds of meters above the valley floor. Airships patiently hovered above its rim, lifted in a spiral and spilling out above the city. Even from here he could pick out the pattern laid into its surface, the pillar of leaves against the mountains, with a mosaic of color fanning out from it.

“Seems like it was yesterday I was on the train here from Tosuken.”

Maro jumped. “Good morning. You had the same idea.”

“So I did,” she dismissed. “I really hated those classes.”

“What, the finishing-school ones? Or the one about—”

“O-chem. Funny how that works, seeing how…” She waved at nothing in particular. Maro could tell what she was trying to say. The ISA dealt in many matters beyond counter-intelligence.

“Over there’s the theater house.” Maro pointed to a squat black slab of a building nestled between smaller buildings flanked by lawn. Below them, the airport’s mosaic widened until its individual fields of color became visible. The deck shivered once as the docking clamps took the ship. Conversation along the windows stopped. For a moment everyone stood listening to the metal settle around them.

“Time to go.” Sangoku had already grabbed Kumi and Idiku, and they were once again navigating the airship in purposeful strides. They reached a hanger full of people spilling out onto the terrazzo. Dafrada’s dry mountain air was thin and sharp in his throat. The landing plate stretched out beneath the pale sky, flecked with greens, reds, and golds that formed the Union’s pillar of leaves.

At the far end was a row of plain, single-story rooms. They looked almost like white-paneled shipping containers with windows. Each had benches visible inside. Maro followed the others into one. With a pleasant bell, they began to sink. The city rose up around them, flashing through criss-crosses of metal.

“We’re taking a train,” Kumi explained. “So fortunately we won’t have to sit here for too long.”

Maro looked through the window as the pylons slid upward past them. Nothing in Dafrada existed by chance. Even its welcome required being sifted and sent precisely where one belonged. The elevator slowed with another pleasant chime, doors opening onto a concourse which, on a sunnier day, might have seen some lovely sunrays streaming through tubed windows.

People everywhere. Streams of them, coming and going in every direction. No one in a particular hurry; Dafrada had far too much practice moving people for that. Travelers spilling from banks of elevators and train-tubes into broad lanes divided by the floor’s color. High overhead, a departure board churning out different blocks of Salikira and other scripts in the six world languages. Maro had forgotten the scale of it, or perhaps what it felt to be part of it.

Sangoku led them away from the main current before they could be drawn in and took them to an upper deck behind closed doors. There was no inspection line, just a force-field recessed inside a round tube. Maro mistook it for tinted glass until the others strolled through it.

“Don’t act like you’ve never flown before, Maro Lunsi.”

“Since when did they darken? I thought you weren’t supposed to see them.”

“Since the office cut the budget,” Sikimi said flippantly.

The corridor sloped gently downward. By the time they reached the platform, the noise of the airport had become a dull vibration in the walls. There was a train waiting for them. It was only a few cars long, black along the lower body and silver above. It had narrow windows interrupting an etched gold pattern of pala.

“See? It’s like you never left,” said Sangoku.

Maro forced a sarcastic snort and noted the five leaves subtly etched on the train door. The interior was quieter than the airship. Seats facing each other across low tables, upholstered in a rather effortful leather and mesh covering the windows inside. The doors shut rather abruptly and there was a faint ringing for a moment as Maro felt the floor lifting a little. Then the train gracefully and smoothly shot forward with a smooth pull at his feet.

For about three seconds concrete walls flashed round them before the tunnel opened abruptly and they were in the air. Despite the depth they had sank from in the elevators they were still quite high above the city, a web of monorails streaking parallel to the mountains. The city was still a sight to behold. It was not hard to imagine tens of millions of people living here. Apartments rising higher than the train rails held terraces and balconies crowded with plants. Markets occupied the shaded streets below filled with pedestrians. More trams off to the side to ferry people about at ground level. On one rooftop, children were chasing one another around a garden while an old woman sat beneath a trellis and ignored them. Half a minute later the whole scene vanished behind the mirrored side of an office tower.

Trees, too. That, he remembered. The founders had planted Dafrada obsessively in every corner and avenue that would have them. Gardens on the rooftops, vines spilling from the sides of bridges, and wedges of green space or park fitted into the most unlikely nooks. And the mountains loomed over it all.

“You miss it?” Idiku asked.

“No.”

That was quick.

“I missed parts of it,” he backtracked.

“That means yes.”

“It’s like you said,” he gestured at Sangoku. “So much green, I practically never left.”

The train banked gently around a tower, giving them a sudden view down one of the great avenues toward the Citadel. The surrounding towers seemed to lean back from it. It was designed with a clearing in the middle of the city. Its “bark,” which had appeared rough from the sky, had many smooth panes dotted with windows.

The rail began descending. The train was moving quite fast, and Maro felt the drop in his stomach immediately. He realized how abnormally quiet it was. He could only faintly hear the car slicing through wind. Buildings were rushing past in blurs. Then came darkness again, and a big rushing as they eased into a stop. Sangoku stood before it had fully stopped.

“Here we are.”

The doors opened onto a platform that was nothing like the airport’s. A long strip of pale stone and a single attendant in Service dress who saluted without speaking. Sangoku and the others returned it halfway. They took a long escalator and the platform shrank to a bright slot beneath them. Then a corridor lined with the same white ribbing as the airship, which led to a lift Maro would have called an elevator if it hadn’t also moved sideways for a time, sliding through the tower’s innards with a faint clunk at each junction. Through corridors and checkpoints where he tried to keep his sense of direction and gave up around the ninth hallway with no difference but the painted lines with arrows pointing out which area was left or right.

They took another lift and stepped out into what looked like a completely different building. Black, lacquered floors so smooth he could see the mellow warm lamps almost perfectly reflected. Carved cedar framed the doorways. Nothing like the clinical fixtures below. It was like entering an aristocrat’s house, with the five leaves standing as a herald.

Maro had spent much of his old life in this section of the citadel. He was here whenever there was a mission to be done, when he’d done well, and when he had to explain himself. The Security Service was quite proud, and had the temperament never to be outdone when it came to expressing Slemic culture.

“This place always reminds me of our Samaiki.”

Maro had never seen the main house of any his‘e but his own.

“In what way?” He asked.

Sikimi grimaced. “Well, you’d know if you’d let the Pasana adopt—”

“I had my reasons!”

“No race wars on duty.”

“Sorry, sir.” Sikimi reflexively bowed her head. “No, I mean, the color scheme.”

“As if the architect were of a certain his‘e,” Kumi started before drawing Sangoku’s reprimand.

A man was waiting at the end of the hall with his hands folded behind him. He was small and gaunt, wearing a long, sharply tailored coat of muted blue, its high, narrow collar rising close around his neck. The front was smooth and unbroken, fastened by a concealed seam that ran from his throat to his waist. His hair was a few white wisps. Maro could make out hints of a grin aimed at Sangoku, who bowed with an arm at his waist.

“Director Takxa, sir.”

“Commander,” the Director replied, with a firmer voice than his body. “You’ve brought them all.”

He shuffled closer and surveyed the group, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“You chose your core team well, Kiran.” His eyes continued to idly run over them, stopping at Maro. “So, you survived the crucible, Major Lunsi.”

“Yes, sir.” It was the only correct thing to say and Maro said it correctly.

“And Miss Amapim!” Takxa clasped both her hands in his, which looked like handling a bundle of twigs. “A finer political officer cannot be found.”

“You’re too kind, Director.”

“Not many say that these days.” He chuckled, a sound like leaves scraping against each other. Sikimi smiled the way she had on the airship, a beat too long.

Takxa was old when Maro had lived not more than a quarter-cycle, and he was old now. The man was nearly seventy life-cycles, nearly six thousand turns, give or take, yet Takxa still held himself as high as he could. The running joke in the working groups was that he was a Kangu who had neglected to expire out of stubbornness.

“This way,” the director turned. “We are on a schedule, as it were.”

They passed through a pair of tall doors into a theater. This one had tiered seating in dark wood, a stage with a simple lectern, and a ceiling that disappeared into shadow. It was dim. Only a few of the lamps along the aisles were lit.

Sangoku was on one knee before Maro had finished taking in the room. Maro’s body dropped quickly, and the floor was hard under him. He heard the others behind him, then a pause that stretched.

“Idiku,” Kumi hissed. “Idiku.”

There was a scramble, a creak of wood, and a thud. Maro glanced up and saw there were already two people between the front row and the stage. The first was a woman: broad-shouldered, thick through the arms, leaning over the man beside her, adjusting the fold of his collar with two fingers.

The man was in traditional Qenza dress, layered and high-necked in dark red and gold, the sleeves covering his wrists to the knuckle. Scars snaked up his face, pale pinched lines that ran along the jaw and up one temple and vanished into his hair. When he turned his head, it was slowly, as if avoiding pain.

“Forgive us, Palaren. We were not told—”

“Oh, please,” said the Palaren, softly. “Up. Up, all of you. I’ll never be used to that.”

Nobody got up until Sangoku did.

The woman had a hand upon the Palaren’s back as he stepped closer. His scars twisted as he gave a warm smile.

“I was told this room would be empty for twenty minutes. I was making myself presentable.” He glanced down at his sleeve, and the woman beside him smoothed it again. “Ressa Maknu believes I’m a boy who loses his buttons.”

She laid a palm flat between his shoulder blades for a moment, and Maro saw him lean back into it so slightly that he might have imagined it. He caught Maro’s eye for a beat. His looked like round stones, and they turned a rather mild and tired gaze ambiguous.

“I won’t keep you. Director. Commander.” He took Maknu’s arm with a strained sigh and trod out the side door, unhurried.

“Idiku,” Sangoku chided. “Culture is no excuse.”

“Is he always—” Idiku began.

“Don’t,” said Kumi.

Then the main doors opened, and the Service came in. Dozens, then more: analysts with slates, officers in dark uniforms, a pair of stewards pulling carts of tea. Somebody found the controls, and the ceiling lights rose to full brightness so quickly Maro flinched. The theater was much more lively, loud and warm and smelling of paper and sweat. Takxa went to a chair in the front row, took a cup, and appeared to fall asleep.

“Stage. All of you.”

There was nothing new he could glean from the briefing. That bothered him. Sangoku had stood at the lectern without notes while maps and faces filled the wall behind him. The Thır. Three other incidents quietly reclassified since spring, at a power station, a rail junction, and a hundred and fifty kilometers from Ainsanga Aeropolis. A map of the west, dotted with red marks where instruments had recorded readings that made no sense. A joint force under the World Political and Legal Commission, drawn from the Service and the Security Forces. Four subgroups, each with an ISA officer. Two on the ground, one on data. The fourth appeared only as a line at the bottom of the slide. Their mandate was to find whoever was using harmonic weapons. The second, expressed more gently, was not to frighten the public while they did it.

Then Sangoku introduced them as the “core team.” He named them one by one. Maro had been staring at a red mark in the west, thinking nothing at all, when Sangoku said his name. He felt the whole theater turn toward him. He kept his face still and nodded, though he could feel his face drain.

The moment it was over, he walked off the stage. Sikimi was beside him before he reached the aisle. Sangoku followed behind them. The corridor air was cool against his prickling face.

“I didn’t sign up for anything.” The words came too fast. “You just came and grabbed me. I wasn’t— in front of the—”

“Maro.”

“I haven’t agreed to a single thing.”

“Walk with me,” Sangoku said.

A stair, a lift, another stair, and a door he would have taken for a service exit. Beyond it was sky. He hadn’t known there were gardens above the Security Service floors. It must have been hundreds of stories up. A broad terrace rimmed with glass, with trees scattered about, dwarfed but old, their trunks twisted by decades of training. Runty pala with fruits of white and gold. A small fish pond with a bridge over it. Moss on the stones. In the distance was the city, and beyond it Rirkuzun.

“Every province sent a tree,” Sikimi said quietly beside him. “When the Citadel was finished. Something about the world sharing a root.”

“Always with the symbolism.”

Sangoku stopped at the edge of the pond. The sun was behind him, and the lines in his face looked deep. Definitely not amused now.

“You’re a free citizen, Maro Lunsi. I won’t put a hand on you. You can go right back to Toshu this afternoon.”

“Not much of a choice.”

“It is. I said it is.” He turned to look at the city. “But if I were you, I would think. Hard. About your station.” His upper lip trembled.

“He’s right,” Sikimi said.

Maro looked at her. Her arms were at her sides and there was little friendly in her face. She held it very still. For an instant he saw someone he’d never met. Just a lady with a ring pinned beneath her five leaves.

“You bloom where you’re planted. Think about where you’d be without this.”

The wind moved the leaves of the old trees. A bird landed on the bridge rail, then flew off. Sikimi blinked and her face returned.

“I’m tired. It’s a good offer, Maro.”

So was he. The day had been too long, and it was only afternoon.

“I’m a little irritated with you. If I haven’t made that clear.” Sangoku was craning his neck at the clouds above. “But if you feel differently…”

Sikimi rested her hand on Maro’s shoulder. “You should take the day to think on it.”

“Quite,” agreed Sangoku. He gestured around himself. “Maybe you need a familiar environment.”

Maro couldn’t help but scoff. They left him alone there. He turned their words over once and set them down, the way he had set down the sandwich on the first day he’d been told to eat. There was no bustle of Dafrada up here. But somewhere out there a freighter had fallen from the sky, and people were deciding what to do about it here. He could be one of them. He thought of the beam rising in his hand and how nobody else had moved. He thought of the farm, and the shape of a card game he’d never finish. He wanted it. That was the plain, ugly fact. He wanted it so much it frightened him, and the part of him that whined why me had gone quiet somewhere over the clouds.