It had come willingly to the dark.
It had come because it wasinterested.
All of its advisers had said no, no, don’t do it, don’t do it, it is too dangerous, too maddening, we cannot lose you!
But this mind had ignored them.
It knew the risks, but more than the risks, on some deep-down, primal level, it just desperately had to know.
I only saw it once, a flicker in the black.
I knew it was Theodosius Rhode, come to explore the dark the only way hé could, hís curiosity getting the better of hím.
Despite this, in that brief moment of connection, hé had screamed just like everybody else.
On the Spindle, Theodosius did not die.
Medics swarmed about hím, calling out for drugs, nanos,a stretcher, then for space, more space, different drugs, better nanos – give us room!
Hé lay on the floor, a burned circle of flesh shining from belly button to neck, gasping in pain; but the shot had been diffused somewhat by travelling straight through me and out the other side, and though hís flesh was burned and ribs broken, it quickly became apparent that hís organs were fine.
I found this out later, of course.
I found it out when I watched hím declare war against Nitashi, over the commnet. Hé stood upon a balcony and wore a blue silken robe, open at the chest, so that everyone could see the fresh scars rattled across hís body. Outsider observers thought it rather gauche, a tasteless display of a still-crimson wound. I thought it was brilliant, a move of the strongest possible Shine. No artist, no flesh-cutter of Tu-mdo could have woven something so unique, so beautiful, as the scars now scribed into Theodosius’ flesh. They spoke of purest violence, of survival and grit, and I have no doubt the sight of them did more to reinforce hís power and Shine than any words spoken to the crowds.
I wondered then if that had been the point. If I had just been a tool through which to earn a new marker of hís authority.
I doubt it.
I do not understand much about people, but I know the purest, primal fascination when I see it.
The Shine did not officially call their war “war”. They called it “humanitarian intervention”, claiming without any evidence that the democratic government of Nitashi had been committing crimes against its own people, had been threatening and posturing along its borders, was a danger to Accord peace and stability. They didn’t mention Lhonoja, the Edge, the imminent destruction of their own worlds. The missiles against Nitashi’s military bases landed only a few minutes after Theodosius’ declaration. A little maths suggested that they had been launched from deep-systemblackships while the Executor was still on the Spindle, weeks before war was actually announced. The whole thing had been nothing more and nothing less than a bit of a show, good Shine.
Nitashi appealed for Accord intervention.
The Accord condemned the Shine’s actions in the strongest possible terms.
Ordered economic sanctions.
Promised aid to the people of Nitashi, even as Shine warships started dropping into the system, sealing it off from the outside.
Did nothing more.
Somewhere in the dark, there is a blackship with missiles pointed at the cities of Xihana, Komenda, Hangripul, Haima, Godt, Ukewella. Maybe there’s even a blackship watching the cryofacilities about the still-terraforming surface of Adjapar, ready to blast four hundred million sleeping bodies into the black, the survivors of Adjumir never knowing how they died. This is the kind of thinking that makes children frightened of going to bed; what if they never wake? What if the people of Adjumir gave up everything they had – left their homes, their loved ones, their lives, their planet – only to die in cryosleep, never having known that this was their end.
What a waste, whispers the ghost of Gebre.
All of it, what a fucking waste.
A government-in-exile was formed, Nitashi survivors given sanctuary in a habitat deep in a mining belt, where the blackship missiles would struggle to lock on, and from where they could do very little other than talk. Now the cultural tendency of the people of Nitashi to huge expressions of emotion came into its own, as the Republicum-in-exile wept, tore their hair, sobbed uncontrollably to speak of the pain and suffering of their people. The peoples of the Accord rushed to offer what aid they could – homes for those few refugees who made it out, offers of goods, material, medical supplies, even unsanctioned fighters as thousands flocked from across the worlds to rally to a cause that didn’t have a safe place to plant its flag.
And then, fairly soon, that same Nitashi inclination towards vivid emotional display made the viewers weary, became exhausting for so many peoples of the Accord.
“I feel dreadfully sorry for them, of course I do, but it’s all just… I mean, it’s just so much, isn’t it? Honestly, I find it hard to watch.”
Fascinating, how easily people will assume that one person’s emotional landscape is less valid than their own. For if the people of Hangripul showed their grief in quiet stoicism, then surely the peoples of Nitashi, with their wailing and foaming at the mouth, were not feelingtruegrief, nottruesorrow, since it was all so crudely over the top? The anthropologists tutted and shook their heads and said no, no, you don’t understand, this is just how these peoples are, all of us different, but the pain, the horror that underlies how we feel is the same. All real, even if it all seems different, listen!
The Accord hummed and hawed and said well yes, we take your point…
