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The last chapter of Hatikvah, and an epilogue. The conclusions are mostly forgone, at a high level, but what of the individuals concerned?

Hello, all! This is it, the last chapter(s) of Hatikvah_, which has been too long in the making. At least we know where things have ended, and hopefully in a way that works for you. Many, many thanks to everyone who has provided feedback and comments, and especially to Spudz for his tireless help and putting up with me, and Destroyed for his guidance and mentorship. I love y'all, thanks for sticking around, and enjoy._

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Aux Armes, by Rob Baird -- Ch. 5, "Through the Midnight"

***

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, _ _Through the whistling sleet and snow, _ _Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept _ _Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. -- "The Wreck of the Hesperus," Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

***

Khel-Darana District City of Davis, Kashkin 26/8/2538: 1700

"You have to make them stop." Richard Tenney stared into the hologram, as if trying to meet her eyes.

It was one of a dozen messages Grey Palmer found waiting for her when she returned home. Tenney had been calling her from the city of McKeever, where most of the refugees from the ETaN complex were being kept.

McKeever was under attack. She didn't know all the details; in the cabinet meeting, General Altalanuk simply confirmed that the OVKK had begun an artillery barrage 'in response' to a large offensive in the east.

Grey wasn't a strategist; she didn't need to be, to read between the lines. Alta was shelling McKeever to prevent Jericho from fully committing to their newly opened eastern front.

Her communication panel flashed again, with a new incoming transmission. She ignored it until the automatic responder picked up.

"Grey! Please. It's Rich--if you're there, please--you need to help us." She looked at the hologram to see him shudder; a few seconds later the rumble of an explosion washed through the recording. "They've started shooting at everything. We're trapped. They're going to kill us all."

The message ended. She sighed heavily. She couldn't ignore him, much as she wanted. Much as she felt no loyalty to Jericho, or whatever would be left of it when the fighting was over.

General Altalanuk was indisposed, and she was sent to Colonel Sol Solte instead--a tiger, stone-faced and baritone-voiced.

"What is the army targeting in McKeever?"

"Their defensive systems. The emplacements that are keeping us from being able to bring the support craft in."

"Military targets?" He stared at her blankly. "You're hitting civilian buildings, too."

"Not ideal," the tiger admitted. "But impossible to avoid, considering the circumstances. They've deployed their air defenses through out the city. We do what we can to avoid collateral damage."

"What sort of collateral damage?"

One of the other OVKK soldiers looked over from her computer terminal. "Less than what was visited on Shadesh and the northwestern towns," the dog declared.

"Correct," Sol Solte said. "And, with all due respect, ma'am--it is a war zone. True civilians have had ample opportunity to leave during the past two weeks. If they remain, we cannot truly be made responsible for them."

They wouldn't stop, in other words. She could not convince them to. And, the more she thought about it, the more Grey wasn't sure it was even her place to do so.

Back in her apartment, she found another message waiting, marked by the impatient flash of a light on her computer.

She deleted it, unviewed.

Strike cruiser Suvla Bay In orbit of Jericho 28/8/2538: 0700

Tension in the meeting room had become increasingly palpable over the previous two days. With every orbit, it seemed, conditions on the ground became incrementally worse. Lieutenant McNally, operations officer from the air group, had relatives on Jericho.

And Commander Zamora did not, but she could feel McNally's pain, watching him shake his head as the briefing concluded. The intelligence officer's summary was stark: they can only sustain another week of operations, at most.

Eva Zamora nodded. "From my side of things, we're still waiting for final approval. Captain Hill expects that we should have confirmation from the Gemini ecclesia within the next twelve hours."

McNally spoke up: "We'll be ready."

"I guess we can cover that next," Eva allowed. "Any change from the last mission plan?"

"No, ma'am."

The Suvla Bay wasn't large enough for an air wing of her own. Their twelve Kestrels were attached to the Tassafaronga, undergoing maintenance twelve light-years away. Without a fleet carrier, the Suvla Bay could only manage a few days of operations.

And Kestrels were light starfighters, designed with a supporting role in mind. More than enough, though, for Captain Hill's plan. Jericho had been begging for assistance, unable to hold their own against the insurrection. And while CODA had abandoned them, Hill had some degree of autonomy--especially since the JBC was willing to pay for any help.

Twelve Kestrels were plenty to knock the rebel spaceport out of commission. The other two ships in the flotilla had weapons capable of reaching the surface--those would serve nicely to cripple the enemy's armor and wreck their supply depots. Weakened as the JMA might have been, such intervention would be enough to turn the tide.

Probably.

Without official sanction, it was all a waiting game. That explained McNally's tension. Everyone shared it, to some degree, even those who weren't necessarily in favor of the attack.

Zamora counted herself in that group. She didn't see a reason to involve themselves in the colony's internal politics, the sector government had washed their hands of the matter, and Jericho was undeniably quarrelsome. Even considering the prospect of a rather handsome bonus, rewarding their ineptitude rubbed her the wrong way.

On the other hand, it didn't really matter. The operation carried almost no risk; the rebels had nothing that could hurt them, and their 'air force' was small enough to be easily overwhelmed.

The only complication came from the officer responsible for monitoring orbital traffic. "The Krasni Kavkaz appears to have modified their trajectory. They're now in an eccentric orbit with an apogee of six hundred kilometers." A heavy destroyer, the Krasni Kavkaz was the only representative of the Soviet navy in the system.

And, as was their habit, the Soviets had held their distance--sharing the Suvla Bay's orbit, but on the other side of the planet. Only the strike cruiser's probes kept them aware of the other starship's presence.

She would be in position to match the CODA flotilla in a few hours, though, if it was her captain's intent to shadow them. Commander Zamora made a note in her log to keep an eye on the situation. They hadn't had trouble with the Orion Soviet, and it wouldn't do to start anything now.

Captain Hill would be able to extract authorization for a military operation from the Gemini ecclesia--under no circumstances would they permit him to conduct diplomacy with the Soviets. At best, he would inform them of their decision to attack shortly before it actually commenced.

And if they try to stop us? But they wouldn't, Zamora decided; the heavy destroyer might be able to disable the strike group before being annihilated, but nothing more than that. And it would be a major diplomatic incident.

She'd all but put the possibility out of her mind when the intercom went off later in her shift. "General quarters, general quarters. All hands to battle stations. Set condition one-alpha throughout the ship. Defense grid, all zones secure gold emitters and go to alert level: caspian."

Eva suppressed the flicker of panicked adrenaline, screwed her coffee cup shut, and made her way to the ship's Combat Information Center, the brain of the Suvla Bay. The lights had already been dimmed.

The watch officer directed her attention to one of the secondary holographic displays. "Ma'am. Long-range sensors picked up jump signatures two minutes ago. Four hundred thousand kilometers out and closing. Whatever it is, it's big."

"Downlink from the Farragut. Low-res visual on four incoming, 3005 to 3008," someone else reported. "Still waiting for confirmation from the Yeager."

"Are they squawking?"

"No, ma'am," the watch officer said, shaking his head. "Their transponders are off."

Captain Hill wanted an update. She had to tell him that they were in the dark. The largest ship was the size of a supercarrier or a very large freighter--but a CODA carrier would've had their IFF transponders operating. The best she could say was that the spectrum plot didn't match their foreign warship recognition guides.

"IR signals from track 1601. Ma'am, 1601 is maneuvering."

That was the Krasni Kavkaz. "Where?"

"Probably for an intercept. We'll know in about thirty seconds, if they cut their engines."

Jesus Christ, we don't need this right now. "Who's closest, the Farragut? Have them go active and image 3005. Is it Soviet?" Eva opened her thermos and took an apprehensive drink while she waited for the answer.

"Negative, ma'am. It's a Coxswain-_class superheavy freighter. Running against the database, it's either the _Hilda Holloman, the Commodore's Choice, or the Pollux."

That didn't clarify matters. Even Alliance-flagged freighter captains were mercurial and untrustworthy. And, sensors confirmed, the Orion heavy destroyer was maneuvering to intercept the flotilla. Some kind of rendezvous?

"Uh, synthesis? Passive. Check 3006. Probable radiation." Eva glanced up at the sound of the voice, waiting for the sensor operator's reply.

"Synthesis confirms--track 3006 is radiating. K-band emitter, PRF and modulation make it a probable Honeywell Argus-30." A new note appeared next to the track in the display that dominated the Suvla Bay's CIC.

They were just repaying the favor: she'd ordered an active scan of the freighter, and one of the other ships was scanning them in return. But the Argus-30 was the civilian version of a targeting radar. An old model, to be sure--but still a targeting radar.

In ten minutes, she had her summary for Captain Hill. Four ships were approaching Jericho: a massive freighter, and three frigate-sized escorts. Only one of those was in the recognition database; six-month-old information listed it as armed with ship-to-ship rockets, helpfully described as "probably non-atomic."

The freighter, the Commodore's Choice, was rogue. Ties to non-human independence movements. Not even the Starlight Faction, which--in comparison to advocates for moreau citizenship--looked increasingly mainstream. No, the freighter's captain was more radical than that.

They'd be in effective weapons range in about a day. Until then, Captain Hill secured the ship from general quarters and kept them all on modified alert. The Krasni Kavkaz took up a new position, trailing the Yeager by nine hundred kilometers.

That was foremost on Hill's mind, plainly, when he called Eva to his ready room. Hill's hands were clasped behind his back, and he faced the holographic screen that served as his window to the stars.

"They're shadowing us."

"Yes. But their scanners are powered down."

"Commander Sweet is keeping the Yeager on full alert," Hill answered, obliquely. "She can't sustain that forever. What do they want?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Think they know about our plans?" Hill turned to look at her. "We got our authorization to carry out the strike. I think we may want to modify the operation, though. I think we should scrap the strike mission and stick to the orbital weapons only. It'll be less precise, but if that destroyer tries to intervene, we'd be less exposed, too."

"The artillery would be accurate enough for big targets," she pointed out. The cosmodrome, supply depots, that sort of thing--they could still make a significant difference. "What about the newcomers?"

"I'm inclined to agree with your analysis, commander--they're probably bringing in materiel for the rebels. But I'd rather not wait until after they land to attack, just in case they do want to tangle. Besides, we'd win. Schedule the op in six orbits. Does that give you enough time?"

"Yes, sir."

Six hours--just under four orbits--later, Eva was reviewing the latest aerial survey when an alarm went off from a station on the other side of the CIC. And then, after a few seconds, a startled oath before the sailor caught himself. "Shit--lieutenant, new contacts. They're launching from track 3005. Confirmed, that's three new tracks. High-energy IR."

Eva pushed back from her station and joined Lieutenant Bowman, the watch officer. "Heavy fighters?" Because it sure as fuck looked like heavy fighters: small, dense, and loaded with active sensors. "Take us to general quarters."

"Aye, ma'am."

Captain Hill answered her call immediately; she kept it short. "Three corvettes, maneuvering at high impulse for an intercept. Ninety minutes, max. Their targeting scanners are online."

"I want firing solutions on them and the transport. We're getting the squadron up."

The firing plots were simple. Really, she didn't even know what the other captain was thinking--nothing that small could carry anything capable of seriously damaging the Suvla Bay. They'd be annihilated well before they were in range, if it came to that.

If. Fifteen minutes later, just after the first Kestrels were aloft, Captain Hill sent a curt update from the bridge: the Krasni Kavkaz wanted to know what was going on. Hill said he'd described it as "internal politics," and added that the CODA ships were now also being hailed by the newcomers.

She had it put on the speaker. "--in six hours via the standard approach beacons."

The next voice was her captain's. "Commodore's Choice, negative. Say again, change course or we will open fire. The Colonial Defense Authority has been given control over Alliance traffic to the planet."

"I understand that. But we're not Alliance. This is an open planet. We'll begin deorbiting protocols in six hours. We request that you not interfere."

Eva heard the quiet ping of an update to the situational-awareness plot. She opened her secured link to the starship's bridge. "Captain, those corvettes have powered up their weapons and are jamming our sensors."

"Commodore's Choice, we can see that you're targeting us. You have one minute to alter course or be treated as hostile. Signal intent to comply immediately."

No answer was forthcoming. The Suvla Bay's squadron of starfighters would be the first in contact with the escort ships; understandably apprehensive, the squadron commander had been requesting orders ever since the launch.

"Track 1601 just went active. IR signature indicates they're maneuvering under combat limits." The icon for the Soviet destroyer changed from neutral grey to the flashing orange of a probable threat. She passed the information on to the bridge, and waited.

Her earpiece hissed with the sound of the ship-to-ship radio. "Krasni Kavkaz, this is Captain Edward Hill, on the Suvla Bay. You're not being targeted, but this has the potential to become an active combat zone. We recommend you stand down and adjust your orbit to maintain distance."

"Understood. Our intended course is... 1-8 by 2-0-9 degrees, altitude 6-5-0 to 8-9-0. We will pass well clear of you."

She heard a sailor report that the destroyer's maneuver was complete, and the new plot matched what the Soviets had said. Zamora frowned: they'd approach no closer than a thousand kilometers to the CODA task force. That was plainly not their intent.

"Bridge, CIC. The destroyer's maneuver is going to put them between the incoming tracks and us within the next ten minutes. They'll be too close to open fire for almost twenty minutes after that."

"Solutions for non-kinetic, then." She heard Hill on the radio to the squadron commander next. Stand by for orders to engage incoming fast-movers, but don't open fire without explicit authorization. There's neutral traffic in your area.

The Farragut had beam weapons, and could easily maneuver to hit any of their targets with her lasers. But the solutions were still outside the rules of engagement when neutral shipping was involved. They wouldn't hit the Krasni Kavkaz... but debris might, and it wasn't a good look to be trading fire so close to another country's warship.

A warning shot ahead of the corvettes didn't change their minds. Captain Hill signaled the freighter; she patched the conversation in to her headset so that she could follow along. "--attempt to land reinforcements is an open challenge to Alliance authority here."

"And an Alliance flotilla with ship-to-surface weaponry represents a material threat to the security of the Commonwealth of Kashkin."

"The 'Commonwealth' is a legal fiction. Yucatec Jericho has never recognized them, and neither has the Alliance."

"Nonetheless, our volunteers are here to ensure their protection. I'm also aware that, even if the civilian government is keeping their hands clean, your command charter allows you to take action on your own authority. Presumably you already intend to--and not just by shooting us down."

"I have no intention of harming you without provocation," Hill replied. "Just don't give me one--and landing troops in Yucatec territory sure as hell counts. I can't let that stand."

"Then you're going to have to stop us, aren't you?"

"Commander." A voice from next to her drew her attention away from the conversation. "Strike group will lose their optimal firing window on the corvettes in three minutes. That leaves the Yeager."

Eva turned her radio to the secured side channel. "Bridge, CIC. If we're going for a preemptive strike, we need to do it now."

"What are the odds we can surgically disable their escorts in the opening salvo?"

She took a good, long look at the tactical display. "Low, sir. They'll be able to shoot back. I don't think it'll be effective, but they will do it. That presumes the Krasni Kavkaz doesn't intervene, and I think we have to assume they're aware of the situation and have taken a side."

"Christ," Hill muttered. "I know. What do we do?"

"We could fire on them, too. With the element of surprise, I think we could disable them without sustaining much damage. But..."

"Right. Tell the squadron to stand by." He signed off, switching to the open link with the renegade freighter. "I don't have a problem shooting you if you force my hand. But for the moment, I suggest a compromise."

"Explain. I'm listening."

"Recall your ships and remain in orbit. As long as you make no attempt to land, I won't open fire. On you, or on the rebels, or on rebellion-sympathizing freighters. We'll remain passive monitors."

"And why would I trust you?"

"Destroying your ships would cause a major incident. We both know that. Surely you also know that open hostilities will force Congress to take a more active role in this sector--and against your confederates, everywhere. I don't think martyrdom is really worth that gamble to you. Is it?"

As soon as they consented, and the Suvla Bay stood down, Captain Hill summoned Zamora to his office. He'd sent a message to the Gemini sector ecclesia, he said--it would be a few hours before they could expect a reply, while the civilian leadership debated.

But she was still reviewing the incident when they received the answer. Hill scanned the dispatch quickly. "We stay neutral. They say nobody's to do anything that looks like picking sides."

"Kind of sounds like picking a side right there, sir," she pointed out. "Us and the Soviets both."

"Yeah. Could've fooled me. Oh, well." He shook his head. "So much for that bonus, eh?"

***

Kashkin Self-Defense Forces Headquarters Complex Corsini, Kashkin 1/9/2538: 1500

"We can probably hold the bridge at Shadesh indefinitely," Ishiri said. The leopard shook his head, though. "I think. We're vulnerable, though. If they hit our flank."

General Altalanuk nodded. "Any sign they intend to do that, though?"

"No, ma'am. Not yet. But if they ford the river, I can't stop them. I don't have the men. We'll have to fall back to the Na'shun Line. I've made preparations--we can be in position in six hours."

All she could do was nod again. Ishiri's latest report said the battalion had lost another thirty dead in the previous day's fighting. Six tanks, four IFVs... and a constant drain on their ammunition supplies.

They'd forced the JMA to pay for their advance, yes, but not enough--not by half. There were dozens of human mechs in the Dun Valley, and nothing she could do to stop it.

Well. Not quite, the Ibizan reflected. "What would you need to counterattack?"

Colonel Ishiri stared despondently at the map. "To counterattack, ma'am? Another battalion, and two days without taking fire to prepare. We need to cross the river, after all."

"Major Kalasos, what's the disposition of their forces?"

The intelligence officer cleared her throat. "The last consensus report is eight hours old, ma'am. We believe they have between two and six companies committed."

"Hell with the bloody consensus, then," Alta replied, switching to English and its profanity for added effect. "What's your own damned answer?"

"Four armored companies, plus another three in reserve at Port George Moody. Their commander is naturally cautious. He understands what... I venture to say that you also understand, ma'am. We could counter them at any time and force them all the way back to Port George moody or maybe even Silver City... we have the forces for it."

"But not without relieving the pressure on McKeever," Alta finished. "Right. He's keeping enough back to preserve his forces when he has to withdraw."

"Yes, ma'am."

***

She kept this in mind when presenting to the cabinet, later in the day. Stara Koshath wanted to know what they had been doing, and found the Ibizan's briefing unpersuasive. "Then you have to admit, our strategy isn't working."

"Due respect, inanu Stara Koshath, but I do not have to admit this at all. The OVKK is in good condition, and they won't take Shadesh."

"Then we have a stalemate," the Rottweiler insisted. "And you're wasting inexcusable quantities of resources."

Levin held his paw up. "If I might also be permitted to speak?"

"The secretary recognizes Minister Levin," Grey Palmer agreed. "Minister?"

The Border Collie set his computer down, intertwining his fingers with a subtle, placid nervousness. "I am concerned on philosophical grounds by our continued bombardment of the city of McKeever. The deep-space transmitter is disabled, but we can definitely hear enough from the local news. We're hitting civilian areas. Killing innocent people."

"Would that they ever showed us the same courtesy to recognize that," Minister Shenkiy muttered under his breath. "What does it mean to be innocent, anyway?"

"Innocent meaning they're not under arms, inana Shenkiy. Meaning they're asleep, or cowering, when one of our shells hits their house. Or their shop. Or their office. I will not dispute matters of military efficiency, inanu General Altalanuk--if you tell me that those houses and shops are matters of military import."

General Altalanuk turned towards Grey Palmer, who was--for her own reasons beyond merely keeping the cabinet's rules--looking expectantly at the Ibizan. "May I have two uninterrupted minutes to speak, Ms. Palmer?"

"You have the floor."

"They are not military targets. We hit them accidentally, and every one is a tragedy. One that we should expect to pay for, when this war is over. Minister Shenkiy will counter once again that our losses have always been worse. I could rationalize our decisions to point out that staying in a war zone was always destined to be dangerous--that we have not occupied the other towns that now lie within our zone of control. That we have not looted them, nor carried out reprisals.

"But I will not. The truth is that it is unpleasant, but almost certainly the most cost-effective way for us to prevail in this conflict. What you refer to as a stalemate is in fact our victory, because they cannot endure as long as we can. Not the artillery fire, not the deprivation. It spares our lives. That's the decision I've made. I would have every last innocent person moved safely out of that city if I could--and I do not know why they have not worked to do just that. I wouldn't speculate about their motives. But I'm telling you mine. No, Levin, they're not military targets. They're suffering because I'd rather they suffer than us."

"How long will it continue?" Stara Koshath asked. "Do you mean to continue this until they sue for peace?"

"If necessary."

President Kodja broke his long period of silence. "When they do, they'll have a lot of blood on their side calling for retribution. That's dangerous for us, too. Minister Halinchi, would you agree?"

The badger nodded. "It won't make it easier. But, to be honest, I don't think that should enter into it. Much as it pains me to say... after Shadesh, after Morris Camp--after the northern towns and some of the rumors of what's happened in the Dun? None of us are clean. This is just one more thing. But... it does not produce good... optics."

Levin slid his computer over to Stara Koshath, who scanned it and nodded. "I motion that we set a timetable for ending the bombardment, then. If it has not produced results, we're just slaughtering them for no reason."

"Levin told you that, did he?" Shenkiy scoffed.

"Minister Levin asked for my opinion. As labor minister, I'm also concerned with our ability to sustain our economy with so much of the reserve called up. We can't fight forever."

Kodja asked how long they could fight for, and Alta listened impassively to Stara Koshath's explanation. The Rottweiler pointed out that planting season was approaching, and they lacked the manpower for it--to say nothing of the warehouses full of slowly spoiling goods, and the idle factories. The war, she said, needed to be over in a month.

Minister Stara sounded, Alta thought, much like the general herself did: doing the best she could under trying circumstances, with limited resources and impossible demands. They could not both have their way. Altalanuk nodded her understanding of the minister's assessment.

Next, someone at least had the sense to ask Halinchi if she thought Jericho would even negotiate. "Yes. For another ceasefire, certainly. Six months, or longer."

Transportation Minister Korden shook his head. "I don't understand. We've beaten them."

"Their army is still in the field, and so far we've taken no major cities. Marleyville is under siege, but a porous one. We can't guard it. And they're making progress at Shadesh. Their military might know they can't win, but I doubt the civilian government has internalized it." Halinichi caught herself: "Not to speak for your intelligence department, general."

"No, I agree. It is a stalemate."

"I propose two days, then," Stara Koshath said. "If they haven't given up their attack on Shadesh in two days, we stop the bombardments. And I move that we convene again tomorrow to hear a proposal from the OVKK on what different strategy might work."

"It's been moved. Is there a second?"

"A moment, inanu Palmer," Alta said. "I'll second--I want no quarrel with the cabinet. But, I request a different approach. In two weeks, I'll stop unconditionally. But give me time. Tomorrow, and every day following that, I'll have that plan you're asking for. If it is our shared opinion that this proposal is satisfactory, we'll act on it. But I won't make strategic decisions under pressure when I don't have to."

"Minister Stara?" Grey asked.

"I trust you're not simply delaying," the Rottweiler said. "Very well, I agree."

Kodja kept her behind after dismissing the others. "They see that there might be an end in sight, Alta. I see that there might be an end in sight. And..." He paused to collect his thoughts. "And we've paid much for it."

"I know, Koddich."

"It might be tempting to push for everything we can now. I understand that it's not on your mind." Once again he stopped, to make clear that this was not something he intended to accuse her of. "It is on mine. At least, I have to consider what others will think."

"The decision is yours, Kodja. When it comes down to it, the decision is yours. Remember that. If you tell me to stop, I will."

"Yes. Yes," he repeated. "I understand."

***

"The mood in the cabinet is tense. They'll turn further. How do we defeat them?"

Colonel Marel rubbed his paw behind one of his massive ears. The fur on the right ear, Alta saw, was gone--the skin under it raw from where his radio headset clipped into place. "A third front."

"Yassuja," Genakhot sighed. "Where?"

"The north. The open plains. Towards Booker."

"Why?"

"It's good terrain for the Khalitsaja. Long ranges, where we can move at speed--and we'll have air cover. We can be at Booker in a day."

The Border Collie shook his head, though. "That's an empty threat, colonel. We don't have the manpower to occupy those towns. All we could do is level them."

"Maybe we should," Marel shot back. "Maybe we just haven't gone far enough. Maybe we could take a lesson from our opponents--think about how they would do it."

"We'd be as bad as they are."

"Hardly." The fennec's lip curled. "Rumors have gotten as far as me about what happened when Sorren Degh was occupied."

Altalanuk thumped her paw on the map. "We're not here to spread rumors."

"But they're in the air. Everyone's hearing it."

She gritted her teeth. "They need to stop. Don't make me commit to this in writing. Pass the word down--in person--that the rumors stop. The reprisals stop, too. No more prisoners go missing. No more bodies get burned off the record. Is that clear?"

The others nodded.

"Good. Colonel Marel, I appreciate the suggestion of a diversionary assault. Practically, we can't do it. Not meaningfully. We can get that far, yes. I trust your soldiers' prowess. But two hundred kilometers of vulnerable supply line is a non-starter. What about the Dun?"

Colonel Ishiri shifted uncomfortably. "Their walkers are giving us trouble. The 450s are taking two to one losses. And they've learned to counter the aircraft."

Major Kalasos clarified: it was more accurate to say that they'd learned to counter the tactics available to the OVKK's pilots. Without trained forward air controllers, the fighters were required to identify their own targets, in unfamiliar territory with densely overlapping coverage of the point-defense guns.

At the same time, Alta knew the truth was she'd gotten lucky--the JMA could have learned how to effectively employ their mechs much earlier. Now that both sides were equally familiar, the technological superiority of the Jackal was the deciding factor... but their enemy had far fewer Jackals, now.

"Colonel Genakhot? I imagine a frontal assault on McKeever is still out of the question?"

The Border Collie sighed too heavily for her comfort: that meant he had an idea, he just wasn't comfortable with it. "Yes."

"But you have a plan."

"Yes," he admitted. "Our patrols have mapped out the strongest human defenses. We can disable them with direct fire and precise artillery strikes. If we infiltrate a couple of infantry companies forward, we can be in place to compromise their rear defenses before they can be properly manned."

"I didn't mean a literal frontal assault," the Ibizan said.

"It's between two mountains, ma'am. There aren't many approaches. The best-case assessment is that we can break through in twelve hours. The worst-case is that it takes three days, and we have to reduce them one position at a time."

"Losses?"

"Between two and four hundred. The spearhead wouldn't be good for much afterwards, and the infantry assault is a gamble that could go poorly."

A battalion's worth of casualties strained the use of the word 'poorly.' 'Catastrophic' sounded closer to it, in Alta's mind. "What, then? Somebody has to have an idea."

"Behind the lines," Major Kalasos spoke up. "There are two bridges over the Alph. Port George Moody and Silver City. The Silver City bridge was designed for hoverdyne and maglev traffic. It won't carry walkers. That leaves the other."

"Put it on the map," Alta ordered.

Kalasos did so, and pointed to the structure northeast of Port George Moody. "If we disable this bridge, they can't bring supplies down. Right now, they're using a pull system--commanders are requesting what they need and it's being sent one convoy at a time."

"They can't spare enough materiel?"

Kalasos answered Genakhot's question, though he'd been looking at Ishiri--who had first-hand knowledge. "Probably not, sir, no. They also want to be flexible. Either way, with the bridge disabled they have to go through Silver City."

"And they can't move reinforcements," Alta realized. "How long would it take to refit the Silver City bridge?"

"Weeks or longer--if they have the equipment."

"And how would we take it out?" Silence. "We don't have the expertise, do we?"

But she knew who would.

***

"Do you have contact with the outside world?"

Darwin shut his eyes, shaking his head ruefully. "Do you want specific names to deny me, Alta? What other privations, if I'm not suffering enough?"

"Answer the question."

"Yes. I have contact. I'm only a prisoner, not deaf. I figured you kept me under house arrest so I could distract myself with such things."

Besides, as she understood it, his partner--still free, for the moment--was pregnant, and not about to be kept away from him. Altalanuk nodded. "I never told you it was forbidden. How many of them are Hashida?"

"You're really still pursuing this crusade?"

"No. I'm asking for your help. Later. First, I'll ask for your genuine opinion."

"The war must be going well," Darwin said.

"We're winning, if that's what you mean."

The Border Collie closed his eyes again. He was, the Ibizan thought, trying to figure out the purpose of her visit--to figure out if she'd come to gloat. To decide if he wanted to fight her.

"But not fast enough," she continued, hoping that honesty would help. "The government has decided we should seek terms if we can't win a decisive battle."

"I told you they lacked the will to effectively fight our oppressors."

Alta swallowed, biting back her own frustration. "Darwin, they are the only ones with will. And if they tell me to stop, I'll listen to them. The alternative is a coup, and I'm no despot. I don't think you would be either, despite your... fire. But you're right: they're cautious. Nervous."

"They don't know you're coming to me."

"Of course not. It's a military affair. So is this." She handed him the computer she'd been keeping in her pocket. "It's a--"

"The Pollan Memorial Bridge, at Port George Moody," Darwin cut her off. "How far did you get in your plans to destroy it?"

"Just the notion."

"The southernmost of the two central spans is most vulnerable. If it was taken out, the bridge would twist and collapse in the deeper part of the channel."

"The Hashida considered it?"

"'Considered' is the right word--very briefly. We recognized quickly that we didn't have the capability to damage it. It would've been a nuisance, against the tactical consideration of tipping our hand..."

"Everything is vulnerable to enough explosives, Darwin," the Ibizan pointed out. "What was the limiting factor?"

"What we could carry. You'll face that problem, too."

"In that case, I am asking for your help. What would you do?"

***

Southwest of Port George Moody Dun River Valley, Jericho 2/9/2538: 2330

Seen through thermal imaging, the human patrol was a drifting column of glowing, amorphous ghosts. Darwin turned the resolution up, and waited for the computer to filter the sensor data. "Eight soldiers," he whispered. "Only two of them have their targeting scanners on."

"We can take them," a growl came in answer. Dorush Korukoja was a Hashida veteran, and a rarity in the Kashkin: technically native-born, she'd been a barracks-dog for one of the engineering firms in human Jericho.

Darwin didn't inquire too much about her past. All he needed to know was that she would volunteer immediately for the assignment. And that she was aggressive. "We're outnumbered," he pointed out. "And we need to stay quiet, Korula."

"You and Pavvich can take out these four." His visor put up an outline around the men she'd indicated. "You'll have a clear shot."

"The others?"

"Leave the others to me."

Their real target, the bridge, was another four kilometers away. Darwin decided to chance a radio message. "Galin, this is Starog 1. Come in."

"Galin." The OVKK's intelligence section responded immediately.

Must be paying real close attention. "We're at ga chora 4334, 3861. We've run into a human patrol. There's a road that runs off to our east... is it possible we can use that to circle around them and avoid a skirmish?"

"Our latest sachek coverage is an hour old, Starog. We don't have a consensus report, but I think the odds are good they have about a platoon spread out on that road between the hamlet in the south and the intersection with the main highway along the river. You might be able to stick to the hills, but it's chancy."

"Right. Did the drone see anything else between us and the bridge on this road?"

"Negative, Starog. The patrol you see is probably one we picked up earlier coming down from the river mouth."

Darwin signed off and considered his options. Dorush probably had the best one, even if it did risk exposing them. He gave permission for her to advance, and picked a new location with Pavel Krylov, the third person in their team.

"Ready. I will be able to heat them." Pavel's Rukhat was still unpolished, but his reputation preceded the quiet wolf. "The furthest two."

"Agreed." Darwin tagged the other pair: standing watch, apparently oblivious. One of their weapons was powered on, but the scanner was pointed at the ground. They looked more like cops than soldiers.

The Hashida's intelligence, at one point, had confirmed this: security teams comprised a good chunk of the Jerichoan 'military.' Like the old Kashkin 'Defense Committee,' the JMA had been responsible for keeping order amongst the civilians.

Unlike the DC, though, they'd actually had work to do. Humans were vicious, after all. No surprise that their criminal tendencies required constant vigilance. No surprise, either, that they were so outclassed.

Darwin and Pavel carried identical rifles, purchased from the Orion Soviet. They used guided tungsten darts: each dart in a 20-round magazine could be given its own target, and all twenty could be fired in under a second. It wouldn't take that much.

Pavel held up three fingers. Darwin twisted a dial on the rifle, allocating three darts to each of his pair of targets. A computer on the rifle did the rest of the work, computing a firing solution and adjusting the speed of the projectile to counter light personal armor.

Dorush Korukoja's voice on the radio came as a sharp hiss: now.

The report was almost silent, when he squeezed the trigger. The four soldiers dropped without a word--then commotion, and a few quick shots. Dorush did her work with brutal efficiency: no more than a minute went by before she called Pavel and Darwin forward.

Three of the four humans were dead. A fourth was kneeling next to her, hands behind his back, weapon silent and unused in the dirt. "He surrendered," Dorush explained.

"Who is he?"

Dorush unclipped the soldier's helmet and pulled it off roughly. "Name," the shepherdess snarled.

"Leslie. I'm not a soldier--I just--I work here. I work for Sperry--I'm a security guard." His voice was rapid, stammering. "They told us to--uh--to report to Ford City for a new mission."

"Sperry," Dorush echoed. "The Plainville campus?"

"You--you know it?"

"I was born there."

Her voice had gone cold, and Darwin saw that Leslie had picked up on the danger. "Look, I--please. Don't get me wrong, I don't. I don't--hey!" Dorush had taken a lunging step closer. "What immortal hand."

The shepherdess froze. Her paw tightened into a tense fist. "Did they tell you that would work?" Leslie's eyes widened; she said nothing. "Did they?"

"Wh-what. What immortal hand," the human repeated.

Dorush Korukoja turned away, looking at Darwin. She switched to Rukhat. "We should kill him. We can't take prisoners."

"Tie him up and gag him. They'll find him eventually."

Her muzzle curled. "Darwin. Let me handle it."

The Border Collie stood his ground. "Fine. But leave him for them, Korula. We're here for the bridge, remember?"

Dorush snorted, and grabbed the human's wrist, hauling him upright. "Come." She pulled him off the road, headed up and into the trees dotting the eastern hills.

"Where are we going? Where are--" A thump of the white dog's paw silenced any further protests. Darwin watched them until they disappeared.

Pavel was doing the same thing. "Anger," the wolf finally said.

"Anger," he agreed. "Dorush was a barracks moreau. She worked for that man's company. I doubt the control phrase endeared him very much to her."

"I would think those are a myth."

"They might as well be. They don't work very well. Most companies stopped using them centuries ago." It was a mark of a very particular philosophy that still made use of trigger words--a philosophy that recognized the moreaus as sentient, but aimed expressly to suppress it.

"I have curiosity. When he will try to use it again."

Darwin couldn't tell if Pavel meant I wonder if he will try to use it again or I wonder what will happen when he does. The Border Collie was trying to parse the grammar when they both caught a piercing scream from the hills to the east.

Pavel's paw had gone to his weapon. Another scream, this one with a plea twisted into it. _What immortal--_the sound was briefly muffled, as if a hand had been clamped over the victim's mouth. It resumed abruptly: a hoarse, tortured shriek, broken into jagged edges by gasps for breath. Pavel let his rifle hang.

It seemed endless, although in truth only a half a minute went by until the screaming became a high, wheezing rasp, no louder than the idle chatter of the damned. Darwin's ears were sensitive enough to hear it anyway, much as he might've wished otherwise. He was grateful when it slowed, and then stopped altogether.

Darwin sighed. "Anger." He had to hope it hadn't drawn any attention.

Dorush Korukoja returned two minutes later. Her armor was covered in something dark, something glistening wetly in the starlight. She said nothing, merely pointed in the direction of the bridge.

And they kept going.

***

Supreme Command, Alliance Forces Jericho Ford City, Jericho 3/9/2538: 0900

It was a party of commandos, sir. The harried captain kept explaining--he'd been talking for another full minute. But Max found that the shock hadn't faded; he was still thinking about a party of commandos.

The captain had said it without comment, as though there was nothing unusual about it. At what point had the NHAs acquired commandos? Guerrilla fighters, yes--the terrorists that had been blooded harassing mining convoys before open conflict.

But those, according to his intelligence, had been disbanded. The whole organization was no more, and everything else about the army was purely conventional. Ragtag, ersatz--but conventional.

What else don't I know?

"No, it's worse," Katiso Thabane was saying.

Max looked over. "How?"

"We had three companies south of the river. They're stranded."

Fuck. "McKeever. Are the defenses stable, colonel?"

"Reconnaissance activity has been going up over the last forty hours. Our patrols and theirs have skirmished half a dozen times, without casualties on either side."

"But you're telling me this could be a precursor to an all-out attack on the city?"

"It's possible," Colonel Thabane allowed.

"And my reserve battalion is trapped south of the Alph River."

"Yes."

"So if they assault McKeever, we have the second-line troops guarding the rear areas and no armored reserve."

"Yes," KT repeated.

His voice rose. "And if we extract them, and the animals counterattack in the Valley, I have no units to cover our retreat."

"Not quite," Thabane said. "We can't extract them. I asked for a quick summary from the garrison in Silver City. They estimate it will take four and a half weeks to refit the bridge there to carry something as heavy as a Jackal."

And they had no bridging equipment of their own, nothing that could be pressed into service as a temporary replacement at Port George Moody. They were left with a detour far to the north, until the Alph River was shallow enough that it could be safely forded.

It added a good thirty hours of travel time. Thirty hours would be an eternity in the close quarters north of the Arkadiensee, Max knew. Against a concerted assault, against the worst the moreau army might throw against him west of McKeever, how long could they endure?

Katiso Thabane thought it might be as long as twenty hours. Twenty-four, if the best of them were ordered to fight to the last man.

Not long enough.

"Tell Bridger to abandon her current assault and withdraw through Jackson towards Silver City. They need to be past Jackson in four hours." Admitting defeat in the Dun stung, but Kastner could tell himself that it was better to choose repositioning than to be forced into it.

Objectively their losses had been light; they'd done their job. And objectively, little had yet truly been lost: no casualties in the collapse of the bridge, for instance.

The map taunted him otherwise; he forced himself to keep talking. "Order Martinsen to get his battalion in position east of McKeever, and prepare a report for me on Avery's fuel and supplies. Make sure they're ready to move."

He had not specified a direction. Colonel Thabane drew a slow breath. "Are you activating Baldur?"

"No." Some of the pieces, that was all--and he refused to spark a panic by breathing a word of their general order to abandon the Arkadiensee completely. "No, I'm not." Yet.

Even more unpleasant things than maps faced him; next he would have to talk to the Jericho Business Council. Amir Blakely, his liaison, was glum. Blakely met him in the lobby of the JBC's office.

"They know already."

Max snorted. "I doubt it."

They'd dimmed the lights to save power--most of the office building hadn't been occupied for a month. The darkness lingered in the shadows on Amir's face. "Is it... really bad?"

Kastner waited for the elevator doors to close. "What did you do before this?"

"Operational planning. M&A impact reports, mostly around redundancies."

"I don't really know what you--never mind. It doesn't matter. Before that?"

"Business models and quantitative analysis for UMM."

"Before that?"

"My internship. The MBA program." Amir licked his lips nervously; he looked all too aware that Max hadn't ever answered his first question. "Then college."

"Did you ever work in a store? Cashier or something? High school job?"

"I was an intern at my father's company, sir."

Max nodded. Never had anyone tell you to do something impossible. Tell you to get something 'out of the back.' Give them a discount. Let them return something they broke themselves. Threaten you with your manager when you protested. More than that, never knew the feeling of utter futility that came from the certainty that the manager would back them up. "You're, what--30?"

"Twenty-six, sir."

The doors opened again. Max straightened his uniform, and faced directly ahead. "It's pretty bad. I'd be gone before this meeting's over, Amir, if I were you."

The liaison--the kid, let's face it--stayed in the elevator. What were they even thinking, giving him this job? His mood twisted into bleak anger: there were plenty in the JMA who wouldn't see 26.

He was a little surprised to find the conference table nearly full. Scott Walburn, the council's head, was waiting--Max had been under the impression Dr. Walburn was long gone.

"When's the counterattack?" Scott asked.

"Excuse me?"

"That's the first question every corporate board is asking us. When do we counterattack? I understand your caution, General Max, but we've just been waiting too long."

"There is no counterattack."

"That's preposterous." Walburn waved his hand airily, as if Max's statement was merely the precursor to the real discussion. "Can it start by tomorrow?"

"The thing is," someone else spoke up, "that with the transmitter down, we have to actually send a courier to the nearest city with range to pick up the link in the Neutral Zone. So we want to communicate our plans by... no later than midnight, if possible."

Max--it was getting harder to think of himself as General Kastner--drew their attention to his map of the continent. "Our positions in McKeever have been shored up. Fortunately, with the bridge out, the Ka--the moreau--the animals--can't really strike Port George Moody or Silver City, either. The conflict is now a single front."

"The counterattack is--"

He raised his voice and kept going. "It seems possible that the enemy intends to strike while they have the initiative. I'm arranging transport of the reserve units that were supporting the southern attack. They'll land by tomorrow morning. Putting us on a defensive footing, we can drag this out for another two or three months."

"But when will we--"

"They will want to stop fighting. If it lasts as long as two months, my analysis is they'll feel the pressure of keeping their whole country under arms. We can extract a status quo agreement. Probably reparations." That analysis was Luna's--perceptive, really. He hadn't even thought of how badly the moreaus would be suffering with so many of them on the front lines.

"Two months?" Scott Walburn was somewhere between anger and simple confusion. "Maybe I wasn't clear. Your orders were to capture Western Jericho. Your orders now are to counterattack. When can you do it?"

"I can't."

"You are disobeying a direct order?" Scott stood, his face tense with fury. "Say that again!"

"It is not. Possible."

"How inexcusably incompetent can you be? I'm ordering you to attack. What's that fucking look for? General Kastner, you are relieved."

He dipped his head curtly. "Yes, sir."

"Have your replacement contact me immediately and we'll fix this. Now get the fuck out my sight."

Amir Blakely was still in the lobby; he shrank back as Max approached. "That was quick. I--there don't seem to be any taxis running. I don't know if... maybe a military car would be faster for you."

"Probably not. They don't report to me any more."

"Oh," Amir said. His voice became a whisper. "Oh, God."

Max didn't want to sacrifice Colonel Thabane. At the same time, he saw no alternative--nobody more qualified existed to replace him. The best he could do was leave the man prepared. In his apartment, he gathered all the reports Luna had prepared and sent them over.

"Will this stick?" Katiso asked over his communicator. "Will they really fire you?"

"You as well," Max promised. "When they start to figure it out. Do what you can, KT. I--fuck. Fuck. I was supposed to meet with Colonel Faraday about finding a transport for the lost companies."

"I can take care of that, sir."

"Get it done before you meet with the council. I mean." He laughed bitterly. "That's not an order, or anything. Just advice."

"Understood."

Luna was folded up in her usual spot, motionless. He knew she was awake--her ears were alert--but she stayed silent, with her eyes closed.

"You're not curious?"

The dog looked over. "It does not concern me, sir."

"It might. If they decide to repossess my property. I own you, right?"

"Practically, sir, yes. I cannot comment on the legal terms, however."

Max poured a full glass of whiskey. A quarter of it disappeared on the first swallow. "You drink? You don't, right? No alcohol."

"No, sir."

"Is there anything you like to drink?"

She hesitated, thinking. "One time, we were given sugar to put in our tea. It was intended as a reward, I believe. I do not know if I like it. But... I believe the subtext was your desire to know if some drink was special to me."

"Always analytical, eh?" Max took another sip. "Make some tea. With sugar. Go on."

"As you wish, sir."

By the time it was ready, his whiskey glass was empty and a pleasant fuzz surrounded his thoughts. He poured a fresh serving and held the glass towards her. "A toast."

"To?"

"Anything. I don't know. Anything, fuck--what's the weather outside? Clear."

"Yes, sir. Clear, fifteen degrees."

"A toast to a clear, fifteen-degree spring late-afternoon, then." He raised his glass, then drank. Luna, watching him warily, did the same. "D'you know much about 'em? Dogs?"

"Some, yes. Sir."

"Tell me something, something new. What do they do for fun? Sports? They play sports? Fetch?" He snickered, then waved the question back. "Sorry. Dumb joke. Sports, though?"

"There is a lacrosse league in the Chartered Colony. I think tennis is also popular."

"Jai alai. Badminton..."

"You are joking about playing fetch again?"

And, again, he apologized. It seemed, almost, like he might have meant it. Hidden behind a layer of his exhaustion, and another glass of whiskey, was his hope that Luna's sharp mind saw what Max was thinking.

How absurd, how stupid, how inexcusably incompetent--was that it? Max took another drink. Yes. How inexcusably incompetent it is that we know so little about them. Not like we could solve this with tennis. Right?

Nah. God, Max, you've let yourself go. Remember Umesh? He was so good at tennis. Obnoxious bastard. Wonder how he's doing these days. Still with CODA. Command of his own, making almost as much as he did from the tournaments. Coordinated prick. Like he was a fuckin' robot, always knew where the ball was going--wonder if he cheated. Can you cheat at tennis?

"Fuck me."

Luna's ears swiveled back. "That is not--er, apologies for my outburst, sir. Is that a command?"

"No? You figure I want to get off with a dog?"

She stayed nervous. "Not generally, but--"

"This?" He lifted the glass; a few swallows of whiskey sloshed around the bottom. "You think I'm drunk? No. Fuck. Fuck." He drained the glass and set it heavily on his desk. "We never got around to examining why we couldn't hit those fucking tanks. Like every goddamn Jackal gunner forgot how to aim."

"Uh..."

"Until the software update three months ago. They must've been jamming us, those clever fucking bastards. Wasn't anything in the release notes. You're smart. Was there anything in the release notes about jamming countermeasures?"

While he replaced the lost whiskey, Luna fiddled with her computer. "No, sir. It is mostly minor protocol updates."

"You know what that means? That means they can do it again. Probably know how already. Soon as there's a real battle they'll turn it back on. Guess I should tell the army, eh? What do you think?"

"That isn't a question I can answer, sir."

He laughed. Always so polite. "What you think is a question you can definitely answer. Doesn't matter. What matters? Don't answer that either."

"Very well, sir."

"Can you get out?"

She bowed. "You would like some privacy. If you need me, I--"

"No, not like that. Out. Of the city."

"I'm not sure, sir. I haven't really looked at it."

"Then do. And let me know." His voice softened. "I don't know what it means to be able to protect you. I'll try. But... look. I don't mind."

"Alright, sir."

It was hard to stop talking. "I don't know why I'm here. Don't know why you're here. Do know... not gonna figure any of it out... figure anything out, telling me about the fuckin' weather. God, it's a mess."

"The weather should remain clear until--"

You'll just keep rambling if you don't--"Stop. I'll take that privacy now."

***

ArkMash Boreas, callsign "Crimson 1-1" Over the ocean south of the Kashkin 3/9/2538: 2200

It was a beautiful night. They didn't teach moreaus aesthetics--Benjamin had to learn on his own. He tried painting, and occasionally poetry, neither to the white shepherd's satisfaction.

But he could recognize beauty. The night was deep and moonless; the ocean below calm enough that all he saw was the reflection of the stars. If he turned the display in his visor off, nothing really marked the horizon at all.

Like being back in space. Calmer than most of his sorties proved to be. More like a training flight, or a systems check. You and the universe and a little bit of machine separating them.

Benjamin smiled. He'd known nothing of beauty for all his years in the service. Adrenaline? Yes. Excitement, and terror, and the rush when the two met in battle--those he knew.

"Probably wouldn't have been any different," he mused aloud. His voice was subdued, under the steady rumble of the Boreas' engines.

The radio, coming to life a minute later, was jarring by comparison. "Crimson, this is Satar. How are you doing?"

"Crimson. Anchored at Kan, four klicks up. Systems good. Zero contacts. Any word?"

"No. Our intel is blank, too. We'll let you know."

Had they been misled? What would have been the point of that? Somebody thought the intelligence was actionable enough to put Benjamin aloft, keeping his lonely vigil off the Kashkin's coast.

At least it let him enjoy the stars. He kept his head in motion, looking all around him for any hint of an abnormality. But every other sweep, the shepherd turned his visor off, and saw the world only with his own eyes.

How long would it take the stars to be familiar if you moved here, he wondered. It wasn't going to happen--the Black Hills Free State was home, even if he had to respect the Commonwealth as a project. But how long would it take?

Surely he'd get used to it. They were just stars--

And a flicker of movement appeared in his peripheral vision. There it was again: a dim shadow, so subtle that it almost seemed to steal between the glimmering stars reflected on the water's surface.

"Satar." His eyes were locked on what had become a definite thing, not merely a trick of the light. "Contact. Low and moving fast. Five hundred meters, maybe... six hundred kilometers an hour. Bearing is about forty-five degrees."

"Can you identify it?"

"Passive's giving me trouble. They must have some kind of cloak." Not terribly sophisticated jamming, or their camouflage was miscalibrated, but enough to make his job difficult.

"Stand by." That was a new voice on the radio, somebody else back at the OVKK's headquarters. "We might be resolving your contact as signal Khota-1 from the remote posts. Confirm bearing 4-4, speed 1-4-3 decimal 1-5 meters per second?"

"That precise? I have it as 4-6, speed 1-4-2... ish."

"It's cloaked? That shouldn't change--wait. It's flying. Update the wind speed. Crimson, I think we have your contact?"

A tiny KH1 appeared, fixed against the craft in his visor. "Yes. We're tracking the same thing, Satar, Khota-1. I'll try to get a better view."

Benjamin released a passive drone: a lightweight glider with a few sensors of its own and a low-power uplink to his starfighter. Active cloaking devices sometimes gave themselves away from the anomalies that showed up when you looked at them from two different angles.

"Plus or minus from the cloak, call it a hundred meters in length, displacing four thousand tons. EM signature locked on the engine telltales... I'm reading it as a Herc block 20."

"That's a good sign. Can you get visual on the starboard dorsal side of the hull, ahead of the bridge?"

He stared, narrowing his eyes to tease any detail free. "Negative. The jamming makes it all fuzzy."

"Switch to infra, image both sides, and check the spectrum. Tell me if you've got attenuation on the starboard side below two terahertz."

Unseen, he raised an eyebrow, but did as the voice told him. "Ah. Affirmative, ma'am. There's a definite dropoff on the starboard side."

"That's it." "Major?" "The logs note repair work on the starboard forward section. It's compromising the cloak slightly." "You're sure?" "Yes, ma'am." "Crimson, this is Satar. That's your target. Can you get a solution?"

"I'll have to turn my active sensors on."

This time, their debate--he presumed that was what it was--played out with the mic off. "--kilometers." "Fine. Crimson. Shadow your bogey if, and as, it approaches the coast. Stay hidden, if you can."

He could. His Boreas had a military-grade cloaking device, and he knew where to put himself to stay in the starship's blind spot. Its course didn't waver.

The freighter was heading straight for the continent. Not to the Commonwealth, but to its south. Past the coastal cliffs its track would keep it in the mountains, and neutral territory.

"Satar. If I was flying it, the closest approach would be about twenty kilometers."

"What about the mouth of the Callun?"

"It's not that much faster. And if they take the pass... oh, it's not named, sorry." The Black Hills Free State was older, with more people tied to the land--every damn tree had a name, practically. "The pass forty klicks southeast of Terr Vosta. It's a lot easier to navigate. And safer."

He caught the tail-end of a growl. "Wait out, Crimson."

"Understood."

But the radio link stayed open. It was the newer voice, the major. "We might have a problem. Twenty kilometers is well outside our airspace. General Altalanuk is trying to wake the cabinet up."

"Right. Well, it'll be feet-dry in about a minute. They'll have to slow down, but..."

As soon as the ship crossed over dry land it all but vanished in the continent's abundant valleys. Benjamin had his sensors precisely tuned, and a good sense of where they were going, but it was all he could do to keep them in his sights.

"Satar. You there?"

"Satar's stepped away. I'm Major Kalasos, sir. I'm normally with the intel section."

"Galin, right? That's your callsign. It means... a smelter? A forge?"

"Forge. Yes, sir."

"Mine's Dessat. I don't know what it's supposed to mean--some pidgin curse word, I think. It's nice to meet you, Major Kalasos. I should've known it was you from that idea with the sensors."

"Guilty as charged. General Altalanuk is still trying to raise the cabinet. Your contact?"

"Contact is about to make its final turn before approach. Look, just so you know. Once they're down, it gets... bad. They'll be protected by the entire North Bank grid. If you're the intel officer, I guess you're the one who drew the map."

"Yeah."

"So you get what it looks like."

"Yeah. And I get where you're going. I don't make decisions, sir. I just give people what they need to make them."

"And I'm giving you a second opinion." The freighter's rippling shadow swung into the last turn that pointed it towards the valley. "Ninety seconds until they enter cover."

"How are you with dodging? I mean it--I'm not a pilot."

"Not good enough. As a pilot, I'd say twenty to one against a kill. Four to one against me making it back." His best friend Mara thought in odds; Ben wasn't as good at it, but the framework was useful. "I can try if you want, Satar. But that's how it is."

"Major Kalasos. Intel," she reminded him. "Understood. Hold on." He heard her tense sigh. "Lieutenant, where's the general? Right, naturally. What about Colonel Sol? Marel? Then who's in charge?"

The freighter began descending. Benjamin wondered what Major Kalasos looked like. Her Rukhat was good--better than his--so she was probably native. A shepherd, like him, he decided. Strong protective instinct. Belief in the rules, and the chain of command.

"You still have a firing solution, Dessat?"

A blurry red ring surrounded the freighter, with an 'X' drawn through it--his computer thought the probability of a hit was too low to permit launch. That would change as soon as he turned his sensors on. "Yes. For about another minute."

One second of silence. Then two. Three.

Four.

The line was still open. Major Kalasos's voice had traded its energy for a flat, blunt edge. "Crimson, this is Satar. Weapons free. You are to engage and destroy Khota-1 immediately."

"Affirmative, Satar. Engaging."

His left paw switched the missile safety switch off at the same time his right thumb brought the active targeting scanners online. The ring about the freighter snapped into sharp focus.

And without a second thought, he pushed the firing button in as far as it would go. Eight of the missiles under his wing dropped away--he banked the Boreas sharply, but in the empty night even the indirect glare of rocket motors was blinding.

Benjamin rolled again, to put the freighter in view. Eight angry meteors raced to meet a formless shadow. When the engines burnt out there was a knife-edged moment of darkness, and anticipation.

Impact came in a ripple of swift, brutal light. The shadow vanished, replaced by the form of a heavy freighter. Fire and debris showered from fresh gashes on its hull... but for a moment, rather than falling, it climbed.

Ponderously. The ship began to list to the left, and it passed the apex of its drunken ballistic arc curving down towards the glassy surface of the Arkadiensee. The spreading blaze's gleaming reflection beckoned from the water, the mirror image drawing closer and closer as the freighter lost altitude.

No such luck, he thought. No longer under any control but inertia, it was going to miss the lake. The dying ship's camouflage flickered in strange patterns, shadows all wrong from the brilliant light--

It slammed into the cliffs of the North Bank, and briefly the whole reservoir was lit bright as day. Benjamin turned towards the spaceport at Aless Ha'kin, while the light dimmed.

By the time he touched down, the night was still and beautiful again.

***

Ford City, Jericho 4/9/2538: 0100

We're under attack. That was his first thought, that Ford City was being shelled. The sound that jarred him from his sleep was too loud to have been thunder--and the night was clear.

But there'd been nothing after it. "Luna, what's going on?"

There was nothing after that, either.

It wasn't like the moreau not to answer him; she'd never been so disobedient before. Max made his way to the living room. Her sleeping space was deserted. He bent down, pressing the back of his hand to the fabric.

It was cold.

Now he was struck by the sense that two things were wrong, at least--whatever the sound of thunder had been, and wherever his moreau had gotten off to. She never left his apartment without asking--and even then it was only on specific errands, when her whereabouts would be known and he could intervene in case of trouble.

His attention was summoned by the steady flash of light coming from a computer placed on his desk. Her computer. Cautiously, he turned the screen on.

The suborbital transport ship Olympic has been shot down over the Arkadiensee by the air forces of the Kashkin Commonwealth. They were tipped off to the recovery mission. I was the one to tip them off.

"Oh, fuck," he muttered. He failed to summon the proper anger of betrayal. Mostly, the man realized, what he felt was inevitability.

You have come to trust in my analytical abilities. At the same time, you asked on more than one occasion what might happen if I was asked to make a decision. I've made several. I don't know that you'd be interested in the explanation, so I will not explain it.

His communicator went off: an incoming message from Colonel Thabane, doubtless at the JMA's headquarters. Telling General Kastner about the disaster. Well, Max thought. About one of them, anyway. He kept reading.

Two notes. Firstly, it is my objective assessment that the Jericho Military Authority cannot at this point win a military victory. A defensive operation, centered around Ford City itself, would force the Kashkin to overextend itself until they can be worn down to the point of ceasefire with minimal incremental casualties.

Secondly, it is my objective assessment that Shaeffer Moody intends to destroy the Stahl Dam. The fishing vessel Lydia Grace has been stolen from the docks at Port George Moody. It was not reported missing. Its owner, FP Allred, is a longtime associate of Shaeffer Moody and the Lydia Grace was used to deliver supplies to her irregulars in the Dun Valley.

I believe that if you investigate Allred's repair facilities in Konstanija, you will discover the Lydia Grace is being refitted, packed with high explosives transferred, from sympathetic mining operations, in two convoys late last week. The details are below.

Everything in the letter was straightforward, and unemotional. And that, oddly, only made it worse. It was easier to think that perhaps she had agonized over the decision--that she'd wanted to preserve her loyalty to him.

That, somehow, he had earned it.

Max set the computer aside and called Thabane back. "What are you going to tell me, KT? They shot the transport down."

"You knew?"

"A huge explosive from the reservoir, followed by you calling me in the middle of the night? I guessed. What do you want?"

"We need you back."

"They fired me, KT. Besides, it's not like my strategic genius really got us much, is it?"

It was a voice-only transmission, but Max could almost hear Katiso shaking his head in dismay. "You're already packing to leave, aren't you? Or you've already left. I sent a guard to fetch you, but... you're gone. Right?"

"No."

"It's not just the strategy, Max. Things are chaos here. It would help a lot if our forces weren't also worried about a command breakdown--if we could show a... something like a unified front. This has to be the prelude to an all-out attack."

I wonder how she got out. Where's she going? How would I get out, myself? Steal a car and get to... Booker? I could hole up there until somebody comes to bail us out... once offworld traffic resumes I could disappear, I think.

"Max? You there?"

Bail us out, eh? But who would do that? "What do the scouts say?"

"Nothing so far--but they could be cloaked, or taking a route we don't know about. The cliffs are bad, Max. Too many little paths where the reflections screw up the drone sensors."

"Or they won't attack yet. Look, I'll head over, but it's on one condition."

"Name it."

"Send your guard down to..." He scrolled through Luna's computer. "Check out a workshop owned by Franklin Patrick Allred, 75 Breaker Road, Konstanija. Have some MPs meet him. See if there's a ship, the Lydia Grace."

"Sir?"

"You said 'name it,' KT. That's it."

"Alright. I'll do it. You're coming over?"

Max put his jacket on. And then, on second thought, threw a nondescript trenchcoat over that before heading out. Spring or no, the late-night air had winter's chill to it. Nobody asked questions.

They were all preoccupied. More people than should've been awake, at two in the morning. They hurried, heads down. Where are they escaping to? Max asked. His own answer was a chuckle; white mist, roiling from his lips like smoke off a dying fire.

Colonel Thabane was waiting at the gate of the JMA complex. If anything, he'd only bundled up heavier. He blinked too quickly, and his fingers twitched faintly when he saluted. Stimulants, probably; they were all under pressure. "Welcome back, sir."

"The transport. What happened?"

"We're not certain. Two Jackal operators in Major Stuart's group say it was an aircraft. The air-defense company reported nothing. They blame ground fire. Eleven dead on the ship--nobody bailed and there's no way anyone survived that crash."

"Was anyone injured on the ground?"

"Firefighters can't reach the crash site yet, so we're hoping nobody. If they'd landed and picked up our mechs..."

Go on, say we got lucky. But Max spared him the indignity. "Bridger and Stuart, where are they?"

"Bridger stopped for the night in Jackson Pass. I've ordered Stuart to make his way towards Silver City. They should link up tomorrow by 1400."

"Then they can't be back on the North Bank before... midnight? Dawn the next day?"

"Dawn seems more likely."

There was still one dawn before that, though, coming soon. Thabane reconfirmed that the defensive pickets stayed quiet. Why? Knowing that his best armored unit was out of the picture for more than a full day didn't require any special insight--just looking at a map would tell the travel times involved.

Could that mean they weren't planning an attack, after all? The moreaus had gone through the trouble of disabling the bridge and taking out the transport. Why would they do that unless they meant to take advantage of the disruption that followed?

"They don't want to attack. Not if they don't have to."

Katiso looked over. "They're in a perfect position for it," he countered. His voice dropped to a whisper. "And they'd win. They have to know it."

"Maybe so, but it would be painful. There aren't that many of them, and they can wait us out. What if attacking the bridge and shooting down the transport wasn't strategic, KT? What if it was political? Think about it. They're showing us they can act with impunity, like shelling McKeever. It doesn't really cost them."

"Then what do we do that would cost them?"

Half an hour into tossing around ideas, someone paged Colonel Thabane. He brought up the display where he and Max could both see the caller--an MP, face all but invisible in the dim light.

"Lieutenant Mur reporting, sir, about the shop you asked us to investigate. When we stepped onto the property, their security opened fire. We forced them back without losses. I don't know what's going on, sir."

Max felt his stomach tighten. "Was there a fishing boat, lieutenant? The Lydia Grace?"

"Yes. We thought it was being repaired, at first. But it's been completely stripped of all its fishing gear, and the hold is full of NT12 mining explosives. My guess is that it's a smuggling operation, and that's why they didn't want us in here."

"Secure the property, lieutenant," Max ordered. "If you need more men, let me know." Katiso nodded to confirm the order, then closed the channel. "Did the JBC schedule their next meeting with you, colonel?"

"Tomorrow--no, today. Today. At 8 in the morning."

"I'll go in your place. It doesn't matter anymore. I need you to find Shaeffer Moody and bring her into custody. She's probably in or around the port."

"Yes. That's where her camp is. I don't think she'll come easily."

"No, that's why it's a military operation. Major Harris, in Tyson's battalion, can be trusted. Borrow a reserve company from Avery if you have to. But get it done, and get it done now."

Colonel Thabane hesitated. "You don't think they're going to attack. That boat... you think..." It hit him, and his eyes widened briefly. "The dam?"

"Yes. So we neutralize Shaeffer Moody, colonel, before it gets to that point. Arrest her or kill her--either way, you have until eight o'clock."

"Yes, sir. Understood."

He set his communicator to alert him immediately as soon as Thabane had any new information, and steeled himself for the morning meeting with the Jericho Business Council.

It began inauspiciously. "We fired you," Scott said. "Get out."

"No."

"Is this a coup?"

Max straightened. "This is a report that you all need to hear without anyone who can tell you something different to curry favor. This war can only be prolonged. It cannot be won."

"Shut your goddamn mouth," Scott snapped.

"The loss of the transport ship isn't an insurmountable obstacle. Our trapped mechs are already moving north to rejoin the main body of the JMA. That does not change two essential facts."

The first, he said, as clearly as he could, was that the JMA had been strained to the breaking point by weeks of fighting with no resupply. The Jackals were precision machines, and they required maintenance; the spare parts were almost gone.

The Jericho Military Authority counted five mech companies, three of them severely understrength--down from eight in the JMA's theoretical allocation. Half of their APCs had been destroyed or were otherwise inoperative. They'd started conscripting civilian vehicles so the JMA's cargo trucks could be armored and pressed into service.

"The second fact is that we're losing control of the situation. I've had Shaeffer Moody arrested--"

"What?" someone gasped.

"She was planning on destroying Stahl Dam, at the Western Jericho town of the same name."

Murmurs ran along the table. "Would it have worked?"

One of his counterparts replied: "Good Lord, James, listen to yourself. It doesn't matter if it would've worked."

"That's why you didn't start your counterattack?" James, whoever he was, ignored the implicit criticism. "General Kastner, we've been very concerned about all this."

"Organizing a counterattack was left up to Colonel Thabane. We discussed it and concluded there is no reasonable way that it can be accomplished."

James shook his head. "We disagree. The enemy is pinned down around McKeever. A counterattack with Finney's 1st Battalion in the north, striking at Marleyville, would savage them badly." To drive his point home, James had prepared an animation of the battle, which he played for the group. "Dr. Walburn and I have been looking over the numbers."

For a few seconds, Max wasn't sure how to even respond. "Colonel Finney's battalion doesn't exist."

"Wendell has eighty Jackals. We can break the siege at Marleyville and attack their headquarters," James repeated.

Were they not... listening? "Lieutenant Colonel Finney's command was annihilated in the fighting for Carabi Hill. First Battalion West now consists of the headquarters company, a few Jackal 33s converted into static positions, and--"

Scott Walburn slammed his hand on the table. "Who do you think you're fooling? Katiso provided your intelligence on the enemy's strength. When Finney overwhelms them, we'll be back on top and we can finally end your goddamn idiocy."

"Would you care to give that order to him yourself, Dr. Walburn?"

"You're the one who wants to be general, Max."

One of the businessmen, the one who'd questioned James, cleared her throat. "Mr. Finney could at least report to us on how long it would take, couldn't he? Maybe my colleague is too optimistic."

Max felt increasingly as though he might have been in a dream, though he didn't know where it had started. He logged in to the room's comm-link--I see nobody knew how to disable my account--and tried to raise Brigade South.

"Bolo 16." The call was answered by an exhausted sergeant, with dark circles under his eyes. It was nearing the end of what, Max knew, would have been a long shift. "Go--oh. Sir. Go ahead, sir."

"Is Lieutenant Colonel Finney available?"

The sergeant looked away, eyes scanning some offscreen display. "No, sir. He logged off three hours ago. Major Sterling is overseeing operations at the moment."

"Can you put us through?"

"Yes, sir."

Maggie Sterling at least looked better-rested--marginally. Steam rose from a cup of coffee in her right hand. She set it down promptly. "General Kastner? Good morning, sir."

"Morning, major." Max hated himself. Every second of delay the feeling grew worse; the self-loathing twisting itself into denser knots in his stomach. "I'm in Ford City, with the JBC. The question has been posed--"

James, emboldened by the sight of her crisp uniform, cut Max off. "We want to take Marleyville back with the first battalion. How long would it take?"

Silence. Max watched James' face take on a look first of curiosity, then horror. He glanced back at the hologram, where Maggie's own expression was somewhere between bafflement and contempt, like she'd been made the butt of a particularly cruel joke.

Which, in a way, she had. "Major, more properly: what is the status of the battalion?"

"We still occupy the northern heights where Stoney Road meets Highway 12. There's been no enemy contact since we knocked out a recon drone at 0130. Alpha Company's mechs have... let me check. Twenty-two rounds apiece, with about forty spare all told. We lost two from Bravo Company to a special mission Colonel Thabane was organizing, but they should be back in a few hours."

"What's the battalion's strength and disposition, major?"

"Alpha Company is north of the intersection. Seventy-five men, four Jackal 55s and three Jackal 33s. Eight M1930s we salvaged from the Pucaras and turned into field guns. Bravo Company is east of the intersection. Sixty-four men, two Jackal 55s, six Jackal 33s--four at the moment. Five M1930s. Also eleven Tarvos hoverdynes and about two dozen civilian trucks we commandeered. They're with Colonel Finney in the headquarters company."

"Thank you, major."

She nodded. "Yes, sir. Er--what was this about an offensive?"

"That will be all, major."

Sterling furrowed her brow, but nodded again. "Yes, sir."

As soon as he closed the channel Scott Walburn pounced. "Liar. You fucking liar. What did you do with them? Did she sell them? Put them on the black market? Get them back."

"You heard--"

Scott wheeled on the woman, who'd been the one to suggest contacting the battalion in the first place. "Shut your mouth, Annie! I didn't ask the opinion of some overpromoted rich girl from human resources."

"I'm in operations, actually, and I--"

"Out. Get out," he thundered. Annie shrank from him, pushed her chair back, and quickly made her exit. "Who wants to try next? Order that battalion to move and they'll find those mechs."

"They aren't there to be found," Max said.

"Every step of the way you've betrayed us." He moved towards Max one step at a time, face increasingly red. "We gave you the simplest job. Anyone could have done it. That reckless cunt Shaeffer could've done it if you hadn't hobbled her. For what? Why?"

"The reasons are in my reports, Dr. Walburn."

"Fuck your reports. You took our money. You wasted our goddamn time for this charade. You're a fraud. Western Jericho is ours, god damn it." Max felt the flecks of spit landing on his face; he stayed motionless, meeting the man's blazing eyes. "You took it from us. Are you just a coward, or were they paying you? Paying off your people, too? That traitor Singer? That bitch you just--"

His movement was almost entirely reflexive. The punch took Walburn on his jaw, spinning him. He staggered back, blinking. Max saw him fumble underneath his jacket... the shine of the leather holster... he swung again, and Scott went down hard.

The room had gone silent. Max bent down and pulled the pistol from where Scott had been keeping it. Without a word, he set it on the table. They were all looking at him.

James stammered. "We--we. W-what. What. What now? Scott's going to--f-furious. He'll be furious."

"We remove him from the board," came an answer from further down the table. "All opposed, say 'nay.'" Nothing. "We could put Max in charge."

He shook his head. "That would be a military coup. It needs to be one of you." After another minute of discussion, they called Annie back in from outside--she hadn't gone far.

"What are our options, Mr. Kastner?" she asked quietly.

"A cease-fire, and an agreement to seek out a formal diplomatic settlement with the Chartered Colony. With or without backing from the sector ecclesia--call it a separate peace."

"Surrender," Annie summarized. "Is there another option?"

"I told you the military situation. We can fall back to Ford City. Get most of the civilians out, and we can hold a line from Ford City to Surrey indefinitely. It will overextend the moreaus. Wear them down. We give up everything else until then. Everything. And you all should evacuate while you can."

"That's it? Those are our options?"

"That's it."

***

Ford City, Jericho 4/9/2538: 1700

It occurred to Altalanuk that she'd never asked Major Kalasos what the enemy's commander looked like. Perhaps she'd been expecting a warlord, with burning eyes, and unkempt hair. A well-used rifle slung behind his back. A necklace made of fingerbones.

Or the functionaries she'd encountered in her own service. REMFs, they said, rear-echelon motherfuckers. Officers angling for every bribe and bonus they could wheedle. Out of uniform, half the time--overbrimming with puzzling ribbons otherwise.

Max Kastner had forgotten to shave for long enough that the stubble was most of the way to a true beard. His dress uniform was CODA-surplus, but the emblem of the Colonial Defense Authority had been replaced by a badge with Jericho's seal. Otherwise it was spotless, and unadorned.

"Good morning, General Altalanuk. How was my pronunciation?"

"Alta_la_nuk," she echoed, putting the stress where it belonged. "But otherwise close. How is mine, General Kastner?"

"Fluent, thank you. I'd offer to shake your hand or something, but..." His right hand had been tightly bandaged. "I forgot how to use this properly. Perhaps another time."

"Perhaps." The Ibizan doubted it. She still didn't know what to expect. They were standing in the middle of a smooth highway, wide enough for a dozen hoverdynes at once--but deserted, and surreal in its emptiness.

"I do want to talk," the man insisted. "Although, admittedly, I'm also taken by the quiet."

"Four and a half hours left," she reminded him; the JMA had announced a twelve-hour unconditional ceasefire, and for now the OVKK was following suit. "I suspect you didn't just want a nap."

"No." He sighed, and pointed behind her, where the hoverdyne refitted as a command post was idling. "Shall we?"

She ordered the truck parked, and emptied. They each took a seat, facing one another across the blank, empty surface of a small table. And she folded her paws, watching him.

"We expect a substantial attack. Here, around this intersection. I told the Jericho Business Council that. They asked if you would win. I said that, in my opinion, the answer was 'yes.' You would. Eventually, and with heavy losses."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"To make my position clear, General Altalanuk." This time he pronounced her name accurately. "And to hope that you understand something that I think they'd misinterpret. Your victory wouldn't matter. You can't occupy Jericho. It's all a matter of... waiting."

The Ibizan nodded slowly. "That's true."

"So let's stop. Let's end it. To begin with, we call a halt to the fighting. Then, the Jericho Business Council negotiates a formal end to the conflict. A permanent end, with your government."

"Your leadership does not seem amenable to permanent agreements."

"Dr. Walburn has been removed and Shaeffer Moody is under arrest. The new government wants to talk. Not just to buy time, but to talk."

"The situation has changed. When we declared independence, we agreed to maintain our borders as inviolable. That wasn't good enough for you. It's clear that, to ensure our safety, it's no longer good enough for us, either."

"You want land."

"Yes."

His eyes, already dark, dimmed further. "They understand we might have to agree to territorial concessions. It does make your claim of self-defense a little, ah... convenient. What do you suggest?"

"Terr Chanat. The hill between Encha and the northwest Kashkin," she clarified, at his puzzled look. "And, until negotiations are complete, the north bank of the Arkadiensee from Ikashta to Konstanija."

Max didn't bother to look at a map; he must've had the terrain committed to memory. "Occupying the north bank puts McKeever under threat. That's one hell of a sword to hang over us."

"Only until the negotiations are complete. Besides, you'll be able to smuggle enough in, I'm sure."

"You'd know," he countered, with a thin, bitter smile. "If you insist on investing the north bank, I can make them swallow it if you agree not to deploy any anti-aircraft equipment. No surface-to-space missiles, no point-defense guns, no anti-ballistic lasers. And we'll pull back to Barrett and Ford City."

The Ibizan thought it over. Even under those conditions, she could have missile trucks moved to the heights in a matter of hours. "Acceptable. The Dun Gap also needs to be demilitarized, from our eastern border to the passes."

"Demilitarized, or you're seizing it?"

"That's a long fight. And it's not one I can wage with you." The Ibizan sighed; there was no point in explaining the ambitions of radicals in the Kashkin. "I mean demilitarized. We can find a neutral party to ensure it."

"Carabi Hill, the North Bank--temporarily--and we abandon the Dun. That's it?"

"For a cease-fire? Yes. I'm sure a treaty will be more... contentious. But I'm not party to those."

"I'm not either. I will say that I think the JBC would be more comfortable if you also consented to lift the siege on Marleyville, and to withdraw from the entire corridor on the eastern slope."

"Done."

Max Kastner laughed, very quietly. "I suspect not, general. But started."

Epilogue

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike, the conquerer silent sleeps. And Time, the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set today a votive stone That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made these heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. -- "Concord Hymn," Ralph Waldo Emerson

***

Terr Chanat, Kashkin 12/10/2538

Sunrise from Terr Chanat was, Kodja supposed, almost everything he wanted. Alishat hass-Kodja: 'the shadow of the trees.' The retriever watched as the light built, and the darkness shortened.

Half an hour past the dawn, he finally heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. He turned, bowing his head lightly.

"Inana Kodja," Altalanuk said, inclining her own head in turn. "You requested a meeting with me, Mr. President."

"It's alright, Talla. You don't need the formality. Good morning."

"Good morning."

The Ibizan closed the rest of the distance to stand next to him. The morning light was still gentle, softening the white of her fur and blending it gently with the tan. "Have you been here before, Talla?"

"Not like this, no."

"A military survey?"

"Yes, last week. There was a lot more activity... not as much chance to enjoy the dawn." He didn't answer. She, too, fell into silence. The shadows dwindled further.

Kodja allowed himself the conceit that it was enjoyment, and with the sun beginning to warm his fur he felt the need to continue. "Do you think of Alrukhan often? He was your kin."

"No. I believe that Shenkiy wants to commission a study to see where he might have fallen. Put up a memorial there."

"Shenkiy..." Kodja smiled, and thought of how best to explain it. "Shenkiy looks to the future, but sometimes reflections of the past catch the corners of his eyes. Alrukhan is an important symbol. This hill is an important symbol."

And that would be true even if Shenkiy never found the place where the founder of the first Commonwealth died. Alrukhan never had the chance to see what the Commonwealth of the Enlightened became--nor what its successor had now accomplished, after the first commonwealth left the planet for the oasis at Dawa.

In that, he shared a fate with many others. "You see so much from here," Kodja mused. "Ours and theirs alike." Alta was still subdued. He took her paw and held it up to the horizon. Out to the east were the human cities, glinting in the morning light.

To the north, as they turned, the hills where the Commonwealth began. Somewhere in them, the remains of Sorren Degh--the Ibizan must've felt the involuntary tightness of his paw, for she lowered hers, and his along with it. "Kodja..."

What was she about to say? It doesn't matter, Kodja decided. Say what you've been meaning to. "You could've told me. About Nuri. You could've told me, Talla."

"I didn't tell anyone."

"But you could've told me."

He had not let her go, and he felt her gently test the strength of his grip. Her ears wavered. "I'm sorry that I betrayed your trust, Kodja. I don't expect you to forgive me. My resignation is yours wherever you want it."

"You think that's why I asked you here?"

She was staring at the hills where the town had been. "You haven't talked to me in three weeks, Kodja. Not since ordering me from your office. Not since saying you couldn't speak to me."

They'd been alone. They'd been alone, and she'd handed him the classified report on the ambush. She'd been silent. Stayed silent while he read it. Stayed silent when he looked her in the eye, and said those words to her; all she'd done was to nod her understanding, and leave without a word.

He released her paw. "I won't make excuses," she said quietly.

"Because you don't have them?"

"No. Because they're not for your ears, Kodja. You wouldn't want to hear them."

"The first week after I read that... report." Report was almost too clinical; he shuddered and had to steady his breathing. "I thought you had... deceived me, so that I wouldn't interfere with the fighting. You'd started the invasion and I told myself you... you hid the truth from me so that I wouldn't think we'd already paid too high a cost."

Altalanuk nodded. She still faced away from him. Her muzzle was taut.

"Then I realized. Or." He felt himself becoming tense, too, his breath getting shallow. "I conjectured. I conjectured that it was the opposite. That you wanted me to be rational. I told myself it was because you needed me to be the voice of... of..."

"What was right," the Ibizan finished. "While so much hung in the balance, I needed you to be the voice of what was right, when I could not. It doesn't change what I did. I lied to you."

"You had your reasons. But you could've told me," he repeated.

Finally, Alta turned from the hills and met his eyes. "I didn't know that. I don't know that. Kodja... Koddich, I've seen what breaks people. I've seen them break. You might easily have done so. It would not have lessened you as a person. It wouldn't have diminished my respect for you. I just... couldn't take the chance. With you or with... anyone. With anyone I--with anyone I trusted," she finally said, and shook her head, leaving her gaze averted.

Kodja had practiced the words, felt how awkward and heavy they were in his muzzle. But when it was time, they slipped painlessly free: "I understand."

"Thank you."

"The fighting can't have been easy for you. I never thought it was. That part, I... I still might not understand. Maybe you're right, maybe I couldn't have handled it then. I think I could've. But I understand."

"When I was fighting for the Starlight Faction, they learned quickly how to provoke me. If they found a way to make it about the suffering of our kin, there was no limit to my rage. You think I can be angry..."

"I've seen you angry."

Her laugh was a brief, quiet snort. "No. The captain of the Panoka Plymouth had been the master of a transport carrying live cargo. When the ship was disabled, he cut the life support to the hold. Starlight told me to destroy the Panoka Plymouth and they made sure I knew about his past. So I shot it down. I crashed it into a Panoka Mining compound. The whole time, watching it happen, I thought about those nakathja, suffocating in the dark. I thought about how, if any of them knew anything, it was that nobody would ever be punished for it. Until I came along."

"Panoka isn't around anymore, right?"

"They went bankrupt. When I got here, I was full of anger. It was years, Koddich--years--before the first thoughts crept into my head about the crash. The families I'd destroyed, the anguish I must've created, and... Kodja," she said, his name a bitter, desperate growl. "There's still a voice that insists they weren't innocent, and I did the right thing. Honestly, I don't know."

"Did you seek to spare me that?"

"I sought to spare a lot of us that."

Kodja took her paw again, gently. "If nothing else, you could've told me the truth about that when you joined. I can swear that I would've accepted it. For stupid reasons, mind you, Talla, but I can still swear to it."

"Oh?"

"I was naive back then. I saw the Chartered Colony as a second chance for anyone, no matter what they'd done--a place for them to be born anew. A clean slate."

"When I first landed, I told you my name was Altalanuk, and you guessed that I was the eighth in my family. Really, this was the eighth group I'd joined... I figured that when I left--inevitably--I could just change it to 'the ninth,' instead. Easy to remember."

"You didn't leave, though." And he was, despite everything, happy for that--which he hoped she realized.

Her smile was a good sign. "No. If I'd known that, I might've picked something different. Either way, I suppose it would've... colored things, had I told you my name was Kashina."

He smiled, too. "Yes. Although seeing you redeemed would've pleased a wide-eyed young onboarding director like myself." He'd heard more than a few such stories. It had been one of his favorite parts of a job he sometimes still thought of returning to.

Some would call it a step down. Kodja disagreed--but he would not seek the position again. He wouldn't want to deny it to someone else, a younger citizen. Still, he envied them.

With regular trade resumed at Aless Ha'kin the spaceport was processing two thousand new immigrants every month, and Shenkiy thought the number would accelerate. Word had reached beyond the partisans and the malcontents, to the free moreaus living on worlds throughout the Alliance and beyond.

"Redemption is one of the more intriguing human concepts," Alta said. "They do believe in life after death, you know."

"It doesn't require that. It only requires believing in the future. You do, do you not?"

"I do."

"So do I." He said it firmly, and was gratified to hear the strength in his words. "Have you thought about what comes next for you? I know the details are still being settled on how we'll organize the OVKK going forward, with regard to the civilian government. My successor might want a clean slate of their own."

"Successor?" She turned to him, tilting her head.

"I don't know." Kodja smiled. He felt like smiling, felt like squeezing her paw tighter. "My chances are good, I believe--but it might be a contested election. Stara Koshath has eyes for the throne."

"It'll be a hard-fought campaign, no doubt. You have my vote, Koddich."

"Thank you, Altalanuk galek-al-Kashina. Talla," he added, hugging her. She returned the embrace, saying nothing of the name he'd invented for her.

And in silence, they watched the rest of the sunrise.

Ikashta, Kashkin 16/11/2538

"He's finally asleep," Kita Hadaran whispered. The pup was nestled against her chest, blunt muzzle pushed into the husky's fur, every breath ruffling it lightly. "We should call him Nasha Rankirala."

Darwin smiled, and bent down to give the husky's nose a gentle kiss. "I think every parent says their child should be so named--isn't that what they say?" Nasha rankirala--'he never rests.'

"Maybe. But for us, it's true." The pup was young, though; it was to be expected. Kita closed her own eyes and relaxed in her chair. "I never thought about it, exactly. I know that pups are given their names by their pack... that it often happens later in life, when they've shown something distinctive."

Kita hadaran, for example, meant 'the shared joy of being together in a pack.' Kita had given Darwin a few different explanations of the name. That she'd been one of the only children in her community. That she'd been the pup most devoted to playing with the others.

Later on, after the founding of the Hashida, Kita said it came from her habit of wanting to help the others in her pack. Darwin had come to realize that none of these were unfaithful translations: children were named when they were still too young to internalize the meaning.

And so, in a sense, it came to mean whatever the bearer wanted, as they grew up. Asking and answering the question of what it signified was just smalltalk for the moreaus, a way of defining themselves--as created beings defined otherwise by the nature of their creation.

"But we still have to call him something, right?" Kita continued. "That's sort of like a name."

"True." Darwin took a careful seat next to her on the sofa, mindful not to jar their son awake. "What were you thinking?"

"Tacherat, perhaps."

Running. "But we're not anymore."

"No," the husky agreed. They both knew the name wasn't a literal one. She was thinking of Tacherat, his old second-in-command--extradited to stand trial for the attack that, in the end, undid the very organization he'd helped to found.

Word of the trial, which was supposed to be conducted under Alliance law and according to universal Alliance procedure, had not reached the Kashkin. Darwin continued to ask, and the foreign ministry continued to tell him that they had no updates.

Isn't he supposed to have a lawyer? the Border Collie would say. Yes, someone at the Observatory would answer. Ask the lawyer, then, he'd demand. And they'd sigh, heavily, and shake their head. It was all but a routine.

Sitting on the bed next to his mate, it was Darwin's turn to sigh. I don't know what I'm more worried about. Am I worried about the day I finally get an answer from them, or the day I stop going to ask them for it? The latter was coming. It had to be coming.

Kita turned and licked his muzzle. Perhaps she read his mind; perhaps not. She allowed him to keep his emotions buried for the moment. "Ready for work?"

"I suppose it's time, isn't it?" Darwin returned the lick and got back to his feet.

"Would it be possible for you to come home a bit early today? Or tomorrow, maybe?"

"I think so. You need someone to watch the pup?"

She nodded. "I should go to Corsini. Captain Stakan has been asking to talk to me. About what I'll do when I'm back from leave."

"Have you decided?"

"I might stay. If you don't mind."

He didn't mind. It was Kita's choice, in any case--and had he minded, the husky was far too strong-willed to brook argument. The OVKK needed people with her skills, even in peacetime.

As she often did, his mate reminded the Border Collie that she could put a word in for him. She said that he would be welcomed back if he decided to join the Kashkin's military.

Darwin thought she was being charitable. Certainly, not everyone would welcome him back. Not everyone in the Hashida wanted to serve, for that matter. His mate did. That interpretation of her given name was certainly accurate.

It was possible that she felt sorry for him, after a fashion. Kita was happy to be a mother, happy that they'd started a family, but she chafed at confinement. She couldn't wait to be back at work. I can't either, he told her. She looked unconvinced.

But it was true. Work, for the moment, was close and convenient. Staru Nachelja Degh had been born only a few days before their child. Twenty citizens the first week; forty the week after that. The population had stabilized at about ninety.

Quite reasonable, given the living conditions. Prefabricated buildings still made up most of the degh, and they'd just barely been connected to the Kashkin's power grid. Time, though, Darwin thought, smiling to himself. Give it time.

"Good morning, brother. Ready?"

"Always."

His supervisor, a retriever mix who insisted that everyone call him 'Hannich' rather than his full name, flashed the broad grin that was his trademark. Hannich was the son of the degh's founder. They were new immigrants, from Dawa.

The moreaus of that off-world oasis were descended from Alrukhan and the others in the first rebellion on Jericho. For decades they'd kept their distance from the factories and cities of the Chartered Colony, preferring the quiet hills and streams of their farming community.

We realized it was time to come home, Hannich explained.

And the Kashkin needed Dawa's expertise, too. The other dog pointed him in the direction of the newly cleared field to the town's south. Before they could put down the bed of the irrigation canals, the trenches needed to be dug.

Earthmoving equipment was in short supply. Citizens were not. The shovel felt good in Darwin's grasp. It felt good to feel the crunch of the dirt, and it felt good to see the reward of his exertion at the end of the day: the straight, dark lines of the irrigation ditches bounding what would be cultivated fields in a harvest season or two.

Not that he thought he'd be much of a farmer--but who knew? There'd be other things to do. Other towns to build. He smiled to himself, and started work.

Kharanja Primary School City of Davis, Kashkin 22/11/2538

Levin had never stopped--would never stop--finding Arkas's touch intoxicating. When the samoyed began to pull away from the kiss, Levin stopped him. Wrapped his arms around the man, and cocked his head, and pressed their muzzles back together until he had to catch his breath.

"What about now?" Arkas asked, grinning.

They'd walked Sayda to school, which was back in session. Their son had just disappeared through the front door, tail wagging at the prospect of being reunited with his classmates. Levin sighed, and when he'd said, he looks happy, Arkas asked: what about you, love? Are you happy?

Then the kiss.

Levin let his husband go. "Yes. Of course I'm happy. And it will be nice to have some privacy in the house during the day."

"Most of it mine," Arkas teased. "You and your meetings..."

"Just one, today. It shouldn't take long, I hope. I'll be back. Are your paws going to be dirty?"

"I don't know yet."

Levin knew that he'd been commissioned for a new project, though no details about what the project was. On their way home, he finally clarified that it was to be a memorial, to go on Terr Chanat.

"They weren't very specific. I haven't made up my mind if it should be a sculpture, or an installation... all they really said was that, with Terr Chanat being ours--again? They said 'again,' but it wasn't quite clear."

"It's where the last war was fought." Levin slipped his arm around the dog, patting his side. "You'd learn more trivia if you spent as much time as I do with Shenkiy and Altalanuk."

"At least it's trivia."

Arkas found Levin's paw, and rubbed it softly. Two of Sayda's classmates had died at Sorren Degh; with Levin busy, the task of explaining their absence fell to Arkas. And in the auxiliaries, Arkas had been a sentry watching one of the Kashkin's radio towers. He'd heard plenty of messages, and wouldn't talk about any of them.

When the samoyed's mood dropped into one of its darker spells, his ears would flatten and he stayed in his workshop for hours at a time. He wasn't working; that was all Levin really knew of his mate.

The Border Collie assumed he was listening to the symphonies he loved so much, until the day he found the samoyed's music player abandoned on the counter. Silence, then: he escaped to a world of silence.

But he'd been in good spirits for two weeks by that point, and the interruption was momentary. "Anyway, I don't think that's what they want it to be about. But I'm not sure. There's... a lot, really. A lot to be remembered."

"All of the Kashkin is a memorial, in that sense."

Arkas shook his head. "No. That's not the right way to think about it. We shouldn't think about this as a monument to the past, Levvich. It's what we're building for the future."

Levin smiled and kissed his husband's nose. That afternoon, in the office, the notion stayed in his mind. "I just want to ensure that we all agree on the model before it's presented to the cabinet next week. In particular, the assumptions on the revenue, here... this. This curve." Levin brought the graph and its equations up where everyone else could see it. "Inanu Dushadi, I guarantee you that the trade ministry will have questions."

She nodded crisply. "The first version I showed you was based around landing fees from Aless Ha'kin. We all agree that human traffic will taper off sharply as the cosmodrome at McKeever comes back to full capacity. We do agree, don't we?"

Heads nodded in the room. Until the damage to the spaceport could be repaired, Aless Ha'kin took up some of the slack. There would be no reason to continue: McKeever was not only human-controlled, it was closer to all of Jericho's major cities.

"That's why it's only a minor component of our forecast. The rest of it is actually from the team at Terr Kuhinja. We assume that reconstructing the deep-space link in Jericho itself will take approximately eighteen months. They haven't started yet, which I think makes this model optimistic..."

Levin closed one eye to think about that. "And unlike physical traffic, there's no benefit to using their own communications relay... except pride."

"Indeed. But pride can only be so motivating. They use our bandwidth now, and that usage is only going up as Jericho itself rebuilds. If we can hold on to even a fraction of that traffic, it's a key revenue stream."

"I wondered when I came here why we had such a powerful transmitter," someone else mused. Levin recognized him as a junior analyst--a new immigrant, just settling in. "Then I saw inanu Dushadi's numbers. It was a good investment."

The Border Collie laughed. "So it was."

Kodajuk, Western Kashkin 25/11/2538

Dusk slipped, valley by valley, through the central Kashkin to its western hills. The sky above her was still glowing. Altalanuk gal'Kashina lifted her muzzle, tracing the evening's expanse from the northern horizon to the south. Behind her, hills blocked the sunset. Before her...

She composed herself, and closed the rest of the distance to the front door. The Ibizan knocked twice, and waited. Her ears twitched to the sound of wind rustling the trees, and the chirp of insects, and the nearing footfalls approaching.

The door opened. Khalizai cocked his head. His eyes flicked from her face to her tunic, then to her bootless paws. Then back again, to the slow wave of her tail. He looked up, held her eyes, and smiled.

"Come in. I'll put on some tea."