[ 3.4 ]
Around three in the morning, Serafin is awakened by a high priority notification: the report on his abduction has arrived. The classification rating is high enough he can’t view it at home; he has to shrug on his robes and ride the people-mover to first ring and clamber into the HSCX pod, a grim little grey box with a hologen that dates back to the Interplanetary Wars.
It takes nearly a minute for the pod to sync with his personals and the cryptos to activate, which is irritating, but not a great surprise. He’s willing to put up with a lot — but when he sees the report has been redacted, he’s tempted to flip the table over and go back to bed.
Makes sense, though, doesn’t it? Serafin is not (and never has been, remember) affiliated in any way with any intelligence service. This report has been provided to him as a courtesy.
Still: it’s here, at last. Grit your teeth and open the file. Ignore the fact that it was published a over a month ago and appreciate that they’ve finally granted you access.
He’s not privy to all the details, but apparently even this limited release took considerable effort on van Arden’s part. Serafin can see why: there’s some nasty bombs embedded in the text; major security failures on multiple levels at the Sharman spaceport, while the local peacekeepers, Churchill SIS, and others take heavy fire for mistakes ranging from minor protocol violations to egregious incompetence.
Jim Serafin does appear in the public version of the report, but only briefly. Why would it be otherwise? He’s no one special: a Paean Medical senior security facilitator in the wrong place at the wrong time, forced into a false confession by dangerous radicals. There’s a collection of his interviews in the appendix — including the Hardlight appearance, which Serafin is too embarrassed to revisit in depth. Overall, the report seems quite sympathetic.
The classified portions he has access to are less kind. There’s no mention of Jim Serafin here, but some time is spent on an SIS operative, designation QITT, who receives such a thorough drubbing Serafin is mildly surprised they don’t recommend simply having him shot:
… OPERATIVE QITT DEVIATED FROM ESTABLISHED PROTOCOL ON MULTIPLE OCCASIONS IN TIME-FRAME UNDER REVIEW.
OPERATIVE FAILED TO FILE PROPER ITINERARY THROUGH APPROPRIATE CHANNELS.
OPERATIVE FAILED TO DISCLOSURE RELEVANT INTELLIGENCE IN A TIMELY FASHION.
IN POST-INCIDENT DEBRIEFINGS, OPERATIVE REPEATEDLY EXHIBITED UNCIVIL AND UNCOOPERATIVE BEHAVIOR.
WHILE THERE IS NO EVIDENCE AT THIS TIME TO SUGGEST OPERATIVE DELIBERATELY OR MALICIOUSLY EXPOSED SENSITIVE INFORMATION TO ADVERSARIAL AGENTS, POSSIBILITY OF INADVERTENT DISCLOSURE CANNOT BE DISMISSED.
It’s impressive, how much they go out of their way to besmirch Qitt without actually accusing him of anything. As frustrating as it is, Serafin is honestly relieved: if this is the official record, then it makes sense he’s been treated so shabbily since his escape. He’s not burned, but they are freezing him out. Maybe Fyfe can put in a good word, after the Hartshorne business is done.
There is some good news, at least: Serafin is pleased to see the report arrives at the correct conclusion about his abductors:
PROKLYA (THE CURSED) ARE PARA-MILITARY CRIMINAL ORGANIZATION PRIMARILY OPERATING IN THE BELT AND CHURCHILL SPACE. PROKLYA RANKS ARE FILLED PRIMARILY WITH DISAFFECTED RED-SPACE SOLDIERS AND OPERATIVES, TYPICALLY DESERTERS OR DISHONORABLE DISCHARGES FROM S.K.V. AND AUXILIARY FORCES.
PROKLYA ORG FOUNDED IN 1/20/52 BY CAPTAIN SASHA BARZHEVIK, WHO MUTINIED WITH HIS CREW DURING THE BATTLE OF OLYMPUS SHĀN. WHILE MOST ORIGINAL MEMBERS ARE NOW DECEASED OR INCARCERATED, ORG CONTINUES TO OPERATE IN CHURCHILL/BELT SPACE UNDER COMMAND OF SECOND AND THIRD GENERATION MEMBERS. DUE TO ORGANIZATIONAL STRUCTURE AND PRACTICES, ORG IS RESISTANT TO SURVEILLANCE AND INFILTRATION.
PROKLYA PRIMARILY ENGAGED IN PIRACY AND ROBBERY, BUT KNOWN TO TAKE CONTRACT WORK. BELIEVED TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE KIDNAPPING AND RANSOM OF MALAXA CONCERN BOARD MEMBERS IN ‘60. ORG ALSO CLAIMED CREDIT FOR THE ‘67 P.R.E. BOMBING WHICH TOOK 214 LIVES AND CAUSED EIGHTY-SEVEN MILLION DOLLARS IN DAMAGE TO CRITICAL U.F.A. BELT INFRASTRUCTURE. OPEN BOUNTY HAS BEEN POSTED BY CORPORATIVE FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO APPREHENSION OF RESPONSIBLE PARTIES.
IDEOLOGY: PROKLYA NOTABLY REFUSED LUCRATIVE CONTRACT FROM UNIVERSAL SOVIET TO TARGET STRIKERS IN A SOVIET LITHIUM MINING FACILITY IN THE BELT DURING ‘73 “SUNRISE” PROTESTS. THAT SAID, DESPITE CLAIMS OF SOLIDARITY WITH FAR-LEFT UPRISER MOVEMENTS, MODERN PROKLYA ORG PRIMARY MOTIVATION APPEARS TO BE PROFIT AND REPUTATION.
AT THIS TIME, IT REMAINS UNCLEAR HOW C.F.C. UPRISERS MADE CONTACT WITH PROKLYA. WE ARE ALSO UNABLE TO DETERMINE HOW FUNDING WAS OBTAINED FOR SERAFIN/MORSON ABDUCTION. STATE SPONSORSHIP POSSIBLE, BUT UNLIKELY, GIVEN HIGH DEGREE OF PROKLYA ANTIPATHY TOWARD STATE. S.I.S. FIN-DIV INVESTIGATION REMAINS ONGOING.
Serafin’s own investigation has found the more or less the same. A promising sign — it suggests the investigation was run clean. They did miss something Serafin caught, however — a verity-stamped recording of the Proklya drinking it up on a null-flag station, well within range of the intercept vector. Word is they left a few curves in the hospital and a bartender in the morgue before they finally shipped out.
A nasty crew, to be sure. If he’d been tasked with kidnapping himself, Serafin would have preferred something quieter, with less witnesses, perhaps snatching him at his hotel or some secluded corner of the station. But what the Proklya lack in subterfuge and subversion, they more than make up for with kinetics and brutality. The ruckus might have even been deliberate, in the end: bagging a SIS operative off a public transit sends a clear message to the cluster: you are not safe and your governances cannot protect you.
Hours later, after having carefully gone over the main files, Serafin finds one last nasty little tidbit tucked into one of the appendices, marked Non-Essential:
ON 4/4/77, ROCK-HOPPER SHIP DESIGNATE I.F.S ABADAN ENCOUNTERED AN UNREGISTERED VESSEL NEAR FOALE ON THE FLOAT. REPORTED TO C.S.T.A. ON MORNING OF NEXT DAY. DURING SUBSEQUENT BREACH AND SEARCH BY C.S.T.A. VESSEL ALMAS ON 4/12/77 at 23:20 CST, C.S.T.A INVESTIGATION TEAM LOCATED SEVERAL CONTAINERS BELIEVED TO BE USED FOR HOUSING OF PRISONERS. PARTIAL HUMAN REMAINS WERE LOCATED IN MEDICAL BAY. REMAINS RETRIEVED FROM OUTPOST AND RETURNED TO MITCHELL STATION. CHURCHILL S.I.S. FORENSICS PERFORMED STANDARD B.M.D.R. TESTING AND POSITIVELY IDENTIFIED REMAINS AS BELONGING TO ████████████████████████. DUE TO HIGHLY SENSITIVE NATURE OF ONGOING OPERATIONS, CASUALTY NOTIFICATIONS HAVE NOT BEEN DELIVERED AT PRESENT TIME. REMAINS WILL REMAIN IN STORAGE AT HALPRIN MEDICAL CENTER SECURE FACILITY UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
A body.
This discovery will churn in his gut like a bezoar, keeping him up the rest of the night scowling at the ceiling. It will stay with him throughout the day and the weeks and months to come. He can’t decide what possibility he finds more offensive: the incompetence, that they left this for him to stumble upon? Or the insult of the redaction, as though he wouldn’t be able to immediately deduce the body’s identity?
They found a body.
Who else can it be? Has to be someone whose identity is important enough to redact. Piapil was splashed all over the lighter. Can’t be Morson; he’s still missing, but they got proof-of-life on him just a few weeks ago. And it won’t be one of the Proklya — no reason to hide that. A dead merc would be cause for celebration, proof that law and order is returning to Copernica. Which means—
They found his body.
Or perhaps it’s the when that infuriates Serafin so much — they’ve known for months, for months, and they didn’t tell him! Didn’t let him know, didn’t give him a chance to begin to surrender hope for grief! Here’s a message, clear, if inadvertent, that’s hard to ignore:
Your service and your sacrifice mean nothing. Your love and your loyalty mean nothing. When you are cast into the bleak, you will not be remembered. When the time comes, there will be no star over the Shadow House, no — you’ll be tucked away in Non-Essential appendix, just like him.
It’s not the first time Serafin has had the thought, of course. In his days in the box, it had been a constant companion, impossible to ignore.
But you’re not there anymore, he reminds himself, stretching his real fingers across the smooth sheets on his bed. He hears Lucy and the boy stirring in the kitchen, takes a deep breath, doing his best to push the frustration and resentment away. Got to focus.
He’s got his own lesson to impart today.
As students arrive, Serafin is shuffling cards, testing the precision of his artificial digits. There are skill packs available for prosthetics — culinary knife-work, musical instruments, drawing, even tying knots — but Serafin prefers old-fashioned practice, with all of the fumbling and frustration that brings. He was never a card mechanic before the amputation, he’s come to find something soothing about the blur of the cards beneath his fingertips.
Masri arrives, mumbling to himself as he reviews his notes from another class, sliding on his crown automatically, without even thinking about it. Hartshorne arrives a minute later, looking somewhat bedraggled, having clearly made the most of the weekend. No remotes today; Serafin will be offering a second session for them, later in the week.
At nine on the dot, Serafin motions for the doors to be closed. He’s normally much more lenient, tardiness being one of his vices as well, but today is going to be expensive. Today is important. And everybody who needs to be here is here.
“Good morning,” Serafin says.
The students examine the room, having noticed how empty it appears. Where are the paintings? The HPCs? The charts? The profiles? The timelines?
Let them wonder. Serafin continues: “I spent some time this weekend reviewing your RACs and going over your feedback. And I’ve come to understand that some of you don’t really see the value of this seminar. And who can blame you? You’re the children of tomorrow! What do these old terrestrial conflicts have to do with modern war?
“Truth be told, I sympathize. Twentieth-century man was alternately lost in the night and blind in the sun. His armor was unreliable and heavy. His weapons sprayed metal hot and wild, sometimes killing as many as one in four of his own in combat. Entire battles turned on rain and mud and snow, terrestrial hindrances which some of you have never even experienced in person.
“I want to apologize. I’m new to teaching; I clearly have a lot to learn myself. And so today, I thought we might try something a bit different, in the hopes of making the connection between then and now a little clearer.”
Serafin claps his hands.
The classroom fades away. The table shimmers, transforming into a long, curving slab of onyx. When the instance has fully loaded, the class has been relocated to the top of a luxurious executive suite, with wall-length windows offering a stunning panorama of a beautiful deep-space colony, a ring of stately habitats surrounded by lush greenery and winding, serene waters. It seems perfect, the type of colony you only see in brochures, that only Mitchell could come close to matching in real life.
Wainwright rubs his fingers against the surface, testing the tactility. He raises his eyebrows — full spectrum! — he mouths to Bhaird.
“Welcome to Colony Zendia,” says Serafin.
Some of the students seem to recognize it — Colony Zendia is the default space arena for modern military Scenario games, carefully balanced and optimized over millions of games.
“We’re playing Scenario?” scoffs Hartshorne.
“We’re playing Scenario,” confirms Serafin, ignoring the tone. “Level Eight.”
The beauty of Scenario is its scalability: it can be played with two players or twenty thousand, and the play-space can range from a basic consensus projection on a professor’s overcrowded desk to a full-spectrum interface with fully accurate and detailed C&C centers. A sufficiently resourced game of Scenario is essentially indistinguishable from a real military conflict, which is why it’s become the standard for ASF wargames.
Level Eight means the simulation won’t kill them, but physical engagements are possible and the sensory experience will be indistinguishable from reality. Not that the students have any cause for concern — their professor surely wouldn’t put them in real physical jeopardy, surely.
“Colony Zendia is a critical waystation for travel and trade between two major planetary bodies, with a small but developing mining program.” As Serafin speaks, displays of some of Zendia’s features and attractions scroll behind him. “Population roughly two million, with some seasonal variations.”
Serafin tosses a stack of shimmering yellow cards down onto the ebony table. “As of this moment, you are officially in charge of Governance Gold. I’ll leave you to decide who’s running what.”
It breaks down about how Serafin would expect: Wainwright oversees Resources; Guerrero handles Transportation; Bhaird gets Corporative duties; Breeze handles Consensus and Communications; the Mars boys share Agriculture, Engineering, and Environmentals; Mendelson is in charge of the civilians; and Masri takes security and defense. No point in voting for executive — Hartshorne gets it by default.
After about twenty minutes, they’ve got their initial positioning done, Personnel and allocations all ready to go. Serafin examines their setup, and is pleased: solid and defensible, with a reasonable spread of assets and resources across the map.
“Everyone good to go?”
“So what’s the objective?” Masri asks.
“There are two: first, protect Zendia. Ensure it maintains structural integrity, continue the flow of resources to and from the station, defend and provide for the occupants.”
An explosion blooms in the distance, large enough to rattle the windows — everyone is startled, but one of the Mars kids is so frightened he almost climbs under the table.
“Also,” says Serafin, unconcerned, “there is an opposing force on board.” Above the table, an info ring appears, split between blue, gold, and grey. “While you have full control over Gold section and its systems, you only have the full support of thirty-three percent of the population, as you can see here. Your second objective is two-fold: gain as much control and influence over the station as possible, while denying the same to the opposition.”
“What can you tell us about the opposition?” asks one of the Mars students.
“That you should not underestimate them. And refrain from making assumptions.” Serafin holds up a card, and it fades away before their eyes. “We’ll be playing fog-of-war, so enemy capabilities and movement will be concealed unless you encounter them in the field or you invest in Intelligence & Espionage.”
“I think we know plenty,” Hartshorne says dryly.
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Serafin claps.
The instance accelerates: day and night cycles flash by, ships zip in and out along invisible lines, the lights of shuttles and people-movers flashing on and off again and again in complex, dazzling patterns. When the time progression ends, Sector Six, directly above the executive suite on the far side of the colony, has gone completely dark.
The numbers on the ring change: forty-five percent to grey, Blue and Gold sharing the remainder. All around the students, notifications and warnings appear: Sector Three has been lost to Blue; civilians in Sector Eight are hoarding food; peacekeeper units are reporting equipment shortages across the ring; the docks are being blocked by a damaged ship, and now corporations and trade partners are panicking and re-routing to other stations.
The students scramble. “Time to open up the piggy bank, Harrison!”
“You need more cash, I need more Helium-3!” Wainwright complains.
“Ben? I’m pretty sure terrorism falls under security and defense!”
“We don’t know what happened at the docks was terrorism!”
“Well, you need to do something, regardless! Why did we give you all that Personnel if you’re not going to use it?!”
“I don’t have eyes on!” Masri snaps. “I don’t have enough Resources to deal with all this! We need to move Technicians to Six—”
As the class squabbles over who needs what from whom, Serafin can feel Hartshorne watching him — studying the enemy, rather than the board.
Serafin appreciates that.
“If we can get mining back online—”
“The opposition will just knock the transports out again,” Chip says, taking command. He slides some cards to Benjamin. “Everybody give Benny what they can spare and make your requests. Alvin! What are you doing? The natives are restless! You’re supposed to be in charge of civilian management — start managing!”
“We’re in the middle of a labor crisis!” Mendelson whines. “You can have a happy population or a productive population, not both!”
“Two minutes,” says Serafin.
The class begins scribbling their next moves, although they’re clearly feeling the pressure and frustrated with their teammates. Serafin, ever benevolent, grants a few extra seconds before ushering in the next round.
The executive suite blurs and spins away, and the students find themselves outside, in an open courtyard — above them, their fine executive tower burns. A new cloud of warnings appear; in addition to the obvious damage to their home sector, something is disrupting communications across all of Zendia.
The updates to the info ring are not encouraging: at nineteen percent, they’ve successfully managed to gain an edge over Blue, but over half of the colony has lost faith in either side, and is slipping deeper into the grim grey.
A notification appears over Serafin’s console.
“Oh dear,” says Serafin, reading its contents. He stands, examining each of the students carefully. Finally, he stops in front of Mendelson, who cocks his thin, narrow head, curious.
Serafin points.
Mendelson’s chest explodes.
Breeze and Guerrero, the students sitting closest, rear back; Bhaird gives a short, sharp shriek before pressing his hands over his mouth. The body slumps in its seat, blood spattered across the table, all color instantly draining away. As instantiator, Serafin can see through the veil — behind the carnage, the real Mendelson stumbles back, staring in wide-eyed astonishment at his own corpse. He attempts to speak, but the rest of the students can’t hear him.
“I regret to inform you that Mister Mendelson has been targeted by enemy forces,” Serafin says. He reviews the diagnostics — the students are highly disturbed, but still within acceptable levels. A blank guides the Mendelson up the stairs to the gallery. “You may redistribute his assets as you see fit. Someone will also need to assume his duties, of course.”
“Can… can we do something about the body?” asks one of the Martians, timorously.
“I’m sure it will be gone after your next move,” Serafin says. “You’ve still got some time. But if you’d like to skip ahead—”
“No! No,” Hartshorne says. “Ignore it! It doesn’t matter! Focus! Focus! Look at me!” He jabs at several locations on the map on the table. “We need to respond to this. Hit back, hard. There’s a Blue supply depot here, and we’ve got credible intelligence senior leadership is located either somewhere on this ship or somewhere in Sector Seven.”
“Are you sure you want to split our forces like that?” asks Breeze.
“We have the interior lines. Keep it tight and we should be fine. Doug, did we manage to get the docks back?”
“Yes.”
“Stop all our outbounders and expro all high-value cargo, we need it more than they do. Harrison: send everything you’ve got to Benny. Darius, I want you to start converting civilian gear — blanks, drones, haulers, anything we can weaponize, quick as you can.”
Everyone complains, but Hartshorne refuses to listen. He only makes time for Masri — possibly because Masri, as the head of Security and Defense, is the only one whose refusal to coöperate could potentially endanger the counter-offensive.
“Sector Seven is a major civilian habitat,” Masri protests.
“A major Blue civilian habitat.”
“Even so, you’re talking about a potential bloodbath. We don’t even know for sure if this was sanctioned—”
“It doesn’t matter, Benny!” Hartshorne snaps. “He took one of us out!” (He doesn’t point at Serafin, but clearly doesn’t need to.) “Do you know how weak that makes us look? The public won’t grudge us a pound of flesh. Right, Marty?”
Breeze stops working his console, startled — he didn’t expect anyone to care about his opinion. He checks the sentimentals, rocks his head back and forth. “Welllll, it’s a big range. Probably doesn’t help us too well with the civvies, but if we hit a big Blue, Chip’s right, that will play as tit for tat. But—”
“Thirty seconds,” Serafin says.
“Three strikes is a mistake,” Masri warns.
“Call’s been made,” Hartshorne says. “Ready to proceed. Sir.”
Serafin claps.
The world blurs and stretches once again, and the class is now in a transit tunnel that’s been converted into a hardened bunker. Gold leadership’s desk has been replaced with a collection of folding tables and crates on an elevated platform, surrounded by boxes of ammunition and industrial equipment and Gold civilians, who look deeply miserable.
The info ring has moved, slightly, in favor of Gold. Twenty-two percent, against Blue’s thirteen. Hartshorne takes a victory lap disguised as a check-in, leaning over everyone’s shoulder to make sure they’re doing what they’re told.
“We’ve got something,” says Guerrero. “Super-freighter, requesting permission to dock.”
“Gold or Blue?”
“Neither — says Governance Green. Their drive has malfunctioned, and they’re requesting assistance.”
“Do they look legit?”
“Flag looks good. Sensor readings back their story.”
“What are they hauling?”
Guerrero pulls up the manifest. “Medical equipment, big collection of platinums and rares, looks like a couple stacks of protein.”
“Can we intercept before Blue gets to them?”
“Woah, what? Absolutely not,” Masri protests. “Requisitioning from our own ships is one thing, Chip, but you’re talking piracy.”
“So?”
“So that’s potentially an act of war. We’re fighting for our lives here, the last thing we need is to open up another front—”
“Lucas, how far away is Planet Green?”
“Currently? About eighty million miles, but the orbit—”
“And how far away is the nearest Blue force?”
“I mean… there’s some in Sector Three—”
“Let’s deal with the problem in our backyard first, then, shall we?” Hartshorne snaps his fingers. “Let’s get breach teams up and ready, right away. We’ve still got the drones in Sector Two, yes?”
“I’m not doing that.”
“It’s a test, Benny,” Hartshorne says, soothingly. “He thinks we don’t have it in us to make the hard choices. Don’t worry — none of this really matters.”
“I don’t care,” says Masri. “It’s mala in se. I’m not doing it.”
“Don’t be so Damn unreasonable—”
“Language,” says Serafin.
“Benny.”
“I won’t. I refuse.”
“Benny.”
Masri looks away.
“Very well.” Hartshorne makes a show of scribbling on his tablet, then approaches Serafin’s desk, thrusting up his latest move high into the air as though it were a banner for the other students to rally around. “I no longer have confidence in Benjamin Masri, my security director! I want him removed from his position, and I will assume his responsibilities for the remainder of the game!”
Interesting.
Unexpected. But not unwelcome. Serafin makes an effort to appear entirely dispassionate about this latest development. “And does your security director consent?”
“Absolutely not!” Masri is on his feet now as well. The two students begin to squabble furiously about the rules, before finally putting it to a vote. Unfortunately, Guerrero, ever the vacillator, abstains, and they wind up dead-locked.
“One minute,” Serafin says.
“I no longer have confidence in the executive,” Masri says. “I want him removed from his position, and I’ll assume his responsibilities for the remainder of the game — since he obviously can’t handle them!”
“Hold on a minute, Ben,” Wainwright sputters.
“Shut up, Harrison!”
“I assume this won’t require a vote?” Serafin says.
“No, sir.” Masri places two cards on the table. “I’m deploying my own Personnel to take care of this.”
Serafin summons the game judge, a stern-looking, square-faced projection who emerges clad in body armor with OBSERVER painted across his back.
“What do you think?” Serafin asks.
The judge gives an officious nod. “It’s an unusual move, but permissible—”
“Oh, come on!” Hartshorne says.
“— that said, simulations would suggest the executive would have loyalists within the security force. Should the challenged party contest—”
“I contest!” Hartshorne shouts.
“— then some alternate method would be required to settle the matter.”
“Perhaps a side-game?” Serafin suggests. “Time compressed?”
The game judge raises its hands in the air, as though it were a prophet of old calling upon God to guide it in its ruling. “An equitable decision,” it intones, as new decks appear in his hands, which he hands to Masri and Hartshorne. “But players should be warned: should you choose to pursue this course of action, it will have an impact on the main campaign. There will almost certainly be penalties and disadvantages, depending on the outcome, including and not limited to—”
“I accept.”
“I accept.”
“Come on, guys,” whines Breeze, but it’s too late.
The clash between Masri and Hartshorne is one of the finest Scenario games Serafin has ever witnessed in real-space; a dazzling series of sallies, ripostes, and feints only possible with the arrogance and fury of youth. Masri is endlessly creative, finding all sorts of clever ways to extract and conserve Resources, and soon his disorganized and demoralized band of rebels has been transformed into a popular force that soon not only repels Hartshorne’s assaults, but gains enough momentum to start pushing him back to his own territory. No move is made in isolation — each card is deployed as part of a chain that grows stronger and stronger — a casual positioning of a small team in an early round turns out to be a vital part of a vicious maneuver ten moves later. It’s an astonishing performance, almost enough to make Serafin believe in wiggins.
Despite this onslaught, however, Hartshorne holds his own, thanks in part to his advantage in metal and men. And he’s genuinely furious — Serafin can tell by the way he barks his orders and jabs his finger at targets. The Masri and Hartshorne forces snap and snarl at each other, taking a depot here, wiping out a squadron there. The remaining students watch, silently, as the civil war tears Sector Twelve apart.
For a while, it looks like anyone’s game, but slowly, over time, Hartshorne begins to gain ground. Even as Masri wins battle after battle, Serafin sees the problem — not an error, exactly, but a tactical miscalculation, which will likely cost the boy the match. Hartshorne is fighting to kill, and is willing to do whatever is necessary: at one point, he orders the bodies of the dead piled in front of his headquarters to serve as gruesome ramparts; in one particularly desperate moment, he destroys an entire block with essential life support modules to keep Masri from seizing them. The only non-aggressive maneuver Hartshorne makes is dumping assets into Propaganda, and that’s all self-directed, to prevent defections.
Masri, in contrast, prefers quick, limited strikes where he has the advantage, and does his best to avoid large-scale battles that might put civilians at risk. The boy’s not afraid of playing dirty, mind — he has multiple strike teams on the hunt for his opponent — but Serafin notices several points in the fight where Masri breaks off instead of taking advantage of a potential rout. At first, Serafin suspects nerves, but a brief engagement near the generators in still-dark Sector Six reveals the truth: Masri is trying to minimize casualties and protect vital infrastructure. He’s fighting for the whole game, for tomorrow, struggling to ensure they’ll still have the resources they need when the internecine struggle ends and the war returns to Blue.
And that’s what kills him, in the end.
Ultimately, as is so often the case, it comes down to luck: a small band of Hartshorne loyalists spot Masri’s transport moving him to a new location near the docks. After some deliberation, Hartshorne goes all in:
“I’m positioning all forces to lock down the sector and placing incendiaries at these points. He’s in this module, yes? Once we’ve got him pinned, I’m using system admin access to disable all safety protocols and increasing oxygen levels to maximum.”
The cards fall on the table, snap snap snap.
“You’ve got men in there!” Guerrero protests.
“This is an atrocity—”
“For God’s sake, Chip, there’s at least ten thousand people—”
“You’re risking everything we’ve got—”
“Everything I’ve got,” Hartshorne snaps. “Sit down, Doug.”
Masri knows he’s beat. He slumps against the table, head in his hands. He glances at Serafin, silently pleading, but not sure what he can say.
He’s figured it out, Serafin realizes. God, they really are clever, aren’t they? Hartshorne could probably see it too, if he wasn’t so angry.
“You’re going to regret this, Chip,” says Masri sadly. “You’re making a mistake—”
“I’m fixing my mistake.”
“Chip—”
On the map, the module turns orange. At the table, the fire rushes through and washes over Masri, who bursts into flames. Hartshorne watches as his friend’s eyes melt down his cheeks, the skin crackling and peeling away, the light of the flames dancing in his eyes. Serafin doesn’t turn away, takes in the sound of the fat popping and hissing, the revolting smell of burnt hair. The other students are weeping, but Hartshorne seems unaffected, aside from the slightest fluttering of the alaeque nasi, the faintest beginnings of a snarl, like a dog about to forget its training and break its chain.
Bhaird vomits.
For some time, no one speaks. Even the game judge seems disturbed by what has transpired.
Finally, Hartshorne walks over to Masri, whose arms are blackened and twisted, fused into his chest, mouth open in an endless, silent scream. Beyond the veil, Masri watches, fists clenched, as Hartshorne picks up Masri’s cards and returns to his seat.
Overheard, the ring spins: Gold is at twelve percent, Blue at sixteen.
“We’ll be running loyalty checks on remaining Personnel,” Hartshorne says, calmly scribbling some commands to his new Personnel. “Anyone who doesn’t pass gets sent to the front. All surviving forces are hereby deployed to Sector Five and Sector Two. Lucas, make sure we’re ready to say hello to that super-freighter.”
Lucas starts to respond, but Hartshorne waves him silent, motions for the game judge. “Wait — before we continue: what’s the damage?”
The game judge runs the tally, and updates the data displays: there are heavy hits to Personnel and Materials, catastrophic reputational cost — including full censure and condemnation from Gold’s supporting governance. “Your deliberations will also be reduced by a full minute going forward,” the game judge says, one final indignity stacked on top of all the rest.
Hartshorne takes it all in stride; it’s almost impressive. But Serafin does notice how the boy winces, ever so slightly, when the time comes to clap in the next round.
The rest of the match is almost a formality; while Blue now has a numerical advantage, it has been largely unable to capitalize on the civil war. With superior positioning and strategy, Hartshorne launches an assault on multiple fronts that quickly runs roughshod over the enemy, combining stationary and extra-stationary strikes to maintain dominance and keep Blue off-balance.
Blue’s defense is competent, but uninspired; no major blunders, but small errors — breached defenses here, an over-extended patrol there — that Hartshorne unfailingly locates and exploits. He’s spending resources carelessly now, because, well, why not? The end is in sight. A sacrificed detachment hardly matters if it gets you into the enemy’s home sector.
As a last resort, Blue tries retreating to an armored carrier, but Hartshorne is ready, Gold forces launching from Green’s seized super-freighter; soon, Gold troops are cracking the carrier open and scrambling inside. Hartshorne lays down his cards and requests a relocation to the docks, so he can watch Blue’s leadership get tossed out the airlock.
He smirks at Serafin. “I believe that’s game,” he says. “Aren’t you going to—” He waggles his hands in front of his face. “—give us a little simulation of you getting spaced? Seems only fair, don’t you think?”
In the docking bay, they can hear the pounding against the door, but they can’t hear the screams.
“Why would I do that?” Serafin asks.
“Seems only fair, don’t you think? I won. I beat you.”
“Are you sure?” Serafin asks.
“You’re done. Blue’s done. You’ve got nothing….”
Hartshorne falls silent. His eyes turn to the info ring, now free of Blue, now almost entirely grey.
There he goes.
“What are you going to do?” one of the Mars kids asks, his voice shaking.
Serafin raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m going to do anything?” He holds his hand over his desk, pushing the fog away — the surface is completely bare, not a card in sight.
“Wait, Mister Serafin’s not the opponent?” The Martian looks around fearfully, as though the real adversary might suddenly descend upon them.
“It shouldn’t matter,” Bhaird says. “We still won, didn’t we?”
“Enemy forces in Sectors Two, Four, Low Eight!” Wainwright shouts. “We’ve lost access to the farms and the power banks….”
More warnings erupt across the control center as the grey expands, eating away at the remaining Gold.
Immediately, Hartshorne returns to his post, flipping through his displays to try to understand the new reality. He’s already worked out his mistake: he’s been reading the info ring all wrong.
Grey’s not unaffiliated. They’re just not a conventional, organized force.
They’re uprisers.
“What’s happening?” asks Breeze, crouching in terror as though Iblis machines are about to burst through the walls. “I thought we beat—”
“It’s a three-way conflict, you cretin,” Hartshorne snaps, skimming through his data panels and doing a full shuffle of his remaining assets as fast as he can. “Get back to work!”
“We’ve got an uprising in Home Sector,” stammers Wainwright. “We need to pull our troops back—”
“Obviously! Shut up!” Hartshorne shouts, as he scrambles to re-write Gold’s engagement protocols. “We’ve got to re-balance and boost Intelligence, we’ve got to relocate our Assets, try to pull back as many of our troops as we can, we’re not configured for asymmetrical engagements—”
“Twenty seconds,” says the game judge.
Hartshorne screams in fury, but doesn’t stop.
Serafin claps.
Even on the back-foot, Hartshorne remains a formidable adversary; he finds a thousand ways to harass and harry. But now he can’t see his enemy clearly, and the more he swings at them, the worse it gets. There are only counter-moves now, defensive maneuvers to try to stop the radicalized population that is barreling through the station toward Twelve.
Serafin claps.
As Hartshorne’s resources run dry, his units become increasingly unreliable, with more and more abandoning their posts and joining the opposition. Soon after Breeze and Wainwright disappear, Hartshorne finds himself back in the ruined tower, as the grey militias begin to lay siege.
In the simplified board version, the system would have already ended the game, but Serafin made sure to adjust the parameters to ensure they take this to the bitter end.
“Do you yield?” Serafin presses his hands together, a prayer and a threat combined.
“Not to you,” Hartshorne snarls.
“Very well.”
Serafin claps. He’s honest enough with himself to admit there’s a certain satisfaction in the moment.
To his credit, Hartshorne has prepared a final hurrah — a hidden munitions depot, rigged to explode — but the detonation is only briefly delays the inevitable. Soon, the greys are storming the tower basement, seizing Hartshorne roughly and dragging him out into the light. As he begins to shout, the scene fades and shifts to a makeshift stage in what was once the colony’s central district, where the Zendians have assembled to watch their leader die.
“Ridiculous!” Hartshorne bellows, as his hands are bound and he is dragged up the stairs. “I beat you! You and Benny! You had to lie and cheat! That’s the only way you could win!”
Serafin raises his hand in the air. “Do you yield?”
Grey soldiers force the boy roughly to his knees. The masked executioner presses the rifle against the back of Hartshorne’s head. The boy is weeping, but he never takes his eyes off of Serafin.
“Go to Hell!” Hartshorne spits.
Clap clap.
The lights fade, and the classroom returns. Slowly, unsteadily, the students return to their seats, except for Hartshorne, who remains kneeling on the floor.
“Alright,” Serafin says. “Who would like to explain what Mister Hartshorne did wrong?”
They may be the pinnacle of evolution sailing through the heavens, in a miraculous ship powered by the energy of stars, but the students still have the same instincts that helped their ancestors in the forests and steppes and savannas. There is blood in the air — time for the pack to strike.
“Not enough resources for defensives.”
“Too aggressive!” suggests Guerrero.
“He didn’t pay enough attention to Intelligence!”
“… no respect for the civilian population….”
“All good answers,” says Serafin. “But I’m looking for something more… fundamental.”
“This is absurd!” Hartshorne shouts, rising unsteadily, fists clenched. “You lost! You did! I might not have won, but I sure as Hell beat you!”
“I was never your opponent, Mister Hartshorne.”
“That’s right! You couldn’t beat me, so you had to cheat!”
“And how did I cheat, exactly?”
“You lied. You lied! You said—”
“Did I? A serious accusation.”
Hartshorne catches the nuance. “You strongly implied you were the opposition—”
“So no lie, then.”
“No, but—”
“You could have spent a modicum of your Intelligence resources to determine if Blue was the only threat. You could have spent some time investigating the early sabotage of the docks. You could have held some of your forces in reserve, rather than wasting them in your inane fratricidal misadventure. You had every opportunity to use your head, and you chose brute force every time.” Serafin turns to the rest of the students. “This was a war game. And what is the heart of war?”
“Deception,” the students intone.
“Just so. And even if I did lie, why should that matter? Tell me, Mister Hartshorne: when you leave our institution and venture out into cold Copernica, do you believe our enemies will play by the rules? Do you think the Iblis machines were programmed for fair play? The russkiye have two words for lies and two words for truth — will you stake your life and the life of your subordinates on their promises and proclamations?”
Masri raises his hand.
“Yes, Mister Masri?”
“Who was it?” Masri asks. “Who were we playing against?”
Serafin raises his left hand, revealing another desk, where a blank stands in front of a deck of Blue cards. “A standard 1500 rank Scenario opponent. Had it been your only foe, I’m sure you would have made short work of it.”
“And grey?”
Serafin raises his right hand, revealing the Historical Personality Construct of Abdul Durrani. The man from the painting bows his head, seeming quite pleased with himself, and points to the sky, giving thanks to God for this victory.
“Upgraded, of course,” Serafin says. “He has the equivalent knowledge of a space-born colonial, and he’s got the same understanding of the rules of Scenario as our Blue friend here. But his strategy… all the credit goes to the original, there. Not bad for a desert savage, don’t you think?”
Hartshorne stands suddenly, fists clenched, chair skittering against the lino. For a moment, Serafin thinks it will come to blows, but instead the boy simply turns and stalks out of the classroom. Masri starts to follow, but thinks better of it.
Serafin walks to Hartshorne’s chair, and slides it back in. He picks up Hartshorne’s crown, running his thumb along the rows of sensors on the inside.
No one speaks. Serafin glances at the remaining students — the fear in their eyes saddens him, but he’s learned to live with it, over the years.
“The world in our head is not the world,” Serafin says. “The Soviets managed to take Mars and half of Asia because we kept making assumptions based on what we would do if we were in their place. We nearly lost the solar system to the Iblis because we arrogantly believed we could understand the logic of an adversary that was, fundamentally, impossible to understand.”
“But you said we should try to learn as much as possible about our enemy,” Wainwright protests.
“Yes. But do not confuse information with understanding.” Serafin returns to his perch. “You’re young. You’re overconfident. You believe that with enough effort, with enough study, with enough tech, the secrets of the universe might reveal themselves to you. Your other teachers tell you they have all the answers, but they are lying. Our scientists believe the machines they create make them the equal of the creator; they see gears turning, and they believe they understand the entire machine. But they are like mice who live inside of a clock and believe they can understand all of physics.
“The universe is not comprehensible. The day may come when we overcome our biological limitations and gain access to the workings of creation, but this is not that hour. This is not that day.
“But still, we yearn. We ache. We strive. A clever man will say, if I cannot understand everything, perhaps I can understand one thing. And so we think smaller. We take a man, a single man. What is he? Nothing. A tiny, insignificant fraction of the universe, a small, shivering animal, a mere eighty-six billion neurons with a three gigabyte genome. Surely we can take him apart, see what makes him tick?
“But even that is not so simple as you might think. Every man is a part of the universe, and carries within his skull a lifetime of stochastic machinations, impossible to see. Every man is connected to the people around him in an endless cascade of perplexity, each choice connecting them to the roiling maelstrom of action and reaction from which our civilizations arise. Even if you strap that man onto a table, split open his head, and read his thoughts, you must tread carefully — because you can never be quite sure how those thoughts came to be there in the first place.
“Believe in what you like. Have faith in what you please. But if faith is your shield, carry a small blade with you — and let this blade be uncertainty. Keep it always at your side. If you do not walk with some humility, some hesitancy, some fear in your heart, you will eventually, I promise you, fall into error. And when you do, there will always, always, always be someone waiting on the other side to slide their own blade in between your ribs.
“Carry yourself with confidence, but never be so arrogant as to think you understand someone. The human mind is a black box. The majority of time, the contents of that box will prove unsurprising — but the surprises, when they come, can break hearts, end lives, and topple empires.”
Serafin tosses the crown on the table
“That will be all. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
Not so hard to break a man, Serafin muses, as he shuffles through Odom Hall. All you need is a complete psychological profile, access to their biometrics, and a few thousand years of simulations to see the soft spots and know where to push. It will be hard for Hartshorne’s clique to hold him in the same high regard after that outburst. The mid-game spat with Masri was a surprise, but they’ll probably be nursing grudges about this for months.
It will be some time before he can be sure the two are quits — a follow-up chat with Masri is probably warranted — but the initial signifiers look quite promising.
A harsh lesson, to be sure.
But there was a time when these sorts of demonstrations were commonplace. In Serafin’s day, professors would have considered themselves failures if a few classes hadn’t ended in tears by the end of the quarter; old man Parvin, who used to teach ECLSS maintenance and repair, used to hit students with a shock stick whenever they made a mistake. He was despised, to be sure, but the air was never cleaner and the water never clearer than when you flew with a Parvin protégé.
But the ugly business is done, now. At last, Serafin can truly dedicate himself to the hunt. With renewed access to the SSCI data-bank, he can check his models, run projections, test theories — some of the information he needs will still be siloed and NTK, of course, but if SIS really has been compromised, the data-bank is where he’ll find his proof. Or, if not proof, then evidence, enough he can bring to van Arden to get a proper investigation going.
When Serafin passes through the tunnel underneath the amphitheater leading to the Rounds, he finds the area almost entirely filled, with consensus images and messages floating through the center. The president of Firnas seems to be getting the worst of it, but there’s a particularly nasty model of Galloway depicting him as a deranged Doctor Frankenstein as well — Serafin double taps the side of his forehead to get a quick snapshot; Fyfe will thoroughly enjoy this, for sure.
On top of one of the food carts, a young man is shouting is shouting about boycotts and resistance and infernal machines. Serafin doesn’t pay much attention — the students are always carrying about something — until he makes his way up the bowside steps and realizes they’ve blocked the way to the family housing modules.
“Excuse me,” says Serafin, doing his best to shoulder through the crowd. “I’m just trying to get home—”
“Fight the flights! Fight the flights!” the students chant.
It’s not just students: campus security has set up folding riot barricades. They’re defended by two hulking security drones, fat and headless, with the standard reverse-joint legs and thick six-axis arms, which Serafin is amused to see have been covered in padding. The students are testing the edges of the barricade, but they’re smart enough to keep well clear of the heavies.
“Where’s the chancellor?!” someone shouts.
“THIS IS A MESSAGE FROM CAMPUS SECURITY,” booms a stern voice over broadcomms. “FIRNAS UNIVERSITY RESPECTS AND UPHOLDS THE RIGHT TO FREE SPEECH. HOWEVER, THIS SECTION OF THE SHIP IS PRESENTLY OVER CAPACITY. FOR THE SAFETY OF YOUR FELLOW STUDENTS, PLEASE DISPERSE IMMEDIATELY.”
The crowd begin to shout and complain, shoving at the barricades. Up above, an overconfident peacekeeper takes a swing at a young protester trying to clamber over, loses his footing, and falls into the crowd. Immediately, the students swarm, jeering and shoving the armored man; in response, one of the security drones stomps forward, and the crowd twists and stumbles away.
“They’re attacking us!” a young woman screams, and waves of bottles and bulbs and other debris begin to sail overhead.
Serafin tries to get clear, but the crowd is wild now, and he’s buffeted forward closer, closer to the barricades. His proximals flash a warning, but it’s too late — something catches him in the side of the head — there’s a flash of white in his opticals and he wobbles, dazed, kaleidoscopic polygons dancing across his view. For a moment there is no protest, no crowd, no ship, only brightness above and darkness below.
Against his back, he feels the barricade shifting — a hand on his shoulder — he almost takes a swing, but realizes they’re trying to help him get back on his feet. Through the blur, he sees blue and gold — campus security, he realizes, making a quick sortie across the line.
“Let him through!” a familiar voice barks. “He’s a professor! Let him through!”
“Interlocutor,” Serafin mumbles, absurdly. (Or does this mistake work in his favor? Would they leave him to the mob, otherwise?)
The second drone stomps back, clearing space, and a few more blue-and-golds surround Serafin, dragging him across the line. Behind him, he catches a hazy shape of what must be the clumsy peacekeeper, arriving sans helmet, shield, and dignity.
The cordon closes.
Each blink returns more sight. Serafin touches his forehead, which stings — his hand comes away bloody, but it’s not too bad.
“Mister Serafin!” the familiar voice barks, closer this time. Even in riot gear, even without the roll call, Serafin recognizes the squat, stout form of Francis Soames. “By God, are you alright?”
Soames holds up a HKRC medi-corder, waving it in the air. A light flashes, which only serves to disorient Serafin again.
“Minor blood loss detected. Pupillary dilation normal within expected range,” the device squawks. “Requesting access to Med-Sense for further diagnostics.”
“Medic!” barks Soames.
“I’m fine, Francis,” says Serafin, pushing the device away. “Just a little woozed.”
“Are you sure?”
One student makes it to the top of the barricades, and is immediately tackled by peacekeepers.
“THIS IS A MESSAGE FROM CAMPUS SECURITY,” the broadcomms announcer booms. “THIS GATHERING HAS BEEN DESIGNATED VIOLENT AND DISRUPTIVE. CURFEW IS NOW IN EFFECT. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR RESIDENCES IMMEDIATELY. ALL UNCIVIL AND ILLEGAL ACTIONS TAKEN WILL BE LOGGED AND ADDED TO YOUR PERMANENT RECORD.”
This earns more scorn; Serafin can hear the steady banging and thumping as more projectiles rain against the barricades and shields.
“Divest! Divest! Divest from War Tech!” the students chant back.
The medic arrives. Unimpressed by Serafin’s injury, she squirts a bit of cold gel and a bandage before hurrying on to more deserving patients. When Serafin squints, he can make out Soames and another peacekeeper huddled together — reviewing a private-display map, judging by their gestures.
“Busy night?” Serafin asks.
“You could say that.” Soames tears open a stimpack, offering it to Serafin, who waves it off. “Mister Serafin, this is my naib, Ozzy.”
“Hello, sir,” growls Ozzy, who hasn’t quite figured out how to balance friendliness with combat readiness.
“What’s got them so riled up?”
“Valerie Moss,” says Ozzy, like it’s a curse.
“Sir! Sir!” says another of Soames’ peacekeepers, a slightly panicked boy who looks too young to be attending Firnas, let alone putting down a riot here. “Second team’s in position.”
“Alright.” Soames puts a padded glove on Serafin’s shoulder, giving him a once-over. “We’ve gotta go control some crowds. Do you need an escort? You want me to send someone with you?”
“I’ll be fine,” says Serafin. “Have a lovely time.”
The elevators are offline, so Serafin drags himself up the stairs. When he finally gets home, Lucy is anxiously monitoring the protest on the monitors, while JJ stands at the window, staring at the live chaos below.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Lucy says, rushing forward and embracing Serafin, before inspecting his bandage, patting his arms and chest as though she’s concerned he’s managed to sustain grievous bodily harm without realizing it. “What is that? Are you hurt? You didn’t get mixed up in all that nonsense, did you?”
“I’m fine. Not my first riot.” Serafin shrugs off his coat. “Everybody here safe? Billy’s alright?”
“He went to bed before it kicked off, praise God,” says Lucy.
“Little guy could sleep through a hull breach,” JJ says.
Serafin waves his hand over the wall for passthrough — Billy indeed in his room, one leg dangling off the bed, one arm draped over Roary. “Have they said what the hullabaloo was about? I didn’t get the most coherent view of it out there.”
“That girl that died,” JJ says, arms folded, not looking away. Down below, newly arrived security drones begin to unpack themselves at the edge of the crowd, tilting left and right as each leg extends and locks into position. “Vanessa Moss—”
“Valerie,” Lucy corrects him.
“Valerie Moss.”
“I remember,” says Serafin. “But that was ages ago.”
“Apparently she had Iblis tech in her quarters,” Lucy says. “The university has been covering it up, but somebody leaked the report.” She pulls up a segment of a message from one of the offcon student forums: a model of Valerie Moss’s head next to a rather ominous looking cylindrical device, jagged and asymmetrical, that resembles the pommel and grip of a sword. Above it, float the words: CONTAGION! Is your module safe?!
“What is it?”
“They think it’s a controller unit,” says JJ.
“Apparently the peacekeepers believe she brought it out of War Tech, and it managed to compromise her BCI somehow.” Lucy shudders.
“Lord,” says Serafin. “No wonder they’re panicking.”
“The students want to cancel the fleet’s reroute to the Phobos graveyard. Apparently War Tech is planning on transferring some Iblis material from the research station onto the Archimedes.”
“I think it’s for the best,” Lucy says. “You hear these awful stories about Iblis coming back online — or never having gotten shut down in the first place! Isobel told me some absolutely terrifying stories about the Collins black zone….”
“So they asked,” Serafin says, “I assume Admin said no.”
“They said no, and threw in some scolding for free. They’ve insisted the transfer is perfectly safe, and said anybody suggesting otherwise is being…”
“‘Immature and superstitious,’” quotes Lucy.
“The students asked again, threatened a strike… Admin threatened back… then some of the students on the Averroes put together a petition that said the university should suspend research on Iblis tech entirely, and, well… here we are.”
“Here we are,” Serafin agrees, joining JJ by the window. Below, counter-protesters pour into the Rounds and begin antagonizing some students in silver and white Interfaith robes. One takes a punch so hard it knocks his halo off. “Not likely to go down in history as one of the great moments in conflict de-escalation, is it?”
“It’s disgusting,” JJ says.
Serafin glances at his son, surprised — he can’t remember ever hearing that much heat in the boy’s voice before.
“They’re students,” Serafin says. “They’re… well, a bit immature and superstitious, truth be told. That’s why they’re here, so we can knock it out of them.”
“You think they’re wrong?” asks Lucy.
“Not necessarily. But I don’t think the protests will be effective.”
“I don’t blame them. I blame Admin.” JJ turns away from the window. “This has been brewing for months! How could they let things get so out of control?”
Serafin shrugs. “They’ve had a good run, I suppose. They’ve gotten used to students doing as they’re told. And with so many of the donors dead, they’ve been focusing on….”
Serafin realizes JJ’s no longer standing next to him. He turns to see his son at the entryway, rummaging through the closet.
“Have you seen my old zig helmet?”
“Where are you going?” Lucy asks.
“Out.”
Lucy glances at Serafin — seriously?
“That is not a good idea,” says Serafin.
JJ pulls out a bin, slaps it in frustration when he can’t find his gear. “I can’t just stay cooped up in here, pop. They’ve got drones deployed, did you see? I’ve got friends down there.”
JJ tries the door, but Serafin has already spun up the home controls, activating the lock with a flick of his wrist.
“Seriously?” JJ rattles the handle.
“Did you get hit on the head too? You’re going to get hurt!” Lucy cries.
JJ rolls his eyes. “I was in the ASF for three years. I helped clear out the pirates running through the Belt. I was on board the Longworth when we got shot down by that Iblis Damir. I can take care of myself. Come on, pop, let me out.”
“Tell you what,” Serafin says, repositioning to put himself in between JJ and the door. “You want out, I’ll let you out. Heck, I’ll go with you — on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s your plan?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
Serafin shakes his head. “Plan. Or you’re not going.”
JJ steps back, realizing his father is serious. He scowls, takes a breath, recalculates.
“I go out. I help my friends. I make sure they’re safe. I try to get everybody to ease off.”
“How?”
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Talk to who?”
“Whoever’s in charge!”
“Who’s in charge? What do they want?”
“They want to stop the re-direct!”
“That’s why they’re protesting? That’s it?”
“Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Alright. What can you do about it?”
“I don’t know! But I’ve got to do something!”
JJ’s upset. Serafin puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy leans into it, but doesn’t take another step. They lean against each other, neither willing to take it further.
“Son,” Serafin says, gently. “You want to help. That’s good. That’s admirable. But you’re thinking like a soldier. You need to think like a Serafin. What do I tell you?”
“Know the space,” JJ says, looking down.
It’s starting to sink in, thank God.
“You don’t know the principals. You don’t know the vectors and angles. If you go down there, you’re just another body in the mob. I don’t worry about you getting hurt — getting hurt is part of life — but you don’t get hurt for nothing. Understand? When you go out, you need a clear idea of what you hope to accomplish and how you hope to accomplish it. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” JJ says, glumly. “But… someone needs to do something.”
“I agree,” Serafin says. “But not you. Not tonight. Get a better grasp on the situation, make sure you really understand what’s going on out there. Talk to the protesters, find out what they’re protesting about. Learn more about this transfer, maybe have a chat with some of the fellows over in War Tech; try to understand their side of this as well. Actually… do you remember Francis Soames, that fellow who came for dinner a few weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
“Francis works for campus security. You talk to him, maybe shadow him on patrol, get to know some of the other peacekeepers. You do all that, and the next time something like this happens, you’ll be ready to make a difference. You want to go out after that, I’ll back you all the way. But when we take risks, we take them calculated. Alright?”
JJ nods, fighting back tears. “Alright. Yes. You’re right, walidi.”
Serafin pulls him in, hugging his son closely. “That’s my boy.”
In the end, it doesn’t really matter — twenty minutes later, and the riot is already over. Aside from the drone on patrol below, the overturned food carts, and the litter strewn across the Rounds, you’d hardly even know anything had happened.
But Serafin stays up, even after Lucy and JJ have gone to bed, staring out the window, keeping watch and running scenarios in his head. What if the protesters occupied Almani? What if they blocked access to Tindale Mina or the third ring docks? What if they tried to sabotage the spin generators? What if they’ve been collaborating with the Fractions?
It’s all absurd — every possibility fades like a bad projection when he examines it closely, but he can’t quite seem to make it stop. He can feel the anger in the air, taste the resentment on his tongue. It reminds him of those desperate final days on Devasthal, when everyone was on the streets, baying for blood, and you went to bed not knowing who would be in control of the station when you woke up.
In his own immature, superstitious way, Serafin feels responsible — as if his lesson today has been too effective. As if the pain and paranoia has escaped somehow, out of the classroom and into the hearts and minds of everyone on board. Here we are, stumbling through fever dreams, swinging at enemy and ally alike. And as our voyage continues, the contagion will spread, until every other ship in the fleet succumbs to the terror. Until all wisdom and reason is abandoned, and there is nothing left, nothing at all, except madmen and their madness, tumbling through the dark.
Serafin sighs.
Good night, Firnas. Sleep well.