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  "Undesirables get sent away." Zura nodded. "Where they can be forgotten."

  Major Roche fixed his eyes on hers. "I get the feeling, General, that I'm preaching to the choir here."

  Zura had to think about that. It sounded like one of those human aphorisms she'd been trying to memorise.

  "Sorry, General. I'm suggesting your own situation might be similar."

  "In some ways, Major. Perhaps so." She held his gaze a moment, then looked up at the turret above. "The weapon has not been fired in some time."

  Roche shook his head. "No, General. I tried it once, but the containment manifold is screwed. I tried running a new power line to the manifold, but still no good. The beam just scatters across the sky. It makes a pretty show, though."

  "I will send down a repair team from one of the ships. I want this weapon operational, Major."

  "Oh?" Roche seemed surprised, though Zura wasn't sure why he would be. "Thank you, General."

  Zura grunted in response. "Tell me if anything happens that I need to know about."

  Roche gave a nod of his head. "Yes, General. On your way back to town, be sure to stop in and meet the farmers. They might have things they need."

  "Things the councillors wouldn't tell me."

  "Maybe."

  Zura raised an eyebrow. There was something he wasn't telling her, but she'd find out soon enough. "Good day, Major." She turned to leave.

  "General, if I may… one other thing?"

  Zura stopped, looking over her shoulder at him. "Major."

  "Do you drink, General?"

  "Of course."

  "I meant, as in alcohol."

  "So did I, Major."

  "Oh. Okay, good. Thank you, General."

  "Major."

  Zura started walking down the hill toward the colony. The Palani had observed humans for thousands of years, always expecting that they'd make sense one day. No luck so far.

  * * *

  Humans lived their lives surrounded by green. All their colonies, all their homeworlds were covered in green plants. Zura wondered if they realised how rare the colour was on habitable planets.

  The human-laid fields spoke of their owners. The fences were made from hewn logs, sunk into the ground. The lines were imperfect, but the fences were sturdy. A lot of hard work, from colonists with initiative. Well motivated by hunger, she supposed.

  She walked along the edge of the field. Unlike the hand-laid fields, the 'real' farm fields sat within perfect ribbon-fenced confines: row after row of identical green plants reached into the distance, like a formation of soldiers on parade.

  New plants: vivid green, knee height, with broad leaves that drooped from a central stalk. Corn. The previous field had been full of wheat: thin, grass-like plants, their tips heavy with dozens of grains.

  Ahead, in the middle of the grid of fields, was an agricultural building. Two stories tall and boxy, it held the agricultural machines and maintenance facilities, plus whatever else the humans needed to grow food plants. In the distance, past the corn, Zura could see cows in the next field silently watching her.

  Giant shuttered doors were open on the sides of the agricultural building, revealing the machines stored inside. The hot breeze flowed through the structure, bringing sounds from within as Zura approached.

  Two identical machines sat inside: hulking four-wheeled vehicles with spherical tires. A variety of attachments hung from racks overhead, ready for the machines to retrieve and use for whatever it was they did. Zura looked at the heavy machinery as she stepped into the building.

  "Is that you, Miriam?" came a voice from behind the nearest machine. "It wants the supervisor to login before it'll run the diagnostics."

  A young man walked around from behind the machine, reading from a datapad he held in both hands. "Miriam?" he asked again, looking up. When his eyes saw Zura, he recoiled, his face going nearly as pale as hers. "Oh God," he blurted, taking a step back. He clutched the datapad against his chest, as if to shield himself.

  Zura knew that face. She even recognised the fear she saw in his eyes. It took her a few seconds to remember the name. "Dustin Berwick."

  Dustin took another unsteady step back. "Oh, Jesus. I didn't— I mean—"

  "I didn't know you were here. And yet, you must have known I was here."

  The young man had backed up against the machine, still clutching the datapad. "Yeah, uh, General. I was…" he was licking his lips, trying to swallow. "I mean, I was hoping to, uh, avoid you. I'm sorry."

  Zura just nodded, looking around at the building's interior. "You had a ship."

  Dustin swallowed again. He didn't seem to be able to take his eyes away from her. "Yes, ma'am. It wasn't my ship. After you let me go, I went to Kenora Station. I, uh, Keexa, owed money on it, I guess. Sarta Eclipse foreclosed on it the moment I landed." He finally broke eye contact with her, casting nervous glances past her shoulders. "Please, General. No one here knows—"

  She waved one hand, and Dustin fell silent. She'd heard of Keexa: it was a Jaljal mercenary who kept showing up in sector reports, but Intelligence had done a miserable job of learning anything more. "Tell me who Keexa worked for."

  Dustin's shoulders slumped, his grip on the datapad weakening. "Please, General. I hardly knew Keexa. It once mentioned an Uta named Qiviq. But I never heard anything else. I swear." His voice was quieter, almost a wheeze. "Please."

  Humans were always so quick to beg. Their voices were flat to begin with, but desperation made them sound like a vanara gasping for breath. Zura held up one hand, and Dustin closed his mouth. He looked like he was going to hyperventilate.

  "You have started a new life here, Dustin Berwick."

  "Yes," gasped the young man, leaning forward. There was a little more colour in his cheeks. "Yes, General. I have. I'm working. It's honest work, General. You gave me a second chance, and I'm not wasting it. I swear it, I'm going to—"

  "Enough," she snapped, momentarily irritated by his babbling. He stared at her while she took a breath to centre herself. "You have nothing to fear from me. You and I, we will not speak of your past again. Be proud of your new life."

  Dustin's datapad was under his arm, his hands together as in supplication. "Thank you, General. Thank you so much. I won't—"

  "Don't thank me."

  Zura turned and left the building. When she looked back she saw Dustin, still leaning against the machine, tears welling in his eyes.

  No, she thought, don't thank me. The last thing she wanted was gratitude. The young man lived because her orders required it. If the orders had been different, he would be dead. Politicians gave the orders; soldiers like her just carried them out. And civilians — like Dustin Berwick — lived or died as a result. Let the Pentarch leave their marble halls for a moment. Let them pull the trigger themselves. See how quickly the rules change then.

  Zura started walking back toward the colony buildings. In the nearby field, the cows were still watching her.

  * * *

  Four-Thirteen's holographic image waited patiently from the chair across from her.

  Zura had worked with him for centuries, but she didn't know his real name, and they'd never met in person. Palani Intelligence was diligent in keeping its secrets — especially from their own people.

  She sighed, leaning forward and putting her elbows on the desk. With one finger, she nudged the empty ration pack to the side of the desk. It wouldn't be long before she was sick to death of binva.

  Four-Thirteen was still waiting for an answer to his question. He'd always been patient with her, quietly waiting while she considered something.

  "No," she said at last. "Leave the human databases as they are. If they list Dustin Berwick as deceased, that's their problem. They can sort it out on their own."

  "Of course," said Four-Thirteen, giving a deferential nod. Zura couldn't see his face for the veil he wore, but there was a poorly-hidden smile in his eyes. "And in the meantime, we have a 'dead' human available to us, and his
DNA to go with it."

  "I assume you're going to amuse yourselves with the human databases."

  "Perhaps." Four-Thirteen just nodded. "As per your request, Mahasa, we have forwarded additional files pertaining to your Doctor Singh, and her service aboard Borealis."

  "Good. Summary?"

  "They showed remarkable competence, for humans. The Doctor included."

  Zura harrumphed. "Competent humans, is it?"

  Four-Thirteen's holographic eyes looked to one side, at something out of view. "You have a visitor, Mahasa."

  "Do I now?" said Zura, looking up at the office door's small console. It showed nothing. "Are you watching everything I do, Four-Thirteen? Then you know what I think about you."

  Four-Thirteen's eyes smiled again. "I can guess, Mahasa. Good evening to you."

  Zara grunted in acknowledgement as Four-Thirteen's holographic image collapsed in on itself, dissolving into a fading bundle of light.

  The office's door console lit up: a visitor was requesting entry.

  "Door, open," said Zura. Nothing happened. She spoke again, trying to flatten her voice to resemble bland human speech. "Door."

  The console chirped.

  "Open."

  The door chirped again and slid open. Councillor Miller stood in the doorway, looking startled at the door's sudden movement.

  "Good evening," said the councillor as she entered the room. She hesitantly pushed one of the chairs right next to the desk, then sat down.

  The forced-looking smile never left her face. Humans smiled too much, Zura decided. They smiled the most when they were up to something. Perhaps it worked to disarm one another, to make each other receptive to whatever their agendas might be.

  "So, General," said Miller, pausing to refresh her smile. "I'd like you to call me Jennifer. May I call you Zura?"

  "You may not." That was another thing about humans: their presumption of intimacy. Everyone just assumed everyone else was their friend, or was waiting to be.

  Councillor Miller looked hurt; the expression was even less sincere than the smile. "It's just that 'General' has a very aggressive tone to it." She winced as she spoke; perhaps she was trying to convey that she found the conversation emotionally difficult, to demonstrate her determination to deal with an issue she thought Zura wouldn't like. "Calling you 'General' all the time, it suggests that you're somehow better than other people. Maybe—"

  "No," interrupted Zura. "What my title suggests is that I've been in the military for eight hundred years, and everyone else has not."

  Miller barely paused before starting again, fidgeting in her seat. "General, a lot of people find you intimidating."

  "They should."

  The Councillor pointed over her shoulder, toward the door. "A little while ago I spoke with Dustin. He was very upset, and when I asked why, he said you'd spoken to him. He found it upsetting."

  "Good. That means he heard me."

  Miller cocked her head, her eyes watching Zura's. "May I ask why you saw the need—"

  "Mister Berwick and I have met before."

  "Oh," said the councillor. She looked surprised by that; apparently Berwick hadn't told her anything. "You've met him before? Do you mean socially, or with regards to your duties—"

  "I don't meet people socially, Councillor."

  Miller looked disappointed, and it looked genuine. "He should have told me." She shook her head, looking back up at Zura. "General Varta, some people are afraid of you."

  "I specifically said that no one had any reason to fear me."

  "Well, they do fear you, General." Miller seemed eager, as if she thought she'd made some inroad. "And you have a heavily-armed combat soldier following you everywhere. It might make people upset."

  "Tell them not to be."

  Miller shifted in her seat again. Zura wondered if the chair was uncomfortable, or if Miller's clothes were, or just Miller herself. "General, when someone is scared of you, it's not their job to find out if you're actually scary."

  The delicate humans. Wanting to be protected from discomfort, but wanting someone else to do it. "Very well," said Zura, taking a deep breath. She leaned back in her chair. "Tell me what you want to happen, Councillor. Be specific."

  "Well," said Miller, a moment's uncertainty flashing across her face. "You should… be less intimidating. Don't have heavily-armed soldiers following you everywhere. Try talking to people. Smile?" She offered a wide, toothy, insincere smile as if to provide an example.

  "The soldiers are required for my rank, Councillor. I don't get to choose that." Zura wished the human would stop smiling. "I will order them to be more discreet, and remain at the shuttle when possible." It was a safe enough move; the colony had been thoroughly scanned the moment they'd arrived. There was no evidence of weapons or suspicious behaviour; Four-Thirteen had been busy learning the colourful histories of the colonists. Including Councillor Miller, whose public service career had been derailed after taking part in anti-government protests on her home planet.

  "I think it might be helpful," said Miller, "for you to learn more about human culture. Knowledge would help bridge gaps, and avoid upsetting people—"

  "Like knowing that Palani only use their given names with closest friends and loved ones, Councillor."

  Miller trailed off, her face flushing red. "Well… yes. I apologise for that, General. I meant no offence. I will try to be more sensitive." She took a deep breath and was about to say something else, but abandoned the thought before it reached her lips. "Again, I'm very sorry, General." She stood from the chair, turning toward the door.

  Zura sighed. The human was making an effort, and some of what she'd said had sounded sincere. "Councillor."

  Miller paused in the office doorway, turning around. "General?"

  Zura chewed at her lower lip a moment, trying to translate the words in her head. The human language was such a stupid mess; nuance was almost impossible to get right. "Councillor, I'm a soldier. I'm not a diplomat. I'm not a social person." She fought the urge to roll her eyes. "But I will try."

  As the door closed behind a smiling Councillor Miller — a different smile this time — Zura checked the time. Only a few hours until midnight.

  And today was only the second day.

  Chapter Eight

  Zura lowered the datasheet. "How do the humans read this nonsense?"

  She picked up her cup of tea from the small shelf beside the bed. It was only lukewarm, and had strengthened through sitting for a while.

  Leaning back against the wall, she looked at the room around her. Only five days on the planet, and she'd settled into a routine. In the evenings, she sat on her bed, knees drawn up, and read some 'human literature'. Her coldsuit, happily peeled off at the end of the day, hung in the closet next to her uniform coat and breeches. All on identical hangers, evenly spaced. Her boots were beside the bed, properly positioned, ready for her to step into. Everything was neat and correct and in accordance with regulations, just as it had always been.

  Zura held up the datasheet again, sliding a finger across its surface. The data confirmed it: the ridiculous tale of Marlaina and Heathcliffe was currently the most popular book in human space.

  What nonsense. None of the story had any basis in fact. The man and woman were idiots. It was all just escapist fantasy: a story of some contrived love affair between two broken people. Perfect moments — like Marlaina and Heathcliffe — didn't happen in the real world. She'd been hoping to learn more about the human frame of mind, but all the book was telling her was that humans were delusional, and wanted to be that way. They needed to be. Perhaps it was their response to a life full of suffering and hardship: instead of dealing with their problems and bettering themselves, they sought to escape. To pretend — just for a moment — that the universe had a pleasant outcome in store for them.

  She sipped at her tea, her eyes going back to the page where she'd left off.

  The datasheet chimed at her, and a message imposed itself ove
r the story text.

  "Shin sa el-fedor," she muttered out loud, poking one finger at the message.

  Captain Upara's face appeared in the middle of the datasheet. "Mahasa. My apologies."

  "Noted. Go ahead."

  "Mahasa," began Upara, looking out at her from the sheet, "A ship has entered the system. Profile and transponder match the civilian vessel we are expecting."

  The new colonist family. Zura couldn't remember the name — Russo? — but they were a day late. "La. Continue."

  "Yes, Mahasa. The vessel's computer is broadcasting its status. There has been a life support failure, and it is navigating autonomously. It is warning other vessels to stay clear, and that it intends to land at the colony's landing pad."

  "La," said Zura. The pilot must have set the computer navigation aid when they were still able. "Life signs, Upara?"

  "Unable to say with confidence, Mahasa. Very faint, if any."

  "La." Zura quickly assembled a list of priorities in her head. "We have a shuttle on the landing pad; move it. Prepare another shuttle with a medical team. Notify the councillors, Major Roche, and Doctor Singh."

  Upara gave a quick nod of her head. "Yes, Mahasa."

  "That is all."

  As Upara's face disappeared from the datasheet, Zura dropped the sheet onto the bed beside her. It immediately began rolling itself up into a scroll.

  Humans couldn't tolerate much of a change in body temperature; only a few degrees either way would put them in peril. If the civilian vessel's life support failed, the crew and passengers were probably dead. It would be a blow to the colony's morale.

  She looked at the wall next to the bed, where a small console showed the time and the life support status. The room temperature setting was 14 Celsius: uncomfortably warm by Palani standards. Slowly raising the temperature in her apartment had let her increase her body temperature. The closer her body was to the outdoors temperature, the more comfortable she'd be. And the less she'd have to depend on the damned coldsuit. Only problem was, raising her body temperature made her lethargic.