He falls to a knee. Lit by the light of the Garter’s artificial suns, his armor burnished to a mirrorlike sheen, he is the picture of a holy warrior. Gaia rises. Her wizened face would be comical peeking out from her armor, were it not so twisted by hate. “I fear that even in victory, we have lost the future. I fear our people already sailing into darkness will never be found nor liberated. I fear they will endure forever in bondage.”
She sinks back to a knee.
There’s a pause. The longest of the ritual before another stands.
A half hour and nearly a hundred admissions later, a silence falls on the gathering. It is not mandatory to speak, but it is seen as bad form for a commander of my stature to not participate. It reeks of pride. I stand and stare at the faces of my people and wish I could speak honestly.
I fear Atalantia. I fear crossing Cassius again one day. I fear Darrow causing mischief back home. I fear my own weakness. I fear Atlas and his wrath. I fear his presence almost as much as I feared his absence. Heis due back today before we sail. I fear he failed in his mission. I fear he will have succeeded. That a weapon powerful enough to make Mars surrender in a week will fall into his terrible hands. I fear that I will never be anything more than his puppet. Most of all, I fear my own concessions will come back to haunt me. That I will be laid bare before these people as a fraud.
“I fear the chaos of these ten years will leak from this decade to stain the centuries to come. I fear Pandora’s box has opened. I fear Gold division,” I say instead. It is true enough at any rate. “I fear that this unity, so hard in coming, will last only so long as the threat to your people exists. I fear we will forget this moment and—”
A few dozen of the Rim Knights turn their heads to look back toward the city. A smudge appears in the distance. It seems to be a lone man flying our way at breakneck pace. How did he pass through the Gray cordon without molestation?
I clear my throat. “I fear—”
More knights are turning now. Not just turning, murmuring to one another. Furious at the ritual’s interruption, Gaia signals two of her enforcers. They bellow for silence. No one listens. Some of the knights go so far as to stand and point. The onrushing man is close enough now to see the color of his flapping cloak and armor.
They are gray. Storm gray.
My Core Knights frown in confusion and finally turn to follow the gaze of the Rim Knights.
Shouts of, “Storm! Storm!” come from the Rim Knights. Soon they are not alone. My own knights of the Core join the rising chorus as the man flies over their ranks. They rise with a roar.
It is Diomedes.
I can barely believe my eyes. His black and gold hair streams behind him in the wind. His broad face is pale and hard. He’s survived! Somehow his escape pod made it through. He’s alive. My heart swells with relief and joy.
“By Jove. He’s alive,” Cicero crows. “The mad bastard survived Kalyke somehow!”
The knights, solemn and fixed on the battle to come only moments ago, erupt into mania as Diomedes lands in their ranks. The Ganymedeans and Ionians swarm him with so many kisses and embraces that Diomedes has to shove his way through the throng. Only Gaia remainson her knee. She stays there until Diomedes trudges up. He glances at me with a hard smile, and then back to his grandmother. His eyes soften when he sees she is sobbing. He falls to his knees and wraps his big arms around the old woman. Together the two weep and I stand there elated, but wondering.
I am at a loss for words.
“Smile, man,” Cicero says and jostles me. “Look at the Rim. Their champion’s back. They’ll fight like dauntless gods.”
“Yes,” Pallas says from his side, far more thoughtful. “Smile, Lysander.”
I wait for Diomedes to pull back from his grandmother’s embrace. He doesn’t seem eager to do so. It’s the old woman who finally pulls away. Cupping his face in her hands, she kisses him on the brow. “You live. My darling. My little storm.”
“Thanks entirely to Lysander,” Diomedes says and nods to me.
I return the nod, still baffled.
He lifts his voice so the commanders can hear him. “Apologies. I am late. I answered Lune’s summons with all haste. I did not want to miss the battle.”
He turns to me, stern, and shakes my hand. His armor is standard Dominion kit and, like his cloak, recently painted gray. “Salve,Lysander. I thought you dead at Kalyke.”
“And I you. Your pod made it through the battle. A miracle.”
“Apparently we’re both hard men to kill,” he says.
“How did you survive?” I ask, and realize our stories will not match up. Those discrepancies may prove troublesome.
“Impacted on a hull. Floated in space. Nearly froze to death. Enslaved by scavengers. Chased by Obsidian. Boring stuff until I saw your broadcast,” he says. “Grandmother, I wish we had more time, but battle is near and I don’t wish to slow the army.” He grips my arm. “Something is wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Your kit. You saved my life. You have kept your word and protected the Garter. When you fight our foe, you should be carrying the Shield of Akari.” He grins. I am stunned. “Come.”
