I nod. “No messages in or out until it’s over, once we begin.”
His arms tighten on me. “Mary, I hate feeling like this.”
“Like what?” As if I don’t know.
March can’t bring himself to say the words aloud, but he doesn’t have to. That despite how much we’ve been through, this is it. This is what we can’t surmount. You can’t leave Loras…he needs you here. And I can’t stay with Sasha. It’s too dangerous.
I share his foreboding. I wish I had a solution or a magic pill. But I don’t. So just know this—I love you. And I always will.
“No more of this,” he says hoarsely.
“We have time yet. Let’s make the most of it.”
And we do.
The next day, I work with March to coordinate assaults that will do the most damage. I hand him the datapad with the intel the resistance has collected and he skims it, brow furrowed as he analyzes the probability of victory. “No. No. Too much ground resistance. But here, they’ve reduced sentries because of budgetary considerations, and the damage to the infrastructure would be considerable if you pulled off a successful strike.”
I make a note of where, and we move on. The morning passes in that fashion, and, in the afternoon, we meet with the rest of the team to talk strategy and resources. March works with Zeeka on explosives while Vel puts in a word or two to clarify. The Mareq soaks it in all in, learning fast, while Constance logs everything. She will be our hub, making sure the left hand knows what the right is doing.
March and I spend our nights loving as if there’s no tomorrow, yet the time goes too damn fast. I resent each sunrise because it draws me nearer to the day when he returns to the spaceport to take ship away from here. The Imperial bastards have grown complacent since the ruling. By the increased centurion presence, I think they expected some form of peaceful protests, mobs in need of dispersing. But lulling them is only the beginning of the plan. Once they stop expecting an attack—and after March and Sasha are safely away—then we strike.
On the eleventh day, Sasha talks March into taking him for a ride in the shuttle Vel has finished modding. Vel has taken him out before, but the kid wants some time with his uncle. He’s not whiny; it was a casual request, or rather, more of a challenge to “show his stuff.” I wonder if March has ever piloted for Sasha. All his adventures must seem far removed from their normal life.
Vel finds me surrounded by maps with targets marked. I’ve prioritized with color codes, so I won’t forget which facilities need to go first.
But he doesn’t want to talk about the coming war. “Are you well, Sirantha?”
No doubt he’s referring to the imminent departure. “I’ll be fine.”
“Will you?”
I’d tolerate that kind of prying from nobody else. “In time. You forget…this is what I do. I lock it down and move on. I was made to be broken.”
“I do not forget.” A layered statement.
“Does it bother you to have him here?” That’s a silly, human question, and I know his answer before he voices it.
His mandible flares in honest denial. “Of course not. March makes you happy. That is all I require. If that ever changed, if he hurt you, then I would kill him.”
That’s not an empty promise, and it makes me smile, though maybe it shouldn’t. But it would take a better woman than I not to be pleased he cares enough to kill for me. Vel’s devotion is precious and rare; I’m lucky to have him. Lucky to have them both.
Unfortunately, I’m not the sort of person whose luck runs hot long.
La’heng Liberation Army signal-jack ad: Profile One
UNA
[A girl with fair skin and wide blue eyes stares at the camera, blinking nervously.]
Male interviewer, off-screen: Don’t be scared, Una. Tell us who you are. The world needs to hear your story.
[She clears her throat and then nods.]
Una: It’s bad here. I can’t remember anything else. I hear it used to be better, a long time ago. Now, there’s never enough food. I didn’t see an aircar until I was fifteen.
Male interviewer: What changed?
Una: A nobleman came to the provinces looking for a pet and took me from my family. It’s a status symbol, if you have a pretty La’heng to serve you.
Male voice: Did he pay your family?
Una: Yes. He didn’t have to since he had a dispensation from my protector. My mother cried. She said it was wrong to take credits for me, but the young ones were starving. The man said it was a privilege to be chosen—that it meant I could get better work, travel, and learn lots of languages. It didn’t feel like an honor.
Male voice: What was your new life like?
Una: At first, it was all right. I went to school. I learned many languages, just like he promised. I liked it…and it was easy.
Male voice: But…?
[She lowers her head, hair veiling her face.]
Male voice: Continue whenever you’re ready, Una.
Una: When I turned sixteen, everything changed. He…hurt me. When I pleaded with him not to touch me anymore, he said I owed him for sending me to school, like a lifetime of indentured service wasn’t enough. I couldn’t fight. I wanted to. I hated him. But I couldn’t.
Voice-over: And that’s who you’re fighting for, LLA. Contact the comm code at the bottom of your screen to find workers with the cure.
CHAPTER 8
I’ve been called a terrorist before, usually by a government trying to pin something on me that I didn’t do. This time, I’m earning the title.
In the morning, March and Sasha left; I dropped them off at the spaceport myself. The pain nearly killed me. My love’s anguish exacerbated my own, and Sasha was mad as hell, muttering beneath his breath about taking the coward’s way out. I don’t envy March the journey back to Nicu Tertius.
Yet their departure frees us to act. The plans are in place.
Loras touches me lightly on the shoulder, grounding me. “If we hit this pylon, it will take out terrestrial communications in this sector.”
True. This is one of the targets March designated before he left. He lingers even as we move forward, his experience driving our initial assault.
Vel adds, “They can bounce messages to a near-orbit satellite, but transmission will take considerably longer, and Leviter will be working simultaneously.”
I nod. “So that buys us time. But the charges will take out the building next to it…you’re sure there are no La’heng inside?”
“Positive.” Loras checks his handheld just in case. “I sent a message on the subchannel, advising all service personnel to avoid the premises until further notice.”
“Based on comm chatter,” Vel puts in, “I would say your message has been disseminated. The Nicuan masters are agitated that their slaves are unavailable.”
“After tonight, they’ll see that as a warning sign,” I mutter.
By distant lamplight, Loras looks more human than I’ve ever seen him. His fine features are touched by fear, weariness, and regret, but he doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll find a way around it. This has to be done.”
But he doesn’t sound any happier about it than I am.
“With Leviter’s help, tonight should get the planet locked down,” I say. “With La’heng decreed a red port, there will be no ships in or out until we finish our work here.”
“It could take turns,” he warns.
I shrug. “So be it. We can’t fight those on world, plus the collective might of Imperial forces fresh from Nicuan. They built an impressive fleet during the Morgut War.”
Loras scowls. “And lost few. Wretched cowards.”
It’s true that while Nicuan promised ships and a legion to crew them, they didn’t send their centurions to the front in time. Others bore the brunt of battle and sacrificed for the greater good. The current Nicuan emperor, Tacitus XVI, could muster almost enough ships to threaten Conglomerate control. They ought to be watching them carefully, but I don’t trust the new chancellor. While Katrin Jocasta might be a skilled diplomat, she lacks Tarn’s steel.
But that’s not my problem.
For my last public appearance, I will be playing the Hero of La’heng, and then it’s time for a final bow, and the curtain will come down. I’m so ready to lead my own life. It’s what keeps me going in the middle of the night when I am desperate, aching, and already lonely for the man I love. It’s only been a few hours. The next turn will feel endless, but even in that, I am luckier than March; Vel, Loras, Constance, and Zeeka remain with me. I’m not alone. He only has Sasha, who loves him but can’t support him. March can’t lean on the kid. He can only be strong for him.
The fact is, I don’t care what history makes of me. After the bombardment on Venice Minor, I’d have sworn I was done with bloodshed, done with war. The cost is just too high. But sometimes, it’s the only choice that remains; and some things are worth fighting for.
My friend’s freedom is one of them.
So I give the order. “Red team Alpha, go.”
And the explosives detonate, lighting the night sky in a vermilion corona. Metal quakes and topples in shards. Raid sirens sound as emergency lights come on. People scream as chunks of building slam down, leaving pocks in the pavement. We’re far enough away that I can’t make out the details, but I know what it looks like. Some images I can never get out of my head.
The same thing is going on in cities all over La’heng. Multiple strike teams, multiple detonation sites. The chaos will be splendid.
“Success,” Vel tells his handheld. “Imperial comms have gone silent.”
It is the first step to outright rebellion. Since we’re vastly outnumbered and have fewer resources, we’ll depend on good intel, calculated sabotage, and the occasional ambush to throw their infrastructure into disarray. There’s a battle plan back at headquarters, mostly due to March, Vel, and Constance. Though I sat in on all the planning, I’m not much for strategy sessions; I’d rather be fighting.
But we can’t take them in a head-on battle. They have too many soldiers, and we face the challenge of distributing the cure to the La’heng. Once we do that, we can count on a world full of savage warriors, furious over generations of enslavement. But I can’t inject everyone on the planet at once, and I won’t do what my predecessors did—and gas everyone without their consent.
Change on this scale takes time.
Until we devise a solution, we’ll utilize guerilla strikes. Make this an uncomfortable place for Nicuan nobles to holiday. It’s not an ideal solution, but in a perfect universe, this never would’ve come to pass. Humans wouldn’t think they knew best—that their ways are superior—and it gives them the right to destroy somebody else’s culture.
Odd. As I sprint from the scene, I realize I’ve used that pronoun for humans, as if I’m not one. I won’t think about that disconnect now. I have to focus on eluding the centurions pounding the pavement behind us. They’re fanning out to search the area, confident they’ll have the culprits in custody soon.
