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  Zura looked down at the datasheet in her hand. She'd been asleep for three hours. Stepping to the shower stall, she slapped the datasheet against the inside wall of the enclosure, where it stuck and unrolled itself.

  So, she thought, the child had been busy. Trying to make a good impression, to be seen as useful. The girl was eager to stay. Desperate, even.

  Zura peeled off her underarmour and undersuit, tossing them into the open front of the laundry machine. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shape of the white-skinned woman in the mirror, her shoulders and back covered in ugly burn scars. The illustrated history of her life, inscribed on her skin. She stepped into the shower and closed the door.

  As cold water sprayed down on her head, Zura reached up and poked one finger at the datasheet on the wall. Five messages, none urgent. Routine status reports from her three ships. A message from Councillor Miller that included some documents for her to sign, for temporary guardianship of the girl Yaella. At least the documents were in Palani as well as the trade language. The last message was from Four-Thirteen: he was standing by to speak to her at her convenience. She poked at the data sheet again.

  As a list of other news items — from across Palani and human space — were displayed, Zura looked around the shower enclosure for her tube of body cleanser. There were dispensers built into the shower itself, each providing some heavily-scented human product. 'Lavender', or 'Sandalwood', or, bafflingly, 'Moonlight'. Humans and their scents. How bad did they smell naturally? She'd once tried 'Moonlight'; was that what a moonlit night smelled like on Earth? Ridiculous.

  At last she found her tube of cleanser, neatly placed on a shelf at the back of the enclosure. Standard-issue, unscented, body cleaning chemicals. Squeezing some into her hand, she rubbed it into a lather. It smelled like cleaner, the way it should, before the smell faded and it didn't smell at all. Lavender, she scoffed. Nsal 'neth, what idiocy.

  * * *

  Cleaned and dried and in a crisp uniform: she didn't mind showing this version of herself to the mirror. Pulling on her black leather gloves, Zura gave one last check that her chain was straight. She ran over her to-do list in her head: check with the girl, then to the office downstairs. Catch up on paperwork, speak to Four-Thirteen, then finish whatever paperwork remained. Maybe a brief walk outside, to clear her mind. Her head was still sore, with the strange empty feeling she always had after a headache had passed. Later, she'd have something to eat, then spend the evening cleaning her armour and weapons.

  The woman in the mirror sighed along with her, and she avoided eye contact. Looking forward to cleaning her damn armour — was that what she had to look forward to? Giving her head a single shake, she slid open the door and stepped out.

  No sign of the girl. Zura walked silently around the apartment. The cushions were missing from the couch, and a few things in the living area had been rearranged.

  As she walked toward the kitchen, she heard a sound from the storage room door. Taking a few steps closer, she listened. From the other side of the door, Zura heard breathing, and some language-less muttering: the shifting of a small body locked in the struggle of restless sleep. She knew the feeling well enough. Sleep never came easily in a new place, not at that age, and was unpredictable after stressful events. Despair-driven sleep was never restful.

  Zura moved as quietly as she could, her boots barely making a sound on the apartment floor. She closed the door behind her as she left, and gingerly headed downstairs.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Four-Thirteen hadn't called her back until the next morning. Now, his ghostly image sat across from Zura, hands clasped in his holographic lap. After all the centuries of being her assigned intelligence officer, he probably knew her better than any other person alive. Everyone else she'd known was long gone.

  "Mahasa," he continued. "We've reviewed the available data repeatedly. The simple fact is, automated mining installations do not have sophisticated sensors." He made a gesture of opening his hands, as if to demonstrate how patient he was being. "The ship that broke into the mining facility wasn't broadcasting its identification transponder, and the docking sensors could only tell us the overall size and configuration of the ship and its landing systems. It was probably of human manufacture, but apart from that we know nothing."

  Zura was leaning forward, her hands clasped together on the desk. As usual, the Intelligence Office was doing the absolute minimum: whatever it took for them to tell their superiors that they'd done their job. No one went further than they had to. Were they all so weary of conflict, that they wilfully avoided seeing anything that spoke of a threat? Who should be more weary of conflict than those who did the fighting? "Did your office find out anything about this 'Qiviq' I mentioned?"

  Four-Thirteen sighed. He wasn't even bothering to hide his fatigue. "Yes, Mahasa. Qiviq was seen on a station in the Javett system several days ago. It fits everything else we've seen. The Uta have turned their attention elsewhere. This business with the mining station is just some opportunistic humans stealing some helium. You're reading too much into it, Mahasa."

  "Perhaps," she admitted. "Perhaps not." Zura unclasped her hands, leaning back in her chair. It seemed like everyone back on the homeworlds was determined to ignore anything unsavoury from the the distant frontier territories. She could see it in the news reports: all attention was on the much-hyped Palani-Human alliance, and the reconstruction of the central worlds. Permanent peace was just around the corner; that was the constant message. Everyone was staring at the light of hope, warmed by its glow, and no one was seeing the shadows that lurked in the corners.

  Four-Thirteen broke her train of thought. "You don't approve, Mahasa?"

  "Of course not," she fired back. "I'm ordered to protect these territories from threats — threats no one else wants to see."

  "And I'm saying, Mahasa, that no one sees any threats because there aren't any to see. We can't act without evidence, and there isn't any."

  Zura shook her head. "Everyone's blind. Willingly blind."

  Four-Thirteen's face was hidden behind his veil, but Zura could still see his eyes. Centuries of working together meant that she'd come to know him, too. She saw compassion in his eyes. Pity, perhaps? His voice was unusually quiet. "You've fought your entire life, Mahasa. This is the first real peace our people have known in centuries. We're all having trouble adjusting. It must be more difficult for you than anyone—"

  "Nsal 'neth," she spat. "Pity, Four-Thirteen? From you?"

  "Times are changing, Mahasa. We must adapt." His holographic eyes went to something out of view. "With respect, Mahasa, one of the Pentarch are commanding me to contact them."

  "Ah," breathed Zura. First pity, now dismissal. "Go, then." She poked at one of the gems on her desktop, to end the transmission. As Four-Thirteen's holographic image faded at the edges, his eyes looked back to hers. A focused look, full of intensity, that lasted the briefest moment before the image collapsed on itself and disappeared.

  She'd seen that look from him before. There was significance in it. Words that he'd left unsaid. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd been constrained in what he could tell her. Palani Intelligence had a long history of deciding who needed to know what. Or, she thought, she might be reading too much into a single glance from a collapsing hologram.

  Leaning forward, Zura unrolled one of the datasheets on her desktop, smoothing out the luminescent sheet with her gloved hand.

  No urgent messages. All that remained was the single, low-priority message from Major Roche. Short, brief, to the point: if she had time, he'd like to speak to her up at the turret. An hour before noon.

  "Might as well," she muttered, looking at her empty schedule. She checked the external temperature. 22C. A veritable heat wave, despite the changing season. Too hot to be outside without the damned coldsuit. Cursing under her breath, Zura stood up and left her office, headed toward the stairs.

  When she entered the apartment, the girl Yaella was at the k
itchen counter. Her bright blue hair was tied into a long tail, and the sleeves on her jumpsuit were rolled up. Her thin arms were a blur as she scrubbed at something. When she heard Zura's boots enter the room, Yaella immediately put down what she was doing and turned to face her. "Mahasa!" she said, her voice almost a chirp. "I'm cleaning! Later, I'll—"

  Zura waved one hand. She wasn't in the mood for excited children. "You don't have to clean, child. You're not a servant. Why did you—"

  There was a flash of worry in the child's eyes. "But I want to, Mahasa! There's so much I can do—"

  Zura waved her hand again; a sharp, dismissive motion. "Don't interrupt me." The girl fell silent as Zura pointed at the door of the storage room. "Why did you sleep in there?"

  Yaella's face flushed, her cheeks taking on a hint of violet. "I'm sorry, Mahasa. I couldn't sleep out here. It was quieter in there. Darker. I guess…" she trailed off, shrugging.

  "Speak your mind, child. You guessed what?"

  "I'm sorry, Mahasa." She looked sheepish. "I guess it felt safer."

  That made Zura pause. It was reminder of something, long ago. A familiar feeling. "I understand," she said quietly. "Never apologise for speaking the truth. Not with me." She pointed at the storage room door. "You are comfortable in there?"

  "Yes, Mahasa. It's okay."

  "Very well." Zura looked over Yaella's shoulder, to where the girl had been cleaning in the kitchen. "Continue cleaning if you wish, but know that I do not expect it. You are not a servant. Is that clear?"

  Yaella nodded, seeming to perk up. "Yes, Mahasa."

  "Good. I need to change, and then I'll be going out."

  The girl watched, small hands clasped in front of her, as Zura crossed the apartment and went into her bedchamber. She wasn't sure why she'd felt the need to inform the girl of what she was doing. Perhaps she wanted the girl to feel connected to things around her; to feel a part of what was going on. There was a time when she would've wished for someone to have done the same for her.

  * * *

  The Divines-forsaken coldsuit fought her every move. It creaked as she moved, and the fabric creased and pinched her skin whenever she bent over. After a hard-fought struggle, Zura emerged from her bedchamber, tugging at the hem of her uniform coat to straighten it.

  Yaella was waiting for her, a wide, hopeful smile on her face, holding out a plate of food. "Look, Mahasa. I made a meal for you."

  It was the contents of a ration pack — pull one tab and the whole thing cooks itself — taken out and arranged on a plate. "Huh," said Zura, approaching the girl. There was so much hope in the child's blue eyes, it bordered on desperation.

  "Thank you, child," she said, picking up the manau in one hand and a plump binva in the other. She was about to leave, but paused a moment, looking into the girl's eyes. Wide open, searching hers. Pleading. "You didn't have to, child," she said. "I appreciate it. Thank you."

  "Thank you, Mahasa," said Yaella.

  Zura saw the girl's eyes becoming wet, as if she were about to cry. She turned and walked out the door, stuffing the binva in her mouth so she could grab the handrail as she descended.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The cows watched Zura as she walked by. They weren't as apprehensive of her as they had been at first. Some of them took a step closer to the fence, regarding her with the same blank stare while they chewed. She found herself staring back at them. There was something peaceful about them: their contented, unhurried lives spent in the open air.

  They were genetically modified, Miller had said. Specifically designed to need less feed, produce no methane, and more healthful milk and meat. Zura scoffed at the thought. The humans still thought 'genetically modifying' things was the answer to their problems. She wondered if that's how her own people had started, millennia ago, down the path of tampering with the genes of themselves and everything else around them. Even when faced with their own ruin as a result, the Temple's solution was to do more tampering.

  Past the wood-fenced fields, the trail grew fainter as it wound up the hill to the turret. Zura saw Roche lean out of the door of the building. He looked different, somehow. He waved at her, then returned inside.

  Behind Zura, her ever-present shadow — currently Irasa — kept pace, her armour glinting white and blue in the overcast sky.

  The previous din of Roche's music was gone, replaced by the murky notes of something more haunting. A wheezing drone, accompanying shrill notes that hung in the air. Zura stepped in the door of the turret while her escort took up position outside.

  Inside, the building was surprisingly neat and tidy. The work bench had been cleared away, leaving only a single bottle of amber-coloured liquid and two glasses. A datapad was propped against the wall at the back of the workbench. The sounds of wailing lamentation came from a video feed playing on it.

  Roche appeared from further inside. He'd cleaned himself up, trimming his hair and shaving off his facial hair. His battered military fatigues were clean and buttoned up. Zura's mind went back to that stupid book she'd been reading, and found herself wondering what Roche's intentions were.

  The human gave her a tight-lipped smile. "General. Thank you for coming."

  "Major."

  He gestured at the datapad, with its time display. "Back on Earth, today is November the eleventh."

  Zura had a vague notion that the day held significance for humans. Looking closer at the datapad, the video showed a collection of formally-dressed dignitaries, standing in formation under dark skies. Judging by the breath masks they wore, the broadcast event was taking place on Earth itself.

  "November is the eleventh month in the Earth calendar," explained Roche. "Every year, on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, we pause to remember fallen comrades-in-arms." Roche picked up the bottle and began to unscrew the top. "You and your troops are the only other soldiers here, General, so I was hoping you'd join me in a toast."

  "Of course," said Zura. She cocked her head in the direction of the colony downhill. "This is not a public ritual?"

  Roche pursed his lips, shaking his head slowly. "The councillors didn't want to." He poured out two glasses. "They don't want to 'glorify war', they said. Our new era of peace, that sort of thing." He handed her a glass. "How soon they forget, huh, General?"

  "They forget because they want to forget," said Zura, accepting the glass. "It's more comfortable to forget. More palatable to pretend none of it ever happened."

  "And pretend that people like us never existed, eh?"

  Zura brought the glass up to her nose, taking a deep breath. It smelled like a combination of soil, dampness, and solvent. It tingled in her sinuses.

  Roche raised his glass to eye level, the drink glittering in the light. "If I may, General? From one soldier to another? A toast to the fallen. We, at least, will remember them."

  Zura raised her glass. Roche tapped his glass against hers, making a clear ringing sound. A parade of memories marched through her mind. Countless friends, dying in her arms or simply disappearing. The voices of those who'd died beside her, and those she'd killed.

  Finding herself unable to muster any words, she took a drink. A wave of smooth heat flooded her mouth, throat, and sinuses. It was like drinking warmth itself.

  Roche carefully placed his glass down on the workbench, before filling it up again. "I joined when I was thirteen," he said. "During the defence of Earth. A bunch of kids fighting the Horlan, trying to buy time for the evacuation." He shook his head, growing quiet as he took another drink. "You, General?"

  Zura put her own glass down on the bench, pausing before sliding the glass away from the bottle. Humans spent a lot of time talking about their past. It supposedly helped them cope with bad experiences. From her experience with humans, it didn't always work very well.

  She sighed. "I also joined in my thirteenth year," she said. "Thirteen in our calendar; that would be fifteen or sixteen in yours. Back before the first time the Horlan came." Mostly, she remembered the smel
l. Smoke and charred flesh. Cities aflame. Horlan ships hovering over crowded streets full of panicked people, their claws reaching down and picking up groups of people like they were harvesting crops. Defeat after defeat, horror after horror. Always the same sounds, always the same stench of death.

  Roche filled his glass a third time. "They can't even remember once a year," he said to the glass. "For us, it's every day, you know?"

  She knew that look, the distance in his eyes. The same look she'd seen in the eyes of thousands of Palani soldiers. The same eyes she'd seen in the mirror, from time to time.

  "Every day," she said.

  She cleared her throat, shaking her head to rattle her thoughts loose. "Thank you for including me in your moment of remembrance, Major. It will be a public service every year, starting next year." She turned toward the door, as the sound of a lonesome brass horn came from the datapad. "Sacrifice must not be forgotten."

  "Thank you, General. Dileas gu brath."

  Zura looked back toward him. "Pardon, Major?"

  "My regiment's motto, General. 'Faithful to the end'."

  "Indeed," said Zura, stepping out the door. The clouds were lower, and it looked like it was about to rain. "Faithful to the end."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Apart from a few spitting drops, the rain was still holding off. The heavy grey clouds hung close to the ground, moving in from the sea in unhurried ranks.

  Zura had stopped once again to watch the cattle, still eating their way from one end of the field to the other. Still oblivious to the lives of the people around them.