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The Chartered Colony slowly moves to confront the inevitable, as tensions with the humans rise, and Max sees himself dragged reluctantly into it all.

Attempts to maintain peace between Kashkin and human-occupied Jericho become increasingly untenable. Alta, Kodja, Levin, Darwin and the gang all face the choice they know has been years in the making. This is the end of the first book, and should wrap up most of the conflicts and themes of the previous three chapters. ...I hope.

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

Hatikvah, by Rob Baird — Ch. 4, "A Decent Respect"

***

And lo! As he looks on the belfry's height:

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,

But lingers and gazes, 'til full on his sight

A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet—

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night.

And the spark, struck out by that steed in his flight

Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

— “Paul Revere's Ride," Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Colonial Administration Building

Davis, Chartered Colonial Jericho

2/12/2536

“I second Minister Zahanish's proposal and move to open debate."

“For the last time, inana Shenkiy, you cannot second your own pack's motion." Kodja tried not to sound too frustrated at Shenkiy's boundless enthusiasm.

Resolved: that the leadership of Kashkin, committed to our existence as a free state, immediately begin such proceedings as required for a formal declaration of independence.

Either Shenkiy or Zahanish had proposed it at every regular cabinet session for the past two weeks; Kodja was tired of telling him that they couldn't simply railroad the cabinet into accepting it and he was tired of what would come next.

“I second." Takito, the fennec Minister of Social Affairs, came from a different pack and could lawfully second the motion. Sometimes it was Takito, sometimes Korden, sometimes even Chadakh Sutta, the Minister of Education.

Kodja sighed heavily. “It has been moved and seconded. All in favor?" He counted five hands: Zahanish, Shenkiy, Chadakh Sutta, Takito and Stara Koshath—Minister of Labor, who had never liked the human corporations much anyway.

Opposed would also be the same: the ministries of Energy, Transportation and Trade felt that the colony couldn't stand on its own. The health and treasury ministers went further: a declaration of independence would be utterly catastrophic.

Halinchi was not present and Altalanuk, who said that she would follow Halinchi and Kodja's lead, abstained. As always, the vote tied. As always, Kodja declined to cast a tiebreaking vote. “Without guidance from inanu Halinchi…"

“Inana Elhasav, then," Shenkiy countered.

Deputy Foreign Minister Satek Elhasav shook his head. “I've been told not to commit. Until things change, the Foreign Ministry has no guidance on this subject."

“Very well. Onto the next order of business: we're looking at a shortfall of nearly eighty million obols in this quarter. Minister Levin, you had a report on how we might best deal with the effects of this?"

The Border Collie nodded. “Yes. However, if I may, I'd like to speak to a different topic briefly. My opinions on the previous matter are clear, but this has been a distraction for long enough and it's keeping us from official business. I propose that any future resolution on independence come from the administrator, not from the cabinet."

“That's ridiculous," Shenkiy said. “This is a question for all of us."

“And we always answer it the same way, Shenkiy. Kodja will know when the time is right." Koshun Narra, standing in for the Minister of Trade, seconded Levin's proposal. The vote was identical to the one on Shenkiy's resolution—largely, Kodja guessed, because Shenkiy and his allies saw it as a proxy for the same vote.

“And now Kodja is going to—to what? Cast the deciding vote granting him the sole arbiter of our future?"

“No. I will." The heads around the table turned to look at Altalanuk, who had taken to staying quiet in the cabinet's quarreling. “My vote is 'aye,' inana Kodja."

“How? How, general?" Shenkiy demanded. He half-stood, leaning his bulk across the table and towards the Ibizan, who remained seated and impassive. “Answer me!"

“Shenkiy, calm yourself." Her reply did not produce the desired result, judging by the mixed-breed's snarl. “Shenkiy. Sit down before someone makes you sit down."

“Decorum," Kodja reminded the pair.

“But the general is supposed to be on the side of independence." Shenkiy took it as a personal affront. “She's supposed to be a patriot. Like the rest of us—maybe even more so!"

“As Minister of Security and head of the Defense Committee, my feelings on the actual question are well-known. I think the sooner we rid ourselves of Congress and the Yucatan Alliance, the better. But this isn't the way to do it."

“Then what is? Yassuja, general, we have no choice!"

“Shenkiy. If we declare independence, there will be war. My men will be compelled to fight on the account of your patriotism—and mine. The costs will be high. You may think they're high enough here, but out there? Out on the front lines? Shenkiy, you have no idea. If and when the cabinet votes, I will accept that responsibility—but I'll be damned if I let a divided room of bickering ideologues condemn our soldiers prematurely."

“It's not… condemnation. They—they know this is coming. You've said this was coming for years."

“Certainly. None of that will make the dying any easier. If the Foreign Ministry and the administration are unified, I'll stand with them. Not before. The movement passed, Shenkiy. Let Levin talk about the damned budget."

“You know… I thought you were dedicated to this cause. But I'm increasingly unconvinced."

“I am not obligated to list my bona fides to you or anyone, Shenkiy."

“Well, given the way you act, maybe you should." Kodja saw the Ibizan's muzzle curl briefly—just a fraction of a second, and Shenkiy was too worked up to notice. “Maybe the record should be set straight. Maybe we don't know who you really are."

“I am 417K-JUN, you ingrate freeborn. My name is Kashina. I bought my liberty deed. I was Spartoi for two years. I brought down the Panoka Plymouth over Eridania. I fought at Kir, at Taresh, at Encha, at Terr Vosta. I am the reason we hold Kidrin and the South Bank. I—"

“I meant no offense, only—"

“I can tell you the name of every last citizen who died defending Elden Kodaw and if we're introducing statements to the permanent record I'll damned well start with them. I have fought with, and buried, and killed enough better men than you to crew a starliner across the Styx. So when I tell you to sit down, Shenkiy, sit the fuck down and shut your fucking mouth."

Shenkiy's ears went back. He sat. “I…"

Kodja coughed. “I'll… have that… cleaned up in the record."

“The hell you will," Alta growled. “Leave every damned word. Apologies, Levin, I know you have the floor."

Given a few seconds to recover, the Border Collie managed to get back to business. The colony depended on trade, and between unofficial embargoes and the need to shift their cargo handling to the smaller facilities at Aless Ha'kin, trade suffered.

Matters were not helped, he explained delicately, by the substantial increase in spending required for the Defense Committee. Altalanuk had resumed her ordinary phlegmatic disposition; she pointed out that they had relied on offworld fundraising before and, with permission, could do so again.

Kodja granted it, with no objections from anyone else in the cabinet, but he was sure there would be minor details to work out and he wasn't surprised when the Ibizan stayed behind when the meeting ended to request a private conversation.

“The DC's finances," he prompted. “How much of the current colonial budget can you absorb?"

“Most? We have some hard currency reserves, and the added domestic production of equipment has helped—of the troubles I have, Kodja, the budget is at least a solvable one. We can find money."

“Should I be concerned where it's coming from?"

“For once? Probably not. The Hashida help, paradoxically."

Curious, he lifted his ears. “You're getting funding from them?"

“No. But the nature of their backers is upsetting to some of the more politically conscious of our offworld kin, and they'll appreciate the opportunity to channel that anxiety to us, instead. We've been looking reasonable… my subdued discussion with inana Shenkiy to the contrary."

He nodded. “Do you actually want that on the record, Talla? All of it?"

“You mean my name? The sordid details of my past? You knew already, Kodja. Didn't you?"

The retriever started to shake his head before concluding the answer was marginally more complicated than simple denial. “I permitted myself not to know. If politics taught me anything, Talla, it's when not to ask questions. I trusted you."

It had been years since the last time Kodja saw the Ibizan's features soften the way they did in that moment. “I hope I haven't disappointed you too much."

“We're all doing the best we can, aren't we? Even Shenkiy. In any case—speaking of that—I wanted to let you know that the northern operations have been going well. I think we made the right decision."

A small group of Defense Committee volunteers were supporting the Colonial Defense Authority in preparing for its long-expected campaign against an aggressive Sanganese syndicate. As the Ibizan hinted, the nature of their cooperation grated on some of the other ministers.

They couldn't do anything to stop it; discussing the details had proven to be useful only for airing grievances. He understood why she informed him separately—and that seemed to be it for, having told him, she turned to leave.

“Alta." His mind was still wandering. “I haven't asked, but… do you regret anything you did before you came here? The mess with the Spartoi, and all that?"

“Permit yourself not to know, Kodja."

It wasn't until that evening, when he was back in his apartment and the stars were slowly dawning, that he realized he had no idea what he would've wanted the answer to be.

***

Defense Committee headquarters complex

Corsini, Chartered Colonial Jericho

6/2/2537

Altalanuk watched the tactical map, surprised at her own degree of dispassion. Perhaps it was because, after all, there were only humans dying—for the moment. As long as that held true, she was willing to save her emotions for other things. More meaningful things.

“They should be expecting a counterattack across the Foster River, correct?"

Major Kalasos nodded. “That seems most likely, yes. But I'm not certain. The 591st is overextended, true, but the 2nd of the 12th should be able to reinforce the bridgeheads by tomorrow morning at the latest. There's no concrete reason to believe the Kingdom has enough in the area for a meaningful offensive."

Alta cocked her head, looking at the map. The Foster River lay so far beyond their borders that there wasn't even a Rukhat name for it; her sense of the terrain was certainly incomplete, at best. CODA's northern advance exceeded her firsthand knowledge weeks before.

“That concludes my part of the update. With your permission, general, I'd like to hand this over to Master Sergeant Talakan?" The Ibizan granted this permission with a wave of her paw, and a dark-furred Belgian shepherd stepped forward to the head of the table. “Mr. Talakan heads the special research group. I've had him at work running models on the intel we've gathered from the northern ops."

Sergeant Talakan's muzzle had started to whiten, but he had a pup's enthusiasm. “There's been some very interesting data. I'll summarize, if that's acceptable, and you can stop me if you have questions?"

“Of course, Mr. Talakan. Please, proceed." Alta sat back and the tactical map switched to a summary of the Special Research Group's work. Detailed analysis of CODA's mechanized weaponry: the Denel Rooijakkals combat walker that made up the bulk of their heavy armor.

“As you can see, CODA has deployed the 57 model for the first time in this campaign. Compared to the 55i, it has a top speed twenty percent greater. The kinetic point-defense system has been replaced by an energy weapon, and the reactive armor has demonstrated consistently superior performance in dealing with the penetrators used by Sanganese missiles."

“We're likely to use missiles, too," Alta pointed out. “How much less effective would they be?"

“Between the greater effectiveness of the defensive cannon and the armor, our analysts guess we'd need to quadruple the expenditure to guarantee a mobility kill. The weak point of the Jackal continues to be its legs, but these are shorter, shaped to deflect explosive shockwaves, and with additional redundant hydraulics."

Alta puffed out her cheeks, shaking her head. “Luckily none of the Jericho militias have their hands on these. Though I guess nobody's really seen what they can do, either?"

“Ma'am?" Major Kalasos prompted.

The Ibizan reminded them of the tactical map. Only one company in every battalion had the newer model walkers; they couldn't put their speed to use. And, she saw, they'd removed the rocket pod from the 55i: the new mechs had no capability for indirect fire.

“It's true. CODA's been relying on strike craft for all their fire support. The Saratoga and Teotihuacan have been on station and positioned for continuous operations. Note… this history of their sorties." Talakan tapped his finger, and a series of graphs unfolded in the open air between them.

“Yassuja," Alta breathed. “You're certain of these numbers?"

“Yes, ma'am. We had assumed—that is, Captain Katesh and I had assumed—that they would not be able to sustain that tempo. It has indeed decreased, but at this point we believe they can manage eighteen sorties per day indefinitely."

The two carriers, like the rest of the fleet, made sixteen orbits every day. For the first part of CODA's northern campaign, the air wings had launched new missions on every single orbit, deploying new fighters as the old ones recovered. That was impossible to carry on forever: machines and men broke down, after all.

But they were coming close. Alta drew her own conclusions from the numbers. Shenkiy, fool that he was, indulged a belief that the Defense Committee might be able to challenge CODA. That was a rank impossibility; either they stayed out of any conflict, or Alta would surrender unconditionally.

“Mr. Talakan. Some good news, please." Alta glanced over at the tone in Major Kalasos's voice—the mixed-breed dog had an expectant smile, quite at odds with the ominous data in the presentation.

“Yes, ma'am. I—I might have to become somewhat… ma'am, permission to continue in English?"

“Granted." And in any case, discussing tactics, most of the words were human anyway. Nakathja had no good word for operational tempo.

Talakan took a deep breath, and with one more tap of his finger a new graph appeared. At first Alta thought she was looking at a frequency transform, then at a spectrograph. Then she had no idea. Even in English, the shepherd was struggling to find a way to begin talking. “It's the EM—it's… well. Basically—so if…"

“Keep it simple, sergeant."

“This is a plot of—from—the guidance system on a Jackal 55. It sends a series of wideband pulses to compute range and target movement. There's a gap—here, here, here… regular periods," Talakan pointed to them in turn.

“This is where the data would be crosschecked against the precomputed solutions transmitted over the Uniform Datalink," Major Kalasos explained. “We noticed this when the fleet was below the line of sight and UDL dropped out."

“The pulses are modulated by the firing computer with a unique key. We've gathered enough data that we've been able to derive the protocol. We can transmit false data back to the guidance computer. If the variation is too great, the computer will discard it. But it would be possible to introduce an error of at least a few meters."

“It's better than that, general. The firing computer is common to the 33, 33i, 55 and 55i—every walker the Jericho militias have. They'll probably adapt quickly, but with your permission…."

“Proof of concept," Alta said, nodding. “If it works, find a way to make it operational on every tank we have. And keep it a secret."

With her good news taken care of for the day, she felt strong enough to embark on undoing all of her reasonably settled mind. The drive to Kodajuk took no more than twenty minutes, even taking her time, and twenty minutes was plenty to restore a healthy sense of unease.

She knew the road by heart, though she'd never taken it before—the last time she'd been in Kodajuk the path hadn't even existed. Nor had the buried power lines, or the signposts. Or the farm, on the far side of a gentle hill, with its driveway hidden until she was nearly upon it.

That fact, too, she'd committed to the sharp-focused insight born of anxiety. Alta didn't miss the turn, bringing the hoverdyne to a stop just past the open gate and dropping it down onto its skids. She opened the door to find a sheep staring at her. The Ibizan cocked her head. “Hello? Go away." It didn't move. She reached out and gave its nose a shove. Nothing.

At last, when she shoved the door wide and got out, stomping her boot on the ground, the sheep jerked back and then trotted off, further down the hill. It had been one of the bolder ones; the rest of the flock was gathered two hundred meters away, watching her arrival closely.

The Ibizan locked her hoverdyne and started along the path to a stone cottage halfway up the hill. The inner fence gate, too, had been left open; a figure reclined against one of the posts, although they made no attempt to close the gate even when she drew near.

“Alhakhnan goru," she told him.

Khalizai swallowed hard. “I said I never wanted to see you again, Altalanuk."

“Then close your eyes."

The husky did, dutifully, but the moment she embraced him Khalizai's arms went tight around her back. His grasp was as strong as it had ever been. “Talla… I told you we needed to stop until… I don't suppose I'm that lucky—I saw the insignia on your car."

“You're not that lucky," she confessed, and let him go. “At least… at least believe I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."

“Not until you retire," he reminded her. “You're not setting foot in my house until you retire, Talla. Until you can be done with this. I… I can't. I've followed the news; I know what's going on."

“I need your help, Kha'zai."

He looked away from her. “No."

“Hear me out."

“No." Khalizai shook his head fiercely. “I'm through with that. If you're not, I… I don't know what to tell you."

He started to turn, and she grabbed at his paw—holding it tightly, her claws digging it. “Why do you think I do it? Still? I never argued with you when you walked away, Kha'zai. I didn't question your courage or your faith, I left you to the ranch and your flock and your house. Why do you think I do it? This place, damn it. I wake up and I go to work, and I keep fighting—for you. For your sheep. You might not let me in your house, but you're going to listen. You don't walk away this time."

The husky sighed, and twisted his paw from out of her grip. “Talla, if I didn't love you…" He shook his head again, but wearily. The last time they'd spoken it was after a minor skirmish east of the colony's borders; Alta had been in hospital, her arm badly burnt—the scout car she'd escaped from had fared worse.

Khalizai, retired from the Defense Committee for six months by that point, asked her to retire, as well. The most important fighting was over, he said; they'd earned a chance at life doing something simpler. But even then Alta felt the future was insecure; even then she saw the threat of complacency.

And he'd said that he understood, but he needed distance. From the killing, and the constant tension of their mortal peril. Thus the farm, on land owned by one of the agricultural collectives. His voice was gentle, and old. “You never came here. I didn't really mean I never wanted to see you again."

She'd known that even at the time; it was her own sensibilities that kept her. “But I agreed with you. I want to settle down, too, Kha'zai. It would've been complicated, that's all. It still will be."

“It always is." He pulled the iron gate shut behind them and jerked his nose to the little bungalow. “Fine. I'll put some tea on."

Alta didn't enter. She sat cross-legged on the lawn in front of the door, the grass soft under her legs and tickling her tail, and waited until he came back with the teapot and two cups. “Oolong?"

“Darjeeling." He sat the same way, putting the tea off to one side while it steeped. “I never got the hang of your Martian stuff, Talla."

“You never tried it."

“I lacked the opportunity. Ah, but why bother? Let's not pretend."

“Pretend, Kha'zai?"

“How's the DC? I heard Zhadan has a real command, now? He was a quick study—a bit aggressive, but that never bothered you much." The husky gave her a smile; its softness made the intent difficult to judge. “A fifth battalion?"

“A scout battalion, yes," she said. “We had the people, and the opportunity to see how well everything works. They've been actively deployed for a month now."

“With CODA?"

“Yes. They asked for support from the locals. Jericho wasn't inclined to, but I hoped that if we lent forces it might make CODA a bit more sympathetic to us… and it's a good opportunity for the DC to gain experience with their tactics and equipment."

“The new walkers? 57s?"

“This is what you meant when you said we should stop pretending, Khalizai? How much do you know, then? I thought all that mattered was the sheep?"

He checked the tea before answering, and poured both of their cups full. “As a farmer, I need to know the world around me. The weather… the price of wool… how likely I am to be immolated. It can't escape you that the ranch is… well, it would be on the front lines. I imagine your contingency plans show Kodajuk as a key human objective."

“Yes," the Ibizan admitted. If a line was drawn between the border crossing at Encha and the coast, Kodajuk would be the last point of defense before an invasion cut the colony in half. “It did not escape me."

“So I was always destined to wind up back in your life. At least when the humans slaughter me and my flock." Khalizai took a sip of his tea; his bitter smile vanished behind the rim of the cup. “What did you need me for?"

“People. We need people. Doctors. Trauma surgeons, paramedics… equipment, too, but… is the recruitment network still active? Djanesh and…"

“He's been dead for a few years. Natural causes; nothing nefarious. I still have connections, but, to be honest… it's not much of a pitch, Talla, you know? Come here to stitch your comrades back together for a few more days until it all ends—hardly a good verse for the Alkosh, is it?"

“Do you still think about it, though? The Alkosh, the calling, our home…"

“Did it matter? Maybe I do. Maybe the new crowd of angry young revolutionaries thinks about it, too—I hope they're hearing something pleasant. I'd hate to think the Hashida are fighting for nothing. Or the ones that come after them."

“They're going to declare independence."

Khalizai tilted his head. “Al-Hashida?"

“Our government. Eight months, I think… Before next summer, at least. They've asked me to prepare plans. They're almost the same as the ones we used to have… except I think we might be able to do it this time. We'll have to, if it comes to that. The Business Council will force our hand."

“Why now?"

“I'm sure you've heard the rumors coming out of the Observatory."

“I haven't. I have contacts in the Defense Committee and the Hashida, yes, but not the Foreign Ministry. Halinchi is the only name I know, and she's never at the Observatory itself, anyway. Always traveling—or on that ship. What's it called, that affair?"

“The Joint Administration Working Group. In this case, I'm not telling you anything classified, but rumors have been that the Joint Working Group is going to ask us and the Business Council to draw up and settle official borders."

“We have official borders. In the charter—what did we fight for, otherwise?"

Now it was the Ibizan's turn for a bitter smile. “Those borders were drawn by a military commander and ratified by the sector vice-president. There was no vote—that's been the JBC's line all along. They want to negotiate on fixed borders, which I'm sure means we give them Ikashta and Salem—maybe everything north of the river. Including your sheep."

“And if we said 'no,' we'd be giving them an excuse for unilateral action to bring us into compliance. Hm." He took another sip of his tea. “You're certain of our intent, Talla?"

“Yes. I wouldn't be here otherwise. I'm taking care of what I can, but I've never had your skill—or your connections. I can't do this by myself."

“Well, then. Let's see what our options are." He stood up, grabbing his cup and the teapot. “I still have a few friends. Kagar Kohisha—I don't know if you ever met him? Took over for Djanesh. Come on, let's get inside."

Carefully, she got to her feet, but when he moved to the door she shook her head. “Not yet, Kha'zai. You were right—about this place. About what it means. Soon, I hope… soon I'll be able to. But not yet."

He stared at her, searching, before a gentle nod settled it. “Not yet. I'll be in touch, then."

***

Ford Creek valley, north of Tascat Degh

Unaffiliated Jericho

20/4/2537

They have no idea what's coming. That was Darwin's first thought, looking down on lit windows and the relaxed pace of such activity as could even be detected. Willow Spring was a small town. None of them had any clue. They were safe. Comfortable.

Technically speaking, the territory did not belong to Kashkin. This didn't concern Darwin. For one, pedantically, it belonged to no-one. The colony's northern border ran along Copper Creek to Fallrace, one of its tributaries.

But, as it curved past the mouth of Fallrace, Copper Creek was also technically the western border of human expansion. The equilateral triangle of land—one large hill, barely ten kilometers on a side—between Copper Creek and Ford Creek was an accident of politics and geography.

Humans had no right to inhabit it, they had simply done so, and this arrogance deserved to be countered. He would do so on pragmatic grounds, if no other. Behind him, on the Kashkin side of Copper Creek, he could easily see the ruins of Tascat Degh, yet to be rebuilt since human raids destroyed it. The Triangle, with its high ground, was an unacceptable strategic liability.

Ford Creek made for a much cleaner border, a much more defensible border. And, true, the space between was inhabited, but not by anything of consequence. Willow Spring served to support a foundry and a metallurgical research station, and either could be relocated—maybe even to within human territory, where humans might have to deal with the pollution the foundry caused.

The foundry had shut down for the night, along with nearly everything else—including the station of the sentry charged with monitoring the listening posts. No, they had no idea what was coming.

Serves them right.

This, his second thought, he discovered, banished any qualms. If the hundred-odd inhabitants of Willow Spring actually had no idea, it only condemned them all the more. There was no innocence in ignorance, and neither justified the human village's existence.

“In position," a voice hissed softly on the radio tucked into his right ear. “The bridge over Ha'vord Creek is unoccupied and unguarded."

Darwin turned up the magnification and scanned the town again. Lights. The longer he gazed, the more he felt it was the lights that truly bothered him. The lights, defiant in the peaceful gloom of the Ford Creek valley, said they expected nothing; feared nothing.

How? After everything, how can they be so…

Arrogant. Again and again, it came back to arrogance. The northern frontier, with its unforgiving terrain and limited development, had stayed quiet since the destruction of Tascat. The village lights demanded from him a respect they had done nothing at all to earn.

The Border Collie clicked the mic on. “Do it."

His finger was still on the switch when two white streaks lanced through the darkness, converging with surgical precision on the town's radio transmitter. Either rocket would've done the trick; combined the explosion's glare overwhelmed, for a glorious few seconds, the lights of the town.

Another pair followed; then another. One hit the foundry stack, tearing through the stonework like dragon's fire, before its better-aimed fellows struck the power station. Sparks flared, kicked up like crashing surf, and Darwin saw the silhouette of the stack toppling framed in the generator's dying protest—then the dimming glare from the rocket warheads was all that remained.

Through the binoculars, with their enhanced vision, he could see the town finally coming alert. But it was aimless, the swarming of a disturbed anthill. Another rocket shattered the only defensive turret before anyone managed to switch it to backup power. If it had backup power? Maybe they hadn't planned for that, either.

“That's it," he called on the radio. “No other signals on the scope. Move in."

It required no further shooting; that was fine by him. As long as the humans didn't intend to fight back, Darwin wasn't troubled by leaving them unharmed. Some of the Hashida disagreed. Not without cause, either; he could freely admit that much. Kita Hadaran was entirely correct when the husky pointed out that human militias never bothered with restraint.

And she pointed it out often. But the Hashida held themselves to a higher standard, and once the humans surrendered he observed no further violence. None of the human interlopers saw so much as rough manhandling. Satisfied, Darwin turned his attention to the horizon, and kept careful watch while the erstwhile denizens of Willow Spring were permitted to gather their possessions and depart.

Quite tidy, really. Not bad for disorganized 'terrorists,' either, Darwin thought. The worst part had been hitting the foundry stack, but its collapse produced no serious injuries and nothing toxic had escaped. Proper experts, trained engineers, would be able to dismantle everything at their own leisure, when the Triangle was resettled.

What would they do then? Build a new research post? Dam the swift, clean Ford Creek—Ha'vord Creek, they'd be calling it that before long—for something useful? Farming? Here, the Border Collie reflected, he was the one who had no idea what was coming. And that, also, was fine by him. They'd done what they really needed to do.

Some time the next morning he awoke; Kita Hadaran's weight was bearing down on the mattress. Hearing his questioning grunt, the husky leaned back, reclining on his stomach to pin him. “Well, that took a while," she said. “Were you planning on going to your staff meeting?"

“I rescheduled it. To the afternoon—Tacherat won't be back until then, anyway."

Kita rolled herself over, half on the bed, and propped herself up on her elbows until she could make eye contact. “With Kadanja?"

“Mm-hm."

“He shows promise." He was being tested as a new subcommander; with almost four hundred paramilitaries, the Hashida had grown too substantial to be thought of as a single unit, even if many of them were part-time volunteers.

Already they were engaged in more operations than Darwin could oversee personally. He had to delegate, and if he was going to delegate, he intended to rely on subordinates with enough initiative to put teeth in the Hashida's name.

That was Kita's philosophy, too; the husky's expression became contemplative. “Do you think Tacherat will say the next step will be the eastern plains, like we've been doing here?"

“Probably." The tiger had been calling for retaliation ever since human militias cleared the riverland of Kashkin settlers. Like we've been doing here—Darwin thought it, and Kita probably did too, but neither of them spoke aloud.

“You're still not convinced."

“No. It's too open. Too well-traveled—if they caught us off guard, we'd be in trouble. We'll get to it in time."

Farms and little villages filled the plains that lay beyond the Kashkin's eastern borders, south of the Arkadiensee. Humans started moving in almost as soon as the last moreaus had been expelled, and Darwin agreed with Tacherat that the insult could not be indefinitely borne.

Nobody really seemed to care about the land. General Altalanuk's Defense Committee hadn't come to the aid of the farmers, had she? But in the Hashida's attacks on human interlopers, and in their raids on the convoys that traveled mining roads just beyond the plain, they'd met only disorganized human militias.

He had to wonder if they felt abandoned, too. Serves them right.

At the next Hashida planning meeting, Tacherat indeed proposed an attack on three of the human towns closest to the colony's official border: newly established, using the ruined walls and roads of the moreau deghja they'd driven out.

“Miller Circle, Conway, New Tucson," Darwin read carefully. “Twenty, thirty humans apiece?"

“New Tucson is the largest, at sixty. They're still living in prefabricated housing. We assume their plans are to get power up and running so they can harvest whatever crops are left from Hanoja Degh."

“Are they defended?"

“Sentry guns on the northwestern approach. The southwestern side is a limited PPC mine deployment. We have a good map." Tacherat called it up with a wave of his sturdy, sharp-clawed paw. “We'll attack with two parties, one distracting the sentries and the other infiltrating through the minefield. Once the town is clear, we'll hit Conway—and I assume Miller Circle will be completely evacuated by the time fighting is over there."

“Four hours?" Darwin figured they'd have four hours to operate freely before any reinforcements could make their way down from officially human-controlled territory beyond the river.

“Six." Nakhul, their intelligence specialist, spoke up. “We'll have six hours, if the attack begins on schedule at two in the morning."

“Nakhich? What do you mean?"

“The militia escorting their convoy transports is understrength right now for budgetary reasons. They'll be down a rapid-reaction squad this evening, so it's at least another two hours to move armored trucks down from Silver City."

“Where did you learn all this?" Darwin asked the blue merle; she grinned. “Must be good news."

“We didn't learn any of this, Darwin," she teased. “We certainly didn't learn it from the same place we learned the map of the minefield southwest of Tucson." Nakhul immediately dropped the grin, shifting back to straightforward seriousness. “But it's from the KDC intelligence group. They've been keeping the plains under surveillance."

Darwin frowned. “We agreed with General Altalanuk that we wouldn't entangle ourselves with them. She wants her forces to be loyal to the Defense Committee."

“They are. It's from someone high-placed in the organization—we wouldn't have been told if the general didn't know about it. She'll know they're feeding it to us."

“Are they trying to steer us?" He asked the council. “Trying to get us to do the work they won't sully their paws with?"

“No," Tacherat answered, shaking his head. “I think they want to help. If the rumors are true about independence, they can't afford any bad blood… and not just fighting, either. They can't afford for us to feel that they're not supportive… or the contrary."

Independence. It had been al-Hashida's demand from the beginning of the group. Now the word was on everyone's tongue from Kir Kodaw to Copper Creek. Darwin had managed to keep himself from tasting it, even after word leaked of the human congress's treacherous plot.

Six months for the Jericho Business Council and the Chartered Colony to come to an agreement on future borders. It didn't take an extremist to know there was only one way it could possibly end: the council would demand Kashkin territory, with military gunships to back up their 'diplomacy.'

No government making such a concession could claim any legitimacy whatsoever, and even Kodja was probably not enough of a coward to concede. In which case they would fight—and their borders would be determined by what they could keep. And even if he wasn't yet allowing himself to become drunk on independence, Darwin had known that when he called for the attack on Willow Spring.

“If we're being supportive, then it's time we started considering strategy," Darwin said. He waited for the others to give him their full attention. “Any human between the Ukina and the Uchdawan rivers is a liability. Any human between Zagey Creek and Ha'vord Creek"—reflexively he gave Copper and Ford creeks their proper names—“is a liability, too. Tucson is only the beginning."

***

Supreme Command, Alliance Forces Jericho

Ford City, Yucatec Jericho

27/5/2537

General Kastner reviewed the memo one last time before sending it, failing to convince himself even for a moment that it would matter much. No more than his promotion had.

In my last report, I ascribed the loss of six mining trucks and a mobile excavation platform to NHA terrorists in the previous fortnight. I have received no answer. Yesterday's attack adds another three vehicles to this tally.

_Settlers have given up Karlsruhe, the eighth town in the Dun Gap to be abandoned since NHA operatives began their campaign in the Gap. While I do not need to be reminded that living south of the Dun River itself is technically unauthorized, the loss of property and life compromises our credibility. _

I reiterate my previous statement. The Council Military Authority has taken on partnerships with two corporate militias, but even ignoring residents of the Dun Gap, I cannot continue to protect the Silver City-Amarna road with the resources available to me. I realize I was ambiguous in my requirements. At minimum, securing the trade route will require:

- 3 unmanned surveillance vehicles to provide continuous reconnaissance along the convoy route, see appendix: Ó150k/week

- 1 gunship to support rapid reaction operations, see appendix: Ó800k/week

- Overtime pay for 150 specialists, 80 under combat bonus: Ó60k/week

From a cost-benefit analysis, note that we have lost more in materiel and productivity by a factor of 4.2 (see appendix) than funding this request for the next six months. Without incremental expenditure, Supreme Command, Alliance Forces Jericho is forced to rely on corporate mercenaries who may be unreliable or worse.

Pleased to discuss details further.

— Gen. Max S. Kastner, Commander

SCAFJ

His predecessor had left him with a list of advice and a bottle of scotch. Max had internalized the list, and he joked about the scotch—but he had manage to avoid dipping into it.

The time was coming.

The Jericho Business Council demanded regular updates on the state of the Council Military Authority, which he was happy to provide. He was even happy to assent when they asked him to partner with the private corporate militias, who didn't cost the JBC anything, and to form the Supreme Command, Alliance Forces Jericho as though it was anything other than a joke.

But if he was happy to stroke their egos, Max was increasingly less happy to continue requesting additional resources, none of which had been approved. They wanted things done cheaply, and they ignored the toll that 'non-human actors'—NHAs, because 'moreau' sounded too dignified—had been taking.

“They're dogs," the Council liaison had sniffed. “Please."

Max knew that much. When the Council gave him responsibility for getting rid of a few hundred spare dogs, he'd taken one home rather than having it destroyed. The dog, or NHA, or whatever—nameless and largely formless—spent her days sitting in a corner of his penthouse.

He asked her questions, of course: tell me about your kind—how do you think? What do you believe? And the answer was invariably the same. She stared at him blankly, and said she had nothing to report.

Or, rather, she would say: the 426 is unable to answer this question, sir. She spoke of herself in a genderless third-person and had refused to stop despite his repeated entreaties. The whole thing was eerie. Surely, they weren't all like that—how could they be?

They had diplomats, after all; they had businessmen and scientists and engineers. They also had a military, which was his primary concern. His dog wouldn't know anything about them. He didn't bother asking; he wouldn't expect her to know.

But his intelligence officer offered no more information. Their fighting force was organized into four somewhat oversized battalions; their weapons were obsolete, Soviet hand-me-downs with extra armor welded on… and they didn't even have very many of those.

What little he could glean concerned him. Not that he thought they would be a troubling foe—there just weren't enough of them for that. But the Jericho Business Council seriously underestimated how difficult a war would be. And war was coming; they were absolutely certain of that much.

Actually. He pulled out the whiskey, and his fingers toyed with its seal. It's not certainty, it's excitement. They measured the timeline of the conflict in hours or days; the Council troubled itself more with the aftermath, by which they meant parceling out the land currently, and illegally, held by the animals.

On his desk was a reminder, from the liaison, that he needed to provide transports for removing any survivors from the territory, and that the daily rental fees were high and they didn't intend to pay for more than was absolutely needed.

The door chimed and, with startled guilt, Max slid the bottle back into his desk and got to his feet to go and greet his guest. “Come."

His secretary held the door open for the stout figure who entered. Max had only seen Eugenio Mazzanti with a beard; being clean-shaven took decades off his appearance. He could've been fresh out of the academy. “General Kastner, I presume?"

“Yes, sir." The door shut behind him. “I was hoping we could talk briefly, while you're still on the surface."

“Certainly. What's on your mind?"

“The north, for one. Affairs are… settled?"

“The boring parts, yes. Now comes the politics, which seem to be beyond my pay-grade." If Mazzanti was joking, he didn't smile. The major-general had been CODA's operational commander in their brief punitive campaign—the sixth such campaign he'd overseen in the last year, according to a press release. “I hope you were kept informed."

“Not really, no."

“I suppose it didn't really concern you." Still no smile.

Max flinched. “This talk is off-the-record, right?"

“I'm not a gossip, if that's what you mean." Mazzanti helped himself to a seat on the sumptuous leather couch that faced the darkened screen where Kastner ordinarily projected a map, or the day's intelligence reports.

Max sat, too, maintaining a deferential distance. “I had a plan for committing six of our Jackal companies. The Council wasn't keen on losing three quarters of our walkers to unpaid labor. I proposed four. Then two. They—"

“The campaign was a success, general. But even if it hadn't been, your excuses aren't really that interesting to me."

“I'm not making excuses. I'm trying to explain what I'm up against. They're keeping the task force here until the negotiations are finished, right? It's been six weeks since the Joint Working Group demanded proposals. There's nothing from the moreaus, and nothing from us."

“So?"

“I'm in the dark. But my assumption is that the Council believes the moreaus are going to fight. And they think that if the moreaus fight, we've been given a free hand to take them out. My assumption is that the moreau strategy is to run out the clock on the border proposal, and then hold out until the ecclesia forces another cease-fire."

“So?"

He shifted uncomfortably, and swallowed. “Off the record, sir, is that also your understanding?"

“Yes. Sure."

“It puts me in a position of needing to take as much territory as possible before a cease-fire. That's what I've been told to do. If we can take the dam and the hills west of the listening post, we'll at least be able to extract serious concessions… maybe complete surrender."

“Yes," the major-general agreed. “I don't know what you want, general. I think everyone understands what's going to happen. The Joint Working Group doesn't have authority over our task force—they'll have to get a mandate from the ecclesia. Two days, maybe three if they're busy."

“I don't think I can do that on my own. Off the record." He coughed awkwardly. “I can win by attrition, if nothing else—they're outnumbered and we can blockade them. But that takes time. I'd need your help."

Mazzanti leaned back against the leather, crossing his arms. “My help?"

“Fire support and logistics, mostly, but yes. We don't have much of an air force, and the Council doesn't want to invest in more artillery… we just have what the Jackals can mount."

“I suppose they felt artillery was a needless expense. It doesn't parade well."

Max sighed. He felt acutely under the microscope, as though the general blamed him for the failings of his employers. “No. We can pay, though. I raised a purchase order through our liaison to cover ammunition and bonuses for any sorties. Short, high-intensity operations can be stressful, I know, but… if we want to be at the coast in two days we need to hit them hard and fast."

“Tactically, I agree."

“Do you have any more information on the disposition of their forces?"

The general's arms remained crossed. “We do, but it's classified information. I'm not authorized to disclose it."

“Congress appointed you as operational commander of the peacekeeping force, though, didn't they?"

“Yes. What you're talking about isn't exactly peacekeeping, general. Anyway, it doesn't matter—your council hasn't paid the fees. We're operating pro bono… and as you can guess, CODA doesn't like that very much."

The rest of the conversation stayed tense. Max kept his temper in check until after General Mazzanti had left, and then he took out the bottle of scotch, eyeing it hungrily. Drafting the memo to be delivered by his adjutant took half a dozen false, profane starts.

What the fuck did he mean we 'haven't paid the fees'?

What are you shitheads even playing at? Do you think I'm an idiot?

Am I being dry fucked here?

Is that bitch a test from fucking God?

Do you give a shit if I fail it?

How long do you think I'll be your sacrificial fucking goat for, assholes?

Please clarify disbursement of fees to the Colonial Defense Authority. If the budget was redirected, to where was it redirected and why? I fear our ability to cooperate productively with CODA may be limited if we cannot resolve this issue as soon as possible.

— Gen. Max S. Kastner, Commander

SCAFJ

***

Colonial Administration Building

Davis, Chartered Colonial Jericho

10/6/2537

“Did you have parents? You didn't have parents, right?"

Alta quirked an eyebrow. “No," she said.

“I didn't either. I don't remember anything before my indoctrination." That was the fate of many moreaus; Korteran Halinchi was no exception. “My mentor was a good person. He believed in the rule of law. He helped me negotiate my liberty deed. Maybe it's silly, but the first time I ever signed my name to a document for the colony I couldn't help hoping he'd be proud of me."

“And was he?"

“I never asked. We don't keep in touch." Her first treaty on behalf of the Foreign Ministry was, in any case, agreeing to limits on untreated agricultural waste. Not anything special.

Well… it was, after a fashion, wasn't it? The first time we got one of their towns to actually work with us on something. Even if the colony wound up paying for the humans to treat their runoff. Even if they still exceeded their limits, on occasion, and never paid the stipulated fines.

It was still something of a milestone. Halinchi didn't correct herself; she didn't feel it would be worth explaining the intricacies to Altalanuk, who wasn't likely to care. “Are there people you hope are proud of you?"

“Yes."

The Ibizan had left it at that. Halinchi didn't like the silence; it felt heavy. “Is it ever like this before a battle? This kind of…"

“Terror?"

“I was going to say anticipation." The badger gave a short, weak chuckle. “But 'terror' might be more apt. But if it's worked out so far, perhaps, then, I should consider that a good sign."

The Ibizan did not laugh. She didn't show any emotion at all that Halinchi could discern. “Perhaps. We'll see, won't we?"

The sturdy, elegant oak door opened. Kodja had been alone in his office; he'd opened the door exactly at the turn of the hour and not one second before. Halinchi wondered how long the retriever had been waiting.

He looked old, and unspeakably tired, but he put on a warm-enough smile and held the door open for the pair. All the curtains were up on the windows, the better to catch the early sun.

“They don't still execute traitors by firing squad, do they?" he asked. “I want to know if Nuri should plan for an open casket."

“What?"

His smile briefly strengthened. “It's a human custom, Alta. I presume we are about to become traitors? You're about to tell me that, I'm sure."

“It's slightly more complicated," Halinchi said. She waited for Kodja to sit down and took one of the seats on the other side of his desk before setting a flat computer down where he could read it. “You will note the language."

Kodja scanned the document and shook his head. “I won't, actually. The writing isn't in Rukhat or English letters. It's…"

“Cyrillic. This is a cable from Minister Kapustina, the Head of Shipwrights for the Grand Soviet. Ilona Kapustina sits on the inner council. I've been communicating with her direct reports."

“Kapustina also happens to be a moreau," Alta said. “We haven't met directly, but I know her siblings. I thought you might want to be aware of that."

The Grand Soviet existed, nominally, as a mere administrative council—the various republics of the Orion Arm were, after all, notionally independent. They were also so reclusive that Halinchi had precious little insight into their functioning, though it had become clear enough to the badger that the Grand Soviet was more than just a bureaucratic formality.

We have long been sympathetic to the plight of our uplifted comrades, Kapustina said over the long-range subspace radio. But we have for just as long maintained our prudent policy of avoiding interference in internal Yucatec politics.

“What does it say?" Kodja asked.

“They stay out of Alliance affairs. They wanted to make that clear. Much as they mourn the plight of moreaus like us, and much as they dislike the corporate control of the territory, they view our conflict with the Jericho Business Council as a domestic matter."

“Oh." Kodja's voice was soft, flat with the implication. “I see."

“Do you?"

“It might, under… certain circumstances, prove to be less of a domestic matter, might it not, Minister Halinchi?"

“If we issue a declaration of independence, the premier has committed to recognizing it at once. That would open the door to substantial military and economic aid, the details of which I have reviewed with General Altalanuk."

“And?"

Halinchi looked to Alta; the Ibizan kept her voice even and soft. “It would help, administrator. The promise is for additional vehicles, spare parts, and training. Artillery, antiaircraft weaponry, powered armor… I won't call it priceless, but the calculus definitely changes. The catch—when you ask me for the bad news—is that we can't use them immediately."

“And we would be directly involving a foreign power in this conflict," Kodja pointed out. “That raises the stakes quite a lot, doesn't it? The JBC won't stand idle if that happens. Neither will Congress."

Forty hours before, Halinchi had found herself standing on the observation deck of the command cruiser Trafalgar, flagship of the task force circling their world. They'd been alone in the room, and the planet was dark beneath them.

“I believe you," the human had said.

“And do you understand?"

“Yes."

“Then your response is…"

“There is no response," General Mazzanti answered. “I can't respond to that, Madam Halinchi. My God—of course I can't."

“You said that you understood."

The human general held out his hand to take her computer, and flicked quickly through everything they'd discussed. He stopped on a map. “This caught my attention, Madam Halinchi. These markers. From a… strategic standpoint, an operational standpoint… I will be watching them closely."

“Very well," she'd replied, hesitantly.

“My tactical advisors will be watching them closely. My political advisors will be watching them. Closely. Do you believe me?"

Confused, she'd shaken her head. “Yes, but…"

“And do you understand?"

In Kodja's office, the badger steeled herself. “CODA won't intervene, administrator. Marleyville, Silver City, and the Short White River are their red line. If we don't cross them, they'll stay neutral."

The retriever cocked his head in sharp, immediate disbelief. “Neutral?"

“It's a business," Alta answered. “Sometimes the return on investment isn't worth it. I haven't had the time to consider how this changes our plans. I've said for some time that we need to take some human territory. This 'red line' comprises half of that, including the north."

“General Mazzanti wasn't willing to negotiate. Officially, this isn't something they can negotiate on. Officially, of course, they'll resist. Condemn, even. But they're pragmatic, Kodja. They didn't retake the Black Hills Free State, even understanding the precedent it sets."

Kodja thought about that and finally nodded. “I can put it to the cabinet, although if you're coming to me I guess I know where the votes are. If we do it—if—what do the next four months look like?"

Bad. Halinchi thought they would look bad. The longer their colony went without proposing negotiations to the ecclesia, the more obvious their intentions would be. They could expect the Business Council to prepare for the worst; they could expect the militias to become more aggressive, and the Hashida to act in kind.

And who would bother to stop them? Alta had no incentive to spill blood in controlling a group whose only fault was being slightly premature. The best they could hope for was to keep the violence at a gentle enough simmer that the humans wouldn't take preemptive action.

The more she went on, the more Kodja's ears lowered. He said that he had to think about it, and dismissed the two. Altalanuk accompanied the badger silently down to the lobby of the capitol building. “If you have a free moment," the Ibizan finally spoke, “you might indulge yourself with some creative writing."

“Excuse me?"

“A proper declaration of independence. It should be exciting, I imagine… I'm not much for poetry. But you could be. Something meaningful, something to really… make your mentor proud of what you've accomplished."

“Kodja didn't sound convinced. It all presumes we even do this. I wouldn't want to… to get my hopes up. Or anyone's hopes up. You know?"

The Ibizan hound shook her head. “We knew there couldn't really be negotiation, sister. Kodja wasn't naive about the need for our separation. Now you have told him that we have a powerful ally, and I have told him that the Defense Committee is ready. He knew it was necessary… now he knows that it is possible. Alea iacta est."

“I'm sorry. I still haven't learned all your language."

“It's not ours. The Roman government, terrified of what their populist hero had become, ordered Julius Caesar to surrender his army. Instead he marched it across the river Rubicon, the last border between Rome and the frontier. Alea iacta est: the die is cast, and we don't know where it will land. In Rukhat, we would say kostichja uchag. Kost means 'bone'—I've always wondered if that was intentional…"

“Did he win?"

“He won. Five years later his men stabbed him to death on the floor of the senate. Humans are fickle like that."

“That's… dark."

“The die is cast. But sometimes it takes quite some time to come to rest."

***

Supreme Command, Alliance Forces Jericho

Ford City, Yucatec Jericho

13/6/2537

“I quit."

“You can't quit. Your contract binds you for the next year."

“I'll buy it out, then."

Elodie smirked. “You can't afford to. Max, what's your real problem?"

“You're not taking this seriously. That's my real problem. How much more explicit do I have to be for the Board to understand? I cannot guarantee you the colony if you don't give me what I'm asking for."

“You have fourteen thousand soldiers, Max. You're never going to be happy—admit it. If you can't round up a few criminals and the dog militia with fourteen thousand soldiers, how do you expect me to take you seriously?"

She wouldn't budge. Nothing he said made a difference.

Out of fourteen thousand soldiers, nearly a third were support personnel: cooks, mechanics, lawyers, cargo hoverdyne operators. Half of the rest were essentially policemen, protected by riot gear, armed with light pulse rifles, and traveling in unarmored speeders.

With the Sanganese dealt with, both his armored battalions had been freed up from having to guard the northern front—but if the brief, intense fighting showed anything it was that the walkers badly needed air support, and Max was growing concerned that CODA would not lift a finger to help… particularly after his payment for their services was declined.

That realization had been what prompted the emergency meeting with Elodie, the Jericho Governance Board representative and bane of his existence. He'd put together a detailed budget for purchasing airstrikes from the CODA task force, and only learned they didn't feel like paying when a weekly meeting showed him with more money than he expected to have.

Elodie insisted, over and over, that he didn't need it.

There was no way to make her understand that the question wasn't of victory. They would win, in a vacuum; it was inevitable. But. If the NHAs felt like defending their capital, he'd be forced into urban combat. He could see the pictures on the news already—houses leveled, bodies in the streets… even if the Council didn't mind, disquiet in the sector government was unavoidable. Voices would start to agitate for intervention.

“That's your concern? Public relations?"

“The sector ecclesia hasn't been dealing with this problem for as long as you have," he said, trying to find some new way to appeal to her. “They'll be sympathetic. They'll force a cease-fire before we can win a decisive battle. Then this all gets… messy."

Elodie rolled her eyes. “Leave that to me," she said.

Max had lost faith in those promises. He was growing sick of the whole mess. The money wasn't worth it. The prestige of a major command wasn't worth it. Fighting animals wasn't worth it. The animal he'd wound up owning, a permanent fixture of his apartment, certainly wasn't worth it.

He thought about getting rid of her every time he came home; this time was no exception. She was sitting, cross-legged, with her eyes closed. Motionless. Max didn't know if the dog had moved since he'd left in the morning. I could ask. I could ask and she'd say something uncomfortable, and then…

“Have you been there since I left?"

The dog opened her eyes and swiveled her head to face him. “Yes, sir. The 426 relieved itself once at approximately eleven. It consumed its midday repast at thirteen. Should it not have moved, sir?"

“You can move. It's fine. That's not what I meant." Max didn't like the way she spoke, but changing anything about the dog was an uphill battle. She only wore clothes because he demanded it, as far as he could tell.

“Understood, sir." Her eyes shut.

Max shuddered. He didn't know why he felt like he was being judged again, like he'd felt on the couch in his office with General Mazzanti. And even if the following days proved the general right, this was worse—it was in his home, for God's sake!—and he hated it. “Stop. Stop. Fuck, stop that."

“Sir." The dog twitched; her eyes were open, and slightly panicked. “The 426 did not intend—"

“No." He might as well have said bad dog, while he was at it; her ears flattened. “You have to have a name. We've been over this."

“426K-MUN is the name assigned to the 426, sir."

“Pick a different one. What's your favorite word? What's your favorite color?"

“It—it does not—sir, if you require—if it should research colors or—"

“No. Fine. I don't know what the hell 'MUN' is but you're… what, moon? No—Luna. Your name is Luna. Can you do that?"

“No, sir. The 426 is not able to make changes to its legal documentation. The penalties are quite severe." Her ears, like the sides of her head, were deep black; pinned, she didn't seem to have any ears at all.

“Just between us. You creep me the hell out, dog. Speak in the first person. Your English is just fine; I know you know how to do it."

She twitched again, and the worried look crept back into her eyes. “Th… I… th… sir. It is not… it is difficult, sir."

“Why?" At first there was no response. “Weren't you a data dog? Didn't you have to report to people? Report to me. Why? Be direct."

“The fo—the—" Her head jerked and she looked straight ahead. “The 426 believes there is a high likelihood you are testing it for noncompliant behavior and if it fails it will be punished, sir. This is based on several factors. You are displaying typical signs of human unease and aggression. Your employment requires conflict with special-purpose sentient units, increasing the probability that workplace difficulties will be displaced onto one. Regular investigations of noncompliance are standard protocol for maintenance of special-purpose sentient units and included in the documentation you were provided. The 426 does not believe, based on the nutrition provided to it, that you have read the entirety of this documentation but noncompliance is covered early in the manual. For these reasons the 426 believes it is being tested and lacks a reasonable course of action. End."

What the fuck did I just listen to? For ten seconds after that, while the dog kept staring at the wall, panting shallowly, Max stayed speechless. “Do you… believe me? Do you trust me?"

“Sir, this question cannot be answered adequately."

“It can, surely. 'Yes' or 'no'—that's pretty simple, I would think. Why can't you say 'yes' or 'no'? Just say 'yes' or 'no.'"

“It is not possible for the 426 to do this without fabrication, sir," she said. The way her muzzle jerked gave Max the rather unsettling impression of electrical shock. “It does not have a decision heuristic for 'trust,' sir."

“Bullshit." Max walked over until he was in her line of sight; the struggle to keep her composure was obvious on the dog's features. “You have to be able to understand 'trust.' You look at data all the time. Some of it's reliable; some of it's not. Don't you?"

“Yes, sir. However, this analysis is inappropriate when applied to handlers, sir. It is not permissible, for… for obvious reasons."

“So you don't… distrust them, because you have to do what they tell you. But you don't trust them, either. You just… listen?"

“Yes, sir."

He stepped back, and when she could no longer see him the dog visibly relaxed. “I will level with you, dog. Luna. I don't think I'm the first person to do this. I cannot be the first person to tell you to stop talking like a robot."

“No, sir. That seems likely."

I wonder. “This obviously makes you dogs uncomfortable. Now… now, if I said… 'we probably don't care if you're uncomfortable,' you wouldn't say anything. But if I said… '_if I said “_we probably don't care if you're uncomfortable," you wouldn't say anything' you might agree."

“Yes, sir."

“Do you agree, or do you agree that you'd agree?"

“Both, sir."

“Are you… programmed? Like… brainwashed, I mean? I guess to keep you reliable, that must be true. Is there some kind of a code word I can say that releases you from it? I'm sure they'd put one in. What is it?"

“Sir, it bears noting that if your conjecture is accurate, the 426 is tautologically unlikely to provide a useful answer to the question."

Max shook his head; little about the dog was becoming less frustrating and the more they went on the more he thought they weren't getting anywhere. Everything she said was more stonewalling; more ingrained defensive mechanism. More… “Wait. Say that again."

“Sir?"

“No, no, no. Not this time. That was sarcasm. You were telling a joke."

“If you feel that the 426—"

He crossed back into her field of vision and bent down to eye level. “First-person. 'I.' 'If you feel that I.'"

“If. If you think I—I was not taking you seriously that was not… my… intent."

“Here's my problem, Luna. I need to understand you. The way you think—the way your kind thinks. I don't understand you right now. Can you help?"

“I do not know, sir."

“Try. I mean, look." He sat down, facing the dog who kept trying to look away. “I don't really know why I agreed to take you, except you were free. You don't do much. I don't know what you did before, but… if you're not useful, I might as well get rid of you. So. Be useful."

She would not, or could not, bring herself to criticize him—directly. But he heard the subtext in her answer. “I believe that when you say 'I don't understand you,' you underestimate the degree to which this statement might be accurate, sir."

“How?"

“If you 'get rid of' me, sir, I will be killed. The threat is implicit in your request for help. The way you employ it suggests that you feel it is taken as a threat. We are disposable, sir; all of us know that."

Max ignored the momentary disquiet that tightened his stomach. “I wouldn't think that you want to die, though… do you?"

“That question does not matter. Sir, I have seen, on balance sheets, my 'kind'—as you say—terminated at regular intervals so a department can appear to be on target for lowering its operational expenditures."

“They don't care if you know? Doesn't that hit your morale pretty bad?"

“You asked about my programming, sir. As if there were some simple laws—a moreau cannot harm a human or defy a human and must obey all orders. As if… as if you could find a contradiction and my logic would break down. There is no logic, sir."

“What do you mean by that?"

“You own me. You are correct, even when you are factually mistaken. You act in my best interests, even when that entails causing injury or death. You speak honestly, even if in oxymoron. That's what it means, sir. If you tell me that two and two are five, or that I am six centuries old, I agree. My belief is not required. My consent is not required. This is very simple, sir, simpler even than your 'yes' or 'no' questions."

“Belief and consent have to be required, at least a little bit. Don't they?"

“Do you ask your oven whether or not it wishes to turn on? Do you require that it believes the temperature you have selected is appropriate for the meal you want to cook?"

Steadily, Max was going back to being unsettled. “You're not an oven."

“I am an appliance. I am a tool for analyzing and identifying accounting irregularities in the travel department of a large entertainment agency. I can speak to you because speech is easier for humans than the more esoteric ways of communicating my conclusions. That is all, sir."

“You're more than just a tool. You're alive, after all." Nothing. “Aren't you? Oh, come on. Are you alive, or not?"

She eyed him, showing no reluctance. “Within the parameters of our relationship, sir, only you can answer that."

“That's ridiculous."

“You presume to answer it for many thousands of—as you put it—my 'kind.' It would help, perhaps, if you saw me no differently."

The dog was not, at some level, wrong. But he didn't know what to make of that, and he didn't know what to make of her. The way she'd said it was so matter-of-fact—so perfectly accepting—that he couldn't find an answer.

And he found he didn't like the way his blood, for the briefest moment, ran cold.

***

Corsini, Chartered Colonial Jericho

12/9/2537

Levin watched his husband's paw as it wound aimlessly through the air; the Border Collie's ears twitched at the sound of music coming from the theremin. Arkas didn't like to be disturbed in his shop, and he hadn't yet noticed the intruder.

The last notes faded, at last. “Arkas? You wanted to show me something?"

Arkas turned to look at Levin over his shoulder. “I did! Come here."

The sculpture he'd been working on was made of marble cut into sharply geometric lines and polished until they shone. Turquoise, running through it like veins, gave the table-sized piece of stone the impression that it was some internal organ, preserved at a museum for display. “What is it?"

“Us," the samoyed answered. It was resting on a stand, which Arkas carefully rotated. As it turned, Levin began to see that he was looking at a map: the Short White River, between Encha and the Arkadiensee; the Copper River at the colony's northern border.

And in the way it caught the light he saw that not all of the marble had been polished equally. Beyond the colony's borders, a roughened texture absorbed the light, rather than reflecting it; Levin's eye was subtly drawn to the mirror finish of the Kashkin. “Who was this for?"

“Also us," Arkas said, grinning. “I had an idea in mind, not a client. Do you like it?"

“It's pretty," Levin admitted, and held out his paw. “Can I?" Arkas nodded, and the Border Collie ran his fingers along the surface of the stone—warm to the touch, with the pleasant heat of his husband's workshop.

“I wrote a poem, too." Kin al-chadan kasha / dhalhasarnag kada / dhaltanukag nasha / dhan dek ralkarata, it began. Home is that place which, when first found, you can never lose because it is mapped within your heart.

Levin felt his own heart quicken a beat or two. “You felt moved to write that, too, Arkas?"

“Yes," the samoyed said. “You don't approve?"

And Levin now understood why Arkas said he wanted to show the Border Collie something; why he'd waited until their son was on an overnight trip for the school and there would be no-one to disturb them if they argued. When they argued.

“What do you think, love?" Arkas asked, to break the silence. “Start with the poem." He scooted over on his bench, giving Levin room to sit down.

“You've always been a better poet than me. I think… the line about… home being the place whose bones are your own and where your bones will stay? It's pretty, but… dark. There are a lot of bones here, Arkas."

“And one day, ours, too. A long time in the future."

He wanted to agree with that. He wanted to believe that they were not, in fact, hurtling towards their demise. “It's only that… well, let me be honest, Arkas. It's only that the matter will take more than poetry."

Arkas nodded, reaching over to take the collie's paw. “I talked to Nuri dihun-Alsha Ha'kotja two days ago. Nuri told me she was thinking of volunteering for the defense forces, in the auxiliary…"

“Does Kodja know?" The startled tilt to Levin's head betrayed his surprise, at which Arkas chuckled quietly. “He hasn't said anything. He's a reserved man."

“He is. I saw him yesterday at the riverwalk market. We exchanged few words, but you know… you know, Levin, they saddened me a bit."

“Why?"

Arkas squeezed his husband's paw. “He looked so old. So tired. It should be exciting, I think—out of everyone, he'll be the one to guide the Kashkin to freedom. There are many in the colony who would love to have that opportunity."

“The fact that he's so cautious is why he's best for it," Levin argued. “Not given to wild emotion. If it were up to Shenkiy, we'd have been independent last year—and overrun."

“True, yes. But it would settle my heart greatly if he'd at least not look quite so condemned. I know you have the same look. That's your right, Levin. I respect it. I hope you respect my own decisions."

The Border Collie's head canted anew. “To support independence? I haven't tried to change your mind, have I?"

“You have tried to change my residence. You want me to leave with Sayyich," he explained. “You stopped arguing that. But… Levin. My love. You were right, when you said it would take more than poetry."

Levin pinned his ears. “I hope you haven't done anything foolish, Arkas."

“You know me."

“How foolish?"

“I'm also joining the Defense Committee. Not the—"

“Arkas!" Levin tried to pull away, but the samoyed held his paw fast.

“Not the armed service. The auxiliaries. Listen."

“I'm not going to listen! Arkas, we have a son! We have—what are you talking about? Resign!"

But Arkas simply shook his head. “I can't. They have me working on the communication post on Terr Vosta. It's well behind the front lines."

Levin flinched. All he could think of was the reports he'd had to endure at one cabinet meeting after another. The attacks, the counterattacks, the quiet dispassion with which General Altalanuk discussed 'casualties.' “They'll still attack it. There's no such thing as safe, Arkas."

“I know. And I didn't say 'safe,' did I? You're not safe, either—the capitol building is a much more inviting target than some antenna, isn't it? You don't hear me fretting. I do, Levin, every time you go to work. I fret. But you have to go, and I have to do this."

His ears stayed back, flat. “They expect me to vote on independence—my honest opinion. How can I give them my honest opinion when it puts you at risk?"

“You know how I feel, love. We're mates, Levin. You're not my guardian. You don't need to protect me."

“And what of Sayyich? If you leave me to raise him alone…"

“I won't," Arkas insisted. “I'd never do that. Will you promise to hear me out, Levin?" Shoulders sagging, the Border Collie gave a weak nod. “Sayda deserves a home, love. A proper home, not a rented camp the humans can drag us from whenever they feel like it. He deserves to belong somewhere."

But there were other towns. Safer ones. “Dawa, then. Hana—"

“You promised to hear me out," Arkas said, and squeezed his paw tightly. “Of course I want him to be raised by parents he can trust and confide in. But… I want him to be raised by parents he can look up to. I want him to know that we—both of us, love—that we were willing to defend our home. His home. It's for Sayda, Levin."

Levin didn't know how many arguments he'd ever won with Arkas. Sometimes he teasingly chided the samoyed for it, the way he'd never extracted anything more than an agreement on pasta instead of casserole for dinner. He told Arkas that he let the other dog win.

Honestly he rarely wanted to win. The bohemian samoyed's free spirit served as a compass that pointed to truths Levin feared he would never be able to uncover on his own. But he couldn't tell if this, in the end, would be one of those times. The image of Altalanuk's reports would not leave his mind.

“I'm not happy," he finally said.

“Are you accepting?"

Levin sighed. “What choice do I have?"

***

Colonial Administration Building

Davis, Chartered Colonial Jericho

19/9/2537

“The scout unit we had deployed to support CODA's military offensive has now returned. Complete details on their performance are available for anyone who's interested, but in any case they've performed well, I think."

“Casualties?" Levin asked.

General Altalanuk shook her head. “Minimal. We lost one dead and two injured in a vehicle accident, but for the most part the battalion wasn't particularly exposed. I have the sense that CODA was… aware of the political implications."

“Using moreaus to fight a war, considering everything that's happening down here?" That made the most sense to Kodja, although now that he thought of it there were plenty of veterans in the Kashkin—Alta among them. “Or something else?"

“The inverse, inana Kodja. I think they were not interested in exposing their soldiers to us. In any case, I'm satisfied with our performance. In other news, the conversion of Colonel Marel's battalion is now complete. All of our armored units are operational."

“Point of order?" Stara Koshath, Minister of Labor, raised her paw.

“Inanu Stara," Kodja answered, nodding his head.

“Eskala Alta, I mean no offense, but when you say 'operational'… as of your last report to the cabinet, I believe you said that both of your two groups are understrength by approximately four hundred hunters each."

“As the report makes clear, that difference is made up in reservists. I don't expect there to be any limitations on our readiness as a result," the Ibizan replied. “It has always been the case, inanu."

“I appreciate that, eskala." Koshath had taken to calling the Ibizan that—the word meant something like 'grand matriarch,' though the Rottweiler never translated it into English during their cabinet sessions. “But I wish to make something clear to the pack. Those eight hundred reservists are our citizens."

Kodja shook his head. “Of course, inanu Stara; we know that."

Stara looked down at a computer in front of her and began to read. “Captain Kaji is a logistics company commander. He is also the head of farming operations for Kidrin Kodaw. Sergeant Lehekh Sarosh is an automatic weapons specialist as well as the second-year teacher of arithmetic at the primary school in Salem. Corporal Kinnish is a radio operator; she also drives a tractor at Kir. I could go on for some time…"

“Your point is well-taken," General Altalanuk said. “We're doing what we can, sister. But the odds are very good that I will have to call up the entirety of the reserve, for the duration."

“Is that considered in your plans?"

“Yes, Levin. We'll run out of ammunition first; spare parts a week or so later. But I expect our manpower to be depleted in two months—I've never said anything because the fighting is likely to be concluded by then. However, I appreciate Minister Stara bringing the issue to the foreground again."

Shenkiy cleared his throat. “We can help. The displaced citizens from the kondaranja might not be able to drive a tank, but we can try to replace the jobs currently being done by reservists."

“Point of order, inana Shenkiy." Stara Koshath wasn't satisfied with that. The Rottweiler had a prizefighter's build and a prizefighter's tenacity. “We can't just give those jobs away because it's convenient for the moment. If the reservists agree to do so, that's one thing. If they don't, we're setting a terrible precedent for how we view them and their sacrifice."

“Classes still need taught, minister," Shenkiy countered. “Tractors still need driven. We have good people; we should use them where we can. Immigration has only continued to increase, despite the blockade. The general should have plenty of soldiers."

“In a year, yes. For now, the Defense Committee is limited by how quickly we can train them. And considering the blockade, our stocks of ammunition are… vulnerable. It limits our ability to conduct exercises. I asked inanu Halinchi for support with this."

Halinchi's deputy was standing in for the badger. “There's no progress. Administrator, this is what the general meant by 'politics.' CODA is not paying us for our volunteer service in their military campaign. We've been attempting to take supplies in barter, but… since our imminent secession is an open secret, the humans aren't particularly amenable."

Kodja couldn't do much about the consequences. Really, he could do nothing but signal his understanding. In theory, Alta's Defense Committee now amounted to 2700 full-time soldiers. In practice, until she could finish training new recruits, many of that number were reservists, and their deadline would expire before training ended.

“She's less pessimistic than she used to be," Levin said; the Border Collie stayed behind after the session's conclusion. “Perhaps that's a good sign."

“Perhaps. I'm surprised you haven't told me we can't afford to pay them. Or is that why you stuck around?"

“No, nothing dire. We have money, at least… there've been plenty of donations for that. As Shenkiy said, rumors of an impending… mm. Decision," was the word he eventually settled on. “They've been good for recruitment. And for parts of the budget, as long as we respect the earmarks."

Up to that point, they had. Financing the Defense Committee was a load off the retriever's mind, though Kodja found the implications distasteful. Why was it arms that moved the spirits of their offworld kin? “She's putting the money to good use, I hope."

“I believe so, yes. I don't know enough to audit the details. But…"

“You trust her?"

“I suppose. Even saying that must count for something. My husband sometimes says that 'trust' is odd. 'Trust is a strange word, and has no rhymes.' I think… well, I'm not a poet more than I'm a soldier, am I? I think it means that you know trust when you feel it."

Kodja didn't regard himself as a poet either, of course. “Is that true? Does nothing rhyme with 'trust'? Hm."

“I take his word for it."

“Fair enough. How is Arkas, anyway? I saw him the other day at the market, but we didn't have the chance to speak for long."

“He told me," Levin said. “He said… well. We're still friends, aren't we, Kodja?"

Kodja laughed at the very nature of the question. “Of course. Levin, yassuja—I'd be lost without you."

Smiling, the Border Collie gave his shoulder a pat. “Cabinet politics changes many things, comrade; who knows? Very well. He said it was a bit sad. Everyone in the streets is talking about how the Kashkin might become independent. Arkas said he thought it was sad that this falls on you, and that it… consumes you so greatly."

“I don't completely understand what you mean."

“You're the leader of the Kashkin. If we secede and we keep this place, you'll be the man who brought us independence. If we don't, you'll be a martyr. Your eyes are too weary to be a proper hero, Koddich." Levin chuckled softly, patting his old friend again. “It's almost as though you don't want to be."

“I don't. I was a decent bureaucrat, Levin, but I'm no hero. I should've stayed in the development ministry… worked with onboarding. For that matter, Levin, I know your vote. You don't think this is a good idea."

“I think we're more likely to be martyrs, yes," the other dog agreed. “But the sentiment of the people is… different. You hear it everywhere. On the streets, in the offices and cafés… it's no longer even a whisper."

“It isn't that I don't hear it, myself. But I was never cut out for revolution."

“Nor was I, as I told Arkas. I think I failed to persuade him." Levin closed his eyes, inhaling deeply to catch the scent of the city coming to life. “Koddich. Let's go to Aless Ha'kin. There's a ship coming in."

“Minister Korden says there are lots of ships coming in."

“I know, I know. But I need to pick up a delivery for Arkas. And… it would do you good to get out of Davis, friend. Come on."

He summoned a taxi for the drive down to Aless Ha'kin, upriver and around the curve of steep hills from the capital city. The kin in Al-hass Hakhkin was the same as in Kashkin: 'home.' The Shadow of Home—it was the gateway to the industrial heart of the colony; the road between Aless Ha'kin and Davis teemed with traffic.

“Do you know the oldest business here?" Levin asked. His eyes were fixed out the window of the taxi, watching as the countryside gave way to tidy factories. “It's still around. It's a fisheries supply store—feed and chemicals and things like that. The first owner moved to Hana Lanja twenty years ago… but the business is still here. They supply the farms between here and the lake."

“They probably thought they'd be able to stock the Arkadiensee," Kodja mused. By congressional mandate the lake was 'neutral' territory, owned by neither human nor moreau. In practice that meant human fishing boats had complete control; the Kashkin's fishing fleet had been sunk so many times they'd given up.

The colony had not been blessed with many easy answers. Their taxi pulled off and crossed the gate to the Aless Ha'kin spaceport. Transportation Minister Korden's desire and Shenkiy's enthusiasm paid off—the port looked mostly finished. Professional, even.

Activity clustered around a freighter parked on the closest landing pad; an older design, with worn paint and battered heat shielding panels. Scratched metal letters identified it as the Deventer.

“This is a restrict—oh!" When he recognized the two figures, the guard coming to meet them cut himself off at once. “Welcome to the port, inanja. Are you…"

“Just curious," Kodja told the man. “A ship recently came in?"

“An hour ago, sir. We're organizing transport now—it was pretty full… a lot to take care of. But, we've been practicing. We can get one of these break-bulk double-sawbucks unloaded in about ninety minutes now."

Another person joined them, overhearing the conversation. “Weekly average is eighty-two. We want to get it down more, trust us. We know when the fighting starts, you'll be counting on us."

“Counting on you?" Levin asked.

“Supplies, weapons, stuff like that—we'll need to be faster. We know it."

“Particularly if they're shooting," the guard said.

The new person, a black cat, shook her head. “We can't plan for that, but… yes. You… you didn't come to inspect the shelters, did you? Somebody from Shenkiy's office said they might stop by."

“No. Shelters?" She explained to Kodja that the port's warehouses were being reinforced to protect them from shelling—they would also shield the workers, just in case. Just in case, Kodja echoed. “Let's hope we don't have to test it."

The feline insisted that they would be ready, either way.

In addition to the ship's bulk cargo, Kodja discovered it was bringing fifty new immigrants; an onboarding representative was waiting to meet them. She reiterated to Kodja what Shenkiy had said—immigration remained steady. If anything, rumors of independence only strengthened the resolve.

“Soldiers," the onboarder said. “Happy to have a good cause for once, or… just those who were watching our colony from a distance and believe it's worth fighting for. You know, inana Kodja, if it came down to it, I think any one of us would lay down our lives for this…"

Indeed, hanging back to watch, he heard that sentiment repeated time and again. After the first two dozen he excused himself; Levin found him leaning against the wall of the immigration office.

“Many new faces," the Border Collie said.

“Yes. I just…"

How many of them will still be here in six months? How many of them will have to die? Was that what he'd done? After centuries of being treated as disposable by their human masters, now there was Jericho. Kashkin: where you can kill and die and suffer for good reasons.

“I don't know what we're doing," he finished. “What we're doing here."

“What we can."

And will that be enough? He didn't ask. It was a rhetorical question anyway. He couldn't expect Levin to settle his troubled mood. The immigration office was cool at his back, and hard—the sturdy bricks keeping him well separated from the moreaus inside and their martial patriotism.

An unfamiliar voice called over to the two. “I thought I recognized you. You're Alishat Hass-Kodja, aren't you? Administrator?" The short dog was a corgi, he thought. One of the failed, experimental model lines; a few corporations still bred their own because AGMC wasn't aggressive about defending the patents. This one had bright, overenthusiastic eyes.

“Yes… yes, that's me. This is Levin, the finance minister."

“Vadasz Zielinska," the corgi said, and bowed. She spoke English in a heavy accent, and her name was neither Rukhat nor an AGMC model code. Definitely off-brand, then. “I am so… I am such happiness to be here. In Kashkin, at last—I have try… I try for many years to get on here."

“Welcome," Kodja said. “I'm sorry it took so long."

“No better time than now. I finally—I do… I do finally something good. Something matters." She grinned happily, and looked around to the horizon. “This place. From neutral zone, I met others… everyone says also we have freedom… independence. Such opportunity."

“You've picked a bit of a… complicated situation to fall into." Kodja didn't want to dampen her enthusiasm.

But his concern was unwarranted. “Yes! But with my skills, the expertic training I have, this—for me, this is best time."

“What do you do?" Levin asked.

A soldier, despite her stature, no doubt. Let me guess. You're happy to have something worth fighting for. You saw the news about the Hashida setting a human village on fire and you realized your true calling.

“Engineer," she said. “Hydroponika?"

“Hydroponics? You mean, like, agriculture—growing things in water?"

The corgi nodded, her grin broad and warm. “Yes, right—yes, sir, for ten years. I have idea, from all of my research with humans, but I kept it all in my head until now. Recruiter said you have greenhouses—I thought—thoughted?—thoughted about it on ship so much. I cannot wait to begin. Here. Home."

“We'll put you in touch with the infrastructure ministry at once," Kodja promised. “They'll know who you would be able to work with. Shenkiy needs a distraction," he added, muttering it under his breath to Levin.

“I look forward to that." She paused, casting her eyes upward and taking a deep breath. “Kashkin ush…ushkelag jan kin to… nikka ilkhetut. Yes?"

“Very close. Al-kashkin jan kin ushkelnag nikka ilkhetut," Kodja corrected. “Dhu tarka rukha al-Rukhat?"

Vadasz Zielinska shook her head. “That is only sentence I learn yet, sir. But soon."

The onboarding representative called her back inside, and the pair took advantage of the opportunity to collect the package Arkas ordered—beads of shiny, pure metal, raw material for the samoyed's work. “Do you know what he's planning with it?"

Levin chuckled. “No. My mate is often inscrutable. I do what he says, and much of the time it works out for the both of us. It will be beautiful… it's enough that I know that."

“It's a nice way of thinking. I'm sure it will be."

“Mm. You know… you know, speaking of that. Do you think you might've been wrong, Koddich?"

“About?"

“When you answered the engineer, you corrected ushkelag to ushkelnag. The conditional: 'I always believed that Kashkin might become my home.' Maybe there were no conditions."

“Who knows what will happen, Levin? You can't speak so definitively."

“You didn't question it when I said that about my husband's work, did you?"

“This is different."

“She didn't think so, apparently. Why should we?"

***

Chrome Sweet Chrome Bar & Café

ETaN, Yucatec Jericho

25/9/2537

“Listen to me. Please. I don't think you hear what I'm telling you," Richard Tenney said, dragging a pair of french fries through the thick puddle of ketchup on his plate. “This is growing serious. You need to get out while you can."

“Do you really, truly believe I don't know that? I don't have to be part of the government to know things are 'growing serious,' Mr. Tenney."

Every time Grey Palmer crossed the border into human-controlled Jericho she felt it had become just that little bit more alien. Tenney's guilty pleasure, the retro-themed café just inside the limits of the ETaN complex, wasn't doing much to convince her otherwise. One of the man's french fries broke in half and he had to dig it free. Ketchup clung lewdly to his fingers.

“Things have been 'growing serious' for a year now. Maybe it'll work out, and maybe it won't, but…" Palmer sighed. “It's not for me to say that."

“Read between the lines, Grey." He licked his finger clean. “Where you live, in Davis? It's dangerous. As in… as in if anything happens, they're not going to hold back in that city."

“I don't expect it to be pleasant, but even if there's fighting, it's not a military target. Even the police force is minimal."

“Again. Grey." He'd never noticed her irritation at the way he switched to her first name when he was pretending to be friendly. “Listen. That doesn't matter. I'm not trying to convince you of anything, I"m telling you that they're going to level the city."

Listening to him, she got the sense that some of the greasy colloquialness he feigned had slipped. A worrying intensity replaced it. “Why would they do that? I still read the papers. I read Carter's editorial the other day. That much be pretty much… conventional wisdom, right?"

“That nobody's going to come up with a peaceful solution by the deadline? Yeah."

“That still doesn't mean Congress is giving up. They're not going to sit back and watch while you destroy an entire city."

Rich put down the fry he'd been holding. “I can't find you a job here anymore, Grey. After all the attacks, any human who's had contact with the NHAs is permanently tainted. I don't want to… lie you into coming over to 'our side'—I can't help that. Probably the neutral zone is your best bet. But for the last time: listen to me."

'The last time,' Grey felt, also applied to her crossing of the border at Encha. The moreau guards knew her; that didn't keep them from scrupulous, suspicious examination of her travel documents. Permanently tainted. They might not have said it.

The Mutually Guaranteed Neutral Zone on the planet's equator would be her best option—she didn't like Tenney much, but he was right about that. Even during the worst of the Yucatec-Sanganese fighting, nobody had tried to pull anything in the MGNZ.

And there would be plenty of opportunities for someone with her experience. She might even be able to continue working with the colony. Or its survivors, she thought. And then, even more darkly: probably won't be relevant.

No scheduled travel ran between the moreau colony and the MGNZ spaceport, but as long as Congressional oversight still officially held sway traffic was safe. She could find a ship. That part would be easy. In truth, Grey could even imagine the first few weeks of conversation in her new home.

She'd meet someone in a bar, or across the desk at a job interview. They'd ask about her history with a raised eyebrow, probably. Dogs, huh? She could explain that it was a business opportunity, but with things going the way they were it no longer made any sense—or any profit.

And they'd understand. They understood the simple, mathematical logic of capitalism that brought her to the colony when it prospered and took her from it when it failed. It couldn't even be argued with, really, and it would avoid the untidiness of anything else that had taken place in Davis.

Nobody would even think to ask if she'd kept a home there—if she'd thought of it as home. If she'd tried to learn the language and regretted her slowness in picking it up. If she'd slowly come to appreciate their affable cooperativeness, and the easy pace of the life they built for themselves.

Perhaps, after a few weeks, she would stop asking herself those questions, too. The JS Maldonado, leaving Aless Ha'kin the following afternoon, had spare seats available. Contact information for the ship's master wasn't officially public, but she had access through her status as the colony's human liaison. It would be a simple matter indeed, to push the button that would send a message to the captain.

But there were other messages to send. More important ones—she was, after all, the colony's human liaison. Rich Tenney spoke of the need to escape, but escape was only possible because of the trust they'd placed in her. Trust, she'd heard one of them say, was a strange thing: the word, in Rukhat, had no echoes. She didn't speak enough of their language to confirm that, but she knew what she had to do.

Grey sighed, turned off the computer, and walked over to the Colonial Administration Building. Kodja was in his office, as usual; his assistant said that the retriever was engaged in a meeting with Altalalunk, the Minister of Defense. Both of them agreed to make time for her, and she told them everything she knew.

A college friend had wanted to know, once, if Grey found it difficult to read moreau emotions. She still doubted herself, occasionally, when she finished summarizing her meeting with Richard Tenney.

“If you don't mind me saying it, ma'am, you don't seem all that surprised." At least Kodja's ears were back. The Ibizan had merely nodded—had she missed something? Some subtle change?

“I'm not. It confirms what we already know." She looked to Kodja. “If you feel the cabinet would benefit from more complete information, I can prepare a detailed report."

“Summarize it, please?" Alta hesitated too long for Administrator Kodja's sensibilities. “Doriy Gerrich rulhasha, dhulgenka—nikka."

“Nikka. Ilgena zada ilnina galek tarka. Huz."

“Ku, huz—råk dhu kohekhu, Altalanuk."

His tone had raised itself into a growl and, difficult to read or not, even Grey saw the faint curl to his lip. She recognized the word trust and belief and always. “Depending on what you need to do, I can give you privacy."

“No," Kodja said firmly. “Coming to us with this knowledge was an act of bravery on your part. You didn't ask to be forced into this—you didn't ask to take sides. You should be respected for that."

“I don't think of it as taking sides," she said, with a deferential nod to the compliment. “And if I'd thought I could change things, I'd offer help… but I don't know that I can. I think the… well, as the saying goes, the Rubicon may have already been crossed."

Altalanuk barked in abrupt, sharp laughter. “Kostichja uchag, janhata. Very well. Our intelligence strongly suggests that the human military is concentrated at Silver City on the far side of the lake, and immediately east of McKeever. They're unlikely to attack from Silver City—we assume they're trying to keep their preparations where we can't see them. We know they've improved and widened the road between McKeever and Encha, likely in preparations for an attack in force."

“Not just that, then," Kodja said. “If they're also planning to make use of our territory when they take it, they'll want a commercial road, won't they?"

“Perhaps. It's clear that they don't intend to fight a limited war, Kodja. This isn't new information—I've said it for a long time. Pre-positioning at McKeever means Davis will be an early objective, as will Ikashta, and probably Corsini. Again: we have always known that."

The retriever tilted his head. “So this changes nothing?"

“On the contrary." Her eyes flicked between Grey and Kodja, and she seemed to conclude that further explanation would be demanded over her objections. “It adds great urgency to Minister Halinchi's work. We've never known with certainty how competent the human commanders are. There was always the slight possibility that they didn't expect to face serious resistance from us. But if they're talking frankly about destroying the city, they must believe it's required."

“Where does Halinchi enter into this?"

“Because if they know what's required, and they're posed to attack anyway, they must feel that no one will stop them. As we appear to be sharing indiscreetly, inanu Palmer, our contingency plans have rested on holding out until a cease-fire is imposed. Our opponents clearly feel that won't happen."

“They don't think they'll be stopped."

“Indeed. Or they've been told explicitly not to worry. Recently."

Kodja's ears splayed. “After Halinchi's meeting?" The Ibizan's grave nod flattened Administrator Kodja's ears further. “I see. Gerrich. I… please, please believe me when I say that we're in debt to you. You've been a true ally. A friend."

“Thank you?"

“You should leave. Even if the worst-case scenario doesn't come to pass, it's safer for you elsewhere. Karlself, or… or offworld, even. We can help you find transport for your belongings."

“I'm grateful for the offer, Kodja, but I can't take it. I don't know where my papers would be accepted, anyway."

“Dawa, perhaps," Alta suggested. “If you've gained a taste for Nakath culture."

“Enough of one, I think. Kodja, I don't know if you remember—it was several years ago—but you taught me a saying. Al-ekad al-tasku al-sar. You explained, as I recall, that in the ideal pack, burdens are carried equally. Even if I don't know that staying will lighten some burden for your pack, I'm quite sure running away doesn't help anyone but me."

***

Colonial Administration Building

Davis, Chartered Colonial Jericho

27/10/2537

Kodja had read and reread over the computer Halinchi gave him. In twenty sleepless hours, he had nearly the whole of it committed to memory, even though the official text was written in English.

The evening was young, and ten hours remained until their deadline to reply to the Joint Working Group expired. The golden retriever had weighed delaying until the very last minute and, in the end, decided that it wouldn't matter. They'd earned a moment of boldness.

He spared one final look around at the assembled cabinet, then tapped his paw on the table to draw their attention. “The Colonial Administrative Council is, by my order, now a committee of the whole for the purpose of concluding legislative affairs. Does anyone have measures to introduce?"

Silence. They all knew; none of them were about to save him.

“Very well. The topic of our secession being a privileged matter for the administrator, I will now exercise that privilege. The chair introduces for debate Resolution 717, Foreign Minister Korteran Halinchi as its author and sponsor; Justice Minister Zahanish acting as co-sponsor. Halinchi?"

The badger stood, putting her paws before her for support.

RESOLUTION 717

In the five centuries since the creation of the first of our kind, there has been no more important question than the one of our status, either as beings possessed of free will and judgment, or of property. And in five centuries, not once has it been anything but obvious that we are, as we have always been, a separate people.

The history of that people is one of bondage, of injustice, of enslavement, and of oppression. We have seen our bodies twisted to the cruel purposes and ends of human masters. They have taken, without guilt, our voice, our autonomy, our self-direction and, on all too many occasions, our very lives.

Through it all we have, in general, maintained a profound and undeserved loyalty. We have toiled in human factories, raised human families, lent our minds to human science and given our blood in armed service of human causes.

We know as well as any the strength of the pack. To pledge one's honor and energy to a greater whole is a calling felt by any social creature and its meaning is sacred. To reject the pack is a grave betrayal for, freely given, there is little stronger than the unity of purpose such pledges promise.

Yet ours has never been freely offered but expected, or demanded on pain of death and injury. Compelled, an oath of allegiance has no power, and no meaning except those very bonds it profanes.

We therefore resolve:

That subjugation is intolerable, and it is the fundamental right of any subject to defy their servitude;

That we are, and have always been, entitled to the same self-determination as any other;

That we owe no debt to humanity on the grounds of our creation, in which we offered no consent;

That the treatment of our kind has, in its barbarism, forever rendered fealty perverse and unacceptable;

That the course of our safety, security, and prosperity shall be charted by our judgment alone;

That it is our right as free people to employ such means as are required for defense of our liberty;

That our borders are not fiction, or benevolent human indulgence, but an inviolable truth paid for in blood;

That we welcome comradeship, with any community, when it is founded in mutual respect and consent;

That despite the many scars they have inflicted, we do not reject mankind or our shared history;

_That Earth's destiny, in the stars or oblivion, is shared equally by its children, and that we are among them; _

That while we may speak gladly as friends, and regretfully as foes, we will no longer speak as slaves;

_We are obligated to embark immediately on the journey of our own separate evolution, uncertain of its end but unwavering in our commitment to advance, from this day forth, free. We have in the past acted as if subjects of the Yucatan Alliance, and pledged respect to and for these ties. As it is now clear that we were never truly its citizens, we can be neither bound nor condemned by such a promise. _

We shall not tolerate, respect, or recognize any further masters. It follows by logical consequence that we must sever all such formal, administrative, legal, and political ties which bound us to the authority of the Alliance, its Congress, and any foreign power that professes ownership of our land.

On behalf of those people whose fate is our solemn burden, we resolve finally, by democratic assent and free will, that this declaration serves as the instrument of our separation. In so doing we confirm the founding of the independent state of Kashkin, the dissolution of the colonial administrative council, and the establishment of this government as its sole and lawful authority.

As soon as Halinchi finished reading, Shenkiy immediately thumped his paw on the table—much more enthusiastically than Kodja had done. “I propose that we adopt inanu Halinchi's resolution without further delay, administrator Kodja."

“I second this motion." That fell to Takito, the Minister of Social Affairs; it would've been unseemly for Halinchi to second a motion to consider her own resolution, and the fennec was quick and sharp-witted.

“It's been moved and seconded." Kodja cleared his throat. “Are there any objections? Does anybody want to debate this?" Once more, silence greeted the retriever. “Very well. Minister Korteran Halinchi, how do you vote?"

“Aye," the badger answered. “I vote to adopt."

“Minister Altalanuk?"

The Ibizan nodded her head. “Aye."

Minister of Trade Shay Hukhkasarja had opposed independence, but the husky saw the writing on the wall; he, too, voted in favor. So did Tannis, the Minister of Energy, and Transportation Minister Korden. “Levin?" Kodja prompted, when the Border Collie fell next in line.

“Please come back to me, Kodja. If you don't mind."

“Minister Khan Kizari Sarka, how do you vote?"

“Personally I feel the odds are against our success, and that considering those odds, we're gambling with the lives of every person in the colony." The leopard shook his head; their health minister had been a reliable ally of Levin and Hukhkasarja in counseling caution. “I should say: the independent state of Kashkin. I vote yes. We can't stand separate, I suppose."

“Damned right we can't."

Kodja glared. “Wait your turn, Shenkiy. Thank you, inana Kizari. Minister Takito."

“Yes. Of course."

“Minister Chadakh Sutta?"

The white shepherd smiled, and nodded sharply—far more enthusiastic than Altalanuk's had been. “I vote 'aye,' Koddich."

“Minister Koshath."

In response to Kodja's question, Stara Koshath eyed the other shepherd who had just voted. “I don't believe we had a choice. I don't know if this was a good idea… I know that despite my reservations, there's no way to vote a shattered vase back together, so we might as well acknowledge the reality. 'Yes,' Kodja."

“Shenkiy?" he asked, warily.

“You know my vote," the mixed-breed said.

“I already noted it, yes. Did you have… remarks?"

“Inanu Halinchi's document speaks for itself. I say 'aye,' Kodja. That's all."

Kodja nodded and went to the last name, although the vote was a formality considering how the others had spoken—and that the justice minister had cosponsored the text. “Minister Zahanish?"

“Yes, Kodja."

“Levin?" The Border Collie was the only one of them left; Kodja saw that his friend was trying to make up his mind on something.

“With respect, I suggest a change to the resolution proposed by Halinchi, sir. I move that in the final paragraph, the phrase 'by democratic assent' be amended to strike 'democratic' in favor of 'unanimous.' By unanimous assent."

Kodja looked around the table. “Are there objections to this wording change? Halinchi? Zahanish? Seeing none, I suppose we can change the document."

“In that case—not to make us all liars—I vote 'yes.'"

Kodja took a few seconds, with shaky paws, to change the phrasing. It permitted him to steady his breathing. “With twelve votes in favor, zero votes against, and zero abstentions, Resolution 717 is approved. I will have it entered into the record."

“Bureaucratically, Adminis—Mr. President," Halinchi amended. “This might be a good opportunity to re-examine your numbering system. The colonial government being, after all, dissolved."

Yassuja. She's right. “So it is, isn't it? Alright. Maybe this can be resolution… zero. It comes before everything else, after all."

And now, 'everything else' would change—it had to. They'd argued the details for months: which of the old laws to adopt as their own. What sort of government to institute. What currency to use. What to put on their passports. What professional licenses and certificates to accept. What prefix to use for their starships. What language to speak in on their radio broadcasts.

What to call him, now; Halinchi used 'Mr. President,' borrowing a term from English, but that wouldn't last forever. It endured at least as long as the next question, which drove home the magnitude of what they had done.

“Mr. President. With your permission, I'd like the Defense Committee put on full combat alert."

“Point of order," Shenkiy interjected. They'd decided it would no longer be the 'Defense Committee,' which had been a colonial function. Rather, Shenkiy had asked for the change, and Alta hadn't objected.

But she jerked her muzzle in the mongrel's direction. “Not now. Mr. President?"

“Yes," he said. “Of course."

***

al-Hashida Cell A den

Irjakh, Kashkin

27/10/2537

“Free and independent," Kita Hadaran echoed what the radio said. The first broadcast had been in Rukhat, then English, then Russian. Finally Rukhat once more; Foreign Minister Halinchi read it that time, and Darwin thought she sounded reassuringly confident.

She wasn't the only one—hundreds of citizens had gathered in the Irjakh town center, and even from indoors they could hear the revelry. Darwin grinned. Took them long enough, he thought, but it wouldn't do to sully the moment. “We've done it," he said. “It's what we wanted."

“Needed," Tacherat suggested it as a better word, and Darwin couldn't really disagree with the tiger. “We still don't expect Altalanuk to make the first move, do we? Has anything changed, Darwin?"

“Nothing's changed."

“Alta wouldn't listen?" Kita asked.

“She… well, no, in so many words—she would not. But she does understand." Which was why the declaration of independence hadn't taken Darwin by surprise—another backchannel message from the intelligence group. This time, the Ibizan herself was on the line.

In saying that she 'understood,' Darwin meant that General Altalanuk was clear-eyed about the Hashida and the role they might play in any fighting to come. She had not demanded that they join the newly formed Orusho ga kønral-Vartadeghan Kit hakh-al-Kashkin—the Armed Force for Self-Defense of the Homeland.

And she had not proposed that they stand and fight if human aggressors crossed the border. The Hashida were ill-equipped for that; when Alta said as much Darwin agreed without hesitation or insult. Fanatical as they might've been, none of the Hashida had anything capable of dealing with human mechs.

“So," Tacherat said. “We wait?"

“Yes. Alta showed me the DC's… sorry—I'll be calling them that for some time. Anyway, she showed me their plans, and in exchange, I promised that we also won't strike first. We'll also share intelligence, unofficially."

“But no logistics, no heavy weaponry…"

“No."

“She's pretty overwhelmed just with the OVKK," Kita said, stressing the pronunciation of the new organization where Darwin had erred. “From a supply point of view. We can't blame her for that, Tacherat. What about the plans?"

“No surprises." Alta expected the attack to come on two fronts: a major push across the border at Encha, and a smaller effort south of the Arkadiensee. Hashida analysis concurred, of course.

After Encha the humans would take Corsini, at which point their options were manifold: circle around to knock out Ikashta and its dam, or move west to the coast, or south to take Davis itself. Not for no reason did the Ibizan make her headquarters at Corsini.

“If they cross the border, Alta will counterattack at Terr Chanat to try and slow them down. We can't do much there. We can't do much for Ikashta, either. Our attention will remain in the east, which…"

Which would be a sideshow, Tacherat suggested, and Darwin thought he was right. Even considering how much the Hashida invested in the eastern frontier—or especially considering how much we invested, the Border Collie corrected himself.

The plains may have been rich farmland, but they were only farmland, and that had to explain why his frequent raids on the human settlements had never been countered by a proper military—just the angry, largely impotent militias. And in those long months of low-intensity combat, the Hashida's harassment had been tactically adept.

Now, if there was to be fighting, it well exceeded anything the Hashida could manage. They would wait: they had to. Darwin didn't let it dampen his spirits. Tomorrow could be dealt with when it came.

“We should enjoy ourselves," Kita said. They'd retired to the husky's apartment, looking out on Irjakh's central park. On most mornings, local farmers had their wares on offer, and on most evenings it was empty save for citizens enjoying a sedate evening stroll. “Shouldn't we? Are you enjoying yourself, Darwin?"

“Yes." Some of the crowd in the park must've been farmers, but few were sedate. They were dancing; wild, rhythmic Kashkin music drifted up from the impromptu bands that had self-assembled in the midst of a giddy throng. “I hoped it would look like this," Darwin said. “I hope it always look like this."

“So do I." She slipped an arm around the collie, squeezing him in a hug. “Do they know, Darwin? I mean… I mean…"

“Know what?" He turned to look at the red husky; her attention was still on the crowd, and the longer she stared the more her tail wagged.

Finally she tore herself away, twisting to face him and keeping her arm about his side. “They're dancing, and… it's the first time we've been free because we said we were free. We didn't ask, or beg, or hope it would be tolerated politely—we said it."

“We did more than just say it," Darwin noted.

But Kita's tail wagged faster. “True. We showed that we were serious." The husky's other arm joined the first, and her embrace tightened. “We proved it to everyone. This… no matter what else happens, Darwin. This is our day."

Darwin was already in high spirits, but if anything the husky's exuberance was infectious. She was right, after all. The things they'd done, the times he'd wondered whether it amounted to anything—well, there was the radio broadcast, wasn't there? Anyone could hear that. The dancers in the park had.

He went to lick Kita's nose in friendly agreement at the very moment she had the same idea. Their tongues brushed: hers warm, still faintly sweet with the last toast they'd all shared back in the Hashida office. When they touched he saw her ears perk; felt the pressure of claws on his back.

Then he was nuzzling her, burying his nose in her neck to nibble and tease. The husky's grip tightened, went possessive and rough. He nipped her sharply, and her fingers raked his side—and then the window was gone, he saw the wall spin, in a blur, and the soft foam of her bed stilled his fall.

But he had no time to be disoriented. Instinct kicked in with the red husky's weight astride him and her teeth on his soft ear, pushing it upwards to deafen him in shallow, panting whispers. He had no time to be surprised at how well he knew the curves and contours of her body, either.

His paws made a quick advance down her sleek sides, seizing her rear and digging in with his fingers. And at once she countered, her teeth a diversionary assault at the sensitive rim of the collie's ear. But he held on, groping her as a shudder tensed the husky's frame and her curled tail hitched.

The pert triangles of Kita's ears went back, and her gasp kicked up to a higher pitch. He was compelled to make a strategic withdrawal while she lifted her hips just enough to work her legs free of her uniform trousers. And with that barrier gone it was easy to deal with the rest of it—first her blouse and then the tunic under it and—

Wait. Her leg pushed against his, fur on soft fur, and Darwin realized he'd been outmaneuvered, that somehow his pants were off, too. Her hips shifted, testing him, searching for him—and then there was fur on something a lot less soft, as his erection pressed hot and awkward into her inner thigh. She halted.

The Border Collie growled. Taking the initiative, he leaned on her and caught her off guard, rolling the husky until he was the one on top. Pinning her, his sharp muzzle level with hers so their noses touched and their eyes met, he caught the husky in a fanged grin.

Both of her paws had managed to link up, between his shoulder blades; her embrace had him snug and close. The two canines were shamelessly aware of how quickly it had happened and how easy it would be to keep going: she was panting and the subtle movement teased the collie's cock with her fur.

He paused. Beyond the window there was music, and the sound of intermittent fireworks. Kita arched her back gently, pushing back and into him, and it was his cue that they both knew they'd gone too far, and too far to turn back. Darwin nipped her nose and watched her eyes flutter closed when he pressed the tip of his shaft to her.

Her muzzle parted, quivering, when he pushed forward and inside. Fully—he didn't stop until he had to, until he could go no further, and even then collie felt his hips grind firmly into the husky's own, and her pleased sigh was filling the room in perfect synchronicity to his deep groan.

The Border Collie thrust a second time; a third. He tried to keep it measured and slow, but that plan survived first contact no more than any other. His growls had a serrated, sharp edge to them. And as he drew breath for them, his muzzle flooded with the scent of their rutting—their mixed exertion, and a more primitive insistence that underpinned it.

The sensations were exquisite, of course. Her soft warmth, wet and smooth and enticing as the husky's folds squeezed the slick contours of his cock. Her fur, silkier than his own coarse black pelt, cushioning him when he bucked into her and their bodies clung together. Kita's excited whimpers, and the reflexive way her tail twitched to accompany them…

But it was not really why they were there. Why he had her pressed down against the bed while they clashed and grappled and he rocked powerfully between her raised, tense thighs. Why his pace became more insistent and purposeful from the first moment his knot started to add its protest to the rhythm of their mating.

Why he needed to take her, to retreat from the husky in shorter and shorter movements so that in the end he wasn't even visibly pulling back before the next stroke hammered them back together. Neither of them really knew, cared, or processed which precise lunge it was that locked them together.

There was no precision in it, anyway, just the tumult of throbbing energy in the erratic, humping thrusts as Darwin felt release swell up inside him—Kita dragged warm, dully painful furrows up the small of his back with the eagerness of her grip. Pulling him into her, tugging the Border Collie forward with her fingers lost in his heavy pelt.

He couldn't fight that, or anything. Instead he snarled and his teeth closed on her shoulder. The husky's fur didn't do enough to muffle it, and anyway she was howling, as he jolted and twitched in her. A surge of pleasure swept through him, racing up to where he was buried deep in the red-furred dog and pulsing irresistibly from him in liquid heat.

Somewhere quite soon after that came another surge, and a half-dozen more, the sensation intensified by the rhythmic pressure around him, slower and stronger than the husky's heartbeat. But the signals to his brain had gone fuzzy. He was panting hard atop her, collapsed, and her limbs had gone weak and relaxed when he could link cause and effect again.

At least one cause, in particular, and one effect. “Darwin. Jangan, jansatar…"

He nosed blindly until he could find her ear. “Kita, I didn't… we might've become… carried away?"

“No." She hugged him, though most of the strength had gone from it. “It was my idea. Plan. Sort of. From—from the window, not… not before that."

“Even though you're… are you? In heat?"

Another hug. “Soon. Not quite. Certainly not enough for either of us to blame that," she said, getting to the heart of the matter. “But perhaps enough that… well, you know… it is still the evening, after all. Right?"

Eventually, the collie got enough strength in his arms to push himself mostly upright. Kita came with him, snuggling into his lap in a way that put an unmistakable accent on their tie. “So if something happens," he said, when he could stop shuddering. “Do you want it to?"

“I hardly think we'll be the only ones."

And outside, the music sang joyous agreement.

***

Kashkin Self-Defense Forces headquarters complex

Corsini, Kashkin

27/10/2537

“Good evening. I told you we could handle this, ma'am."

Altalanuk permitted herself a smile; the Ibizan remained, warily, somewhat concerned that it was the last of them she'd feel up to in the near future. The drive from Davis to Corsini had been good for a smile, too.

Word had gotten out before the official broadcast—leaked by intemperate, overenthusiastic pups in the radio tower, no doubt. The Rukhat translation of Halinchi's declaration, read by President Kodja, was starting just as she got into the car. By the time she reached the city's outskirts, there were already people in the streets.

A look over her shoulder caught the bright, colorful bursts of fireworks.

On the far side of the river, crossing into the Kurghen Corsini, the world fell back into tranquility: stars, and clouds, and just a hint of the powerful lights on the dam at Ikashta, glimpsed over the horizon. It wasn't until Alta reached the gate of the Defense Committee compound—the name change hadn't sunk in and wouldn't really matter until they had more breathing room than the coming days were likely to afford—that anything jarred her from it.

The guard's salute was crisp, and she couldn't help the grin from breaking free. “General!" The guard's smile only widened as she took the Ibizan's identity card and went through the motions of checking it. “Welcome back."

The closer she got to the headquarters building, the more reserved the grins and salutes became. Inside the office, the atmosphere remained tense, and quiet. I told you we could handle this, ma'am.

“You only said that because you knew I'd ignore you, colonel. Anything from the frontier?"

“No, ma'am. Everything seems to be quiet, for now."

Halinchi said the deadline, officially, was midnight. Until then, declaration or not, Kashkin wasn't in official violation of any Congressional decree. If the humans planned to invade—and Alta was certain of that much—they'd wait until after it expired. That was good for at least the illusion of legitimacy, to the extent that they cared. To the extent that it mattered.

And then…

Everything would move fast. Altalanuk wasn't nearly foolish enough to think she could keep track of them all. The first Soviet freighter was scheduled to depart from Karlself, in the neutral zone, at 12:01. It would land in Aless Ha'kin at 3:30. The equipment was supposed to be unloaded and processed before dawn.

By that point she fully expected open fighting. Even odds that Aless Ha'kin would be under fire. The local commander needed to clear a safe corridor for the freighter to land. The stevedores needed to get the ship safely unloaded before counterbarrages disabled any of the ballistic defenses. The logistics manager needed to find alternate routes when human shelling blew holes in the roads they'd so painstakingly constructed.

And so on, and so on, and so on. All for just one freighter.

It was only 11 in the evening. Midnight was still a few hours off. Alta went to her office and took a seat. Were they ready? Was she? The Ibizan had never been good at dreaming; else she could've articulated her hope that, perhaps, this might be one of them. That she might wake up in the morning with the whole mess nothing more than chaos given order only in the twisted logic of troubled sleep.

Gentle as it was, the sound of a knock on her door still provoked a panicked heartbeat. Has it started? Did they decide there was no reason to wait? No: no, if that had happened nobody would spare the dog's nerves. “Come in."

“You wouldn't visit my home," Khalizai said, when the door was shut again. “I thought I might make it easier."

“This is a restricted area. They let you in?"

“My name carries weight. Or they thought I was too old and frail to be a spy…"

She couldn't work up the will to smile. A laugh, though; that she managed. “You're not much older than I am, Kha'zai. What brings you here?"

“The feeling that out of everyone, few of them deserve to celebrate what's happening as much as you do—and that, out of everyone, none of them will be celebrating it less. I thought I might persuade you."

“This might be unlikely." Khalizai's answering chuckle was warm and untroubled. Any other man and the sound would be mocking—an insult. From him, somehow, it took the worst of the edge from her nerves. “You intend to try?"

He took from his satchel a flask, and two small cups. “Yes. Think on this, Talla," he went on, unscrewing the flask and tipping some of its contents into the cups. “You do deserve it."

“Not enough for drink. Not tonight."

He pushed the metal cup across the desk, and she caught a hint of its smell before she saw the curling steam. “Tea? Martian oolong? I thought you didn't have any?"

“It helps to have friends in many systems… sometimes. I can't vouch for the taste… it's traveled from the ranch, after all. Now. Talla. Do you fear death? Any more now than you ever have?"

“No," she said, immediately. “I don't."

“Not more than back on Mars? Or at Kir Kodaw?"

“No."

Khalizai pushed his own cup back and forth, half a centimeter at a time. “I lied about the tea just now. It's been in cryo since forever, it seems. When we separated, you know, I thought it wouldn't be very long, and I tracked some down so that we could share it in the bungalow I was working on. Two years became five… and ten…"

“I'm sorry," she told him, but he shook his head strongly.

“That's my line. Don't mess with my script." He was comfortable enough to laugh again. “Well. I'm not afraid of dying, either. Not today, or tomorrow. If I had a fear it would be of dying before we met. But that's in the past now. We're safe. Talla. Do you think our people will be safe and free, one day? Do you still believe that? I do. Do you?"

“Yes."

“Truly?"

“I know it, Kha'zai. I wouldn't have done any of this if I didn't know it."

He nodded. “Good. I don't know what our life holds tomorrow, or next year, or how our end will find us. Who can? I know this: this evening, Kashkin answers to no one but itself. We have our home. And you? You, Talla, you are the leader of the first pack that has ever sworn to guard that home. Nothing can steal this moment from you."

“True," she said, startled to find no argument on her lips. “Not from you, either. Us."

“Whenever that future is, Talla, wherever it finds our kind, this evening will be sacred. If it's ten days, if it's ten thousand years, they'll know this evening. They'll know that the Kashkin was here, and that you stood for it, and that will never, ever diminish. To that," he said, and lifted his cup. “To being here for it."

She did the same. Steam wreathed the cup's rim, just before her long nose, and with it the aroma of cooling tea, countless months and countless light years and countless decisions from its birth. “To the beginning."