1
TALIN
The place where my mother’s house oncestood is now a field of scorched dirt. I have a memory of her rows of green plants, fat pea pods hanging from their vines, water dewing on the lemon-scented leaves of her sweetgrass. That’s all gone.
The rest of her old street is gone too—every leaning shack, every pot steaming over a fire. The narrow alleys crowded on either side with makeshift vendors, draped with faded fabrics and rusted tin sheets, arrayed with bags of spices and salvaged tools from the scrapyards for sale, the air pungent with the smell of frying fish, grease, and raw sewage. All gone.
The slums of Newage’s Outer City were never a beautiful place, but now they’re nothing more than mud and earth and debris. The only footprints are those of Karensan boots, the Federation coming through for their inspections. Off in the distance, their workers are hammering down new train tracks leading straight into Newage—once Mara’s capital—now another city fallen to the Federation.
The National Plaza has been taken over by a sprawl of pallets, nurses caring for injured Federation troops and Maran prisoners of war. The apartment where I used to share quarters with Red has been convertedinto barracks where eight Federation soldiers are bunking together. And the underground prison pit, where Red was once kept and where I’d been held upon our return to Mara, has become a massive excavation site. I can see Mayor Elland of Cardinia standing beside the churned earth, talking with the head engineer about the logistics of shipping their findings back to the capital.
The Federation believes that the Early Ones left behind a powerful, ancient source of energy in the land underneath Mara, and Premier Constantine thinks they’ve found it here, in the depths of what used to be our prison. Karensan engineers have exploded open the entrance and sent their drill teams down into the silo. The lowest floor is now a pit leading into darkness, the space cut by dozens of ropes and pulleys.
The changes extend to everything. The wall where I used to crouch as a small child, eyes shining and legs swinging, as Striker patrols headed out to the warfront, is completely covered with papers from Marans searching for lost loved ones. It has looked like this since the city first fell six months ago.
Lost: Damian Wen Danna, beloved father.
Has anyone seen Kira Min Calla, daughter, twelve, separated from mother in flight to the tunnels?
Errin An Perra searching for her baby, Seanine Min Perra, blue eyes, brown hair, 19 months old, separated near the south walls.
Torro Wen Marin looking for his parents, Karin An Tamen and Parro Wen Marin, both missing since the day of invasion.
On and on. The papers pile so thick on top of one another, a stack of anguished searching, that it looks like the wall itself is made of paper. I wonder if Basea’s walls were like this, too, after the smoke cleared. I wonder if there was even anyone left to search for us.
Every home has a door hung with the Karensan seal. Every storefront has prices written in Karensan notes. Every corner has at least oneor two Karensan soldiers, most of them looking bored as they shove their hands into the pockets of their scarlet uniforms and complain about the chill.
Six months was all it took for my memories of a free, independent Mara to fade away. I had settled into the routine of life here, hopeful that things would stay the same, until I was reminded once again of how quickly everything can vanish. One instant, there is a society, a set of steel walls, and a home. The next, there is ash.
I stand beside Constantine Tyrus, the young Premier of the Karensa Federation, in the arena where I used to train with my fellow Strikers. This place, too, has changed—its sides draped with enemy banners—but its purpose remains the same. We’re here today to oversee the punishment of prisoners.
Constantine’s brother, General Caitoman, stands on his other side, the two speaking in low voices. Other soldiers stay at attention near us. I cast a brief glance toward them. A few catch my eye—immediately they lower their gazes to the ground in terror, their heads hanging in bowed deference to me.
I feel a tug of satisfaction at their fear. Then revulsion washes over me. They’re afraid of me because they see a monster created by their Premier.
From the corner of my eye, I can make out where the soft skin on my forearm between my wrist and elbow now has armor running underneath it. The bones of my body are now fortified with the essence of steel. My hair has taken on the same metallic sheen that Red’s has. The backs of my hands bear a tattoo of a diamond shape, the symbol of something indestructible.
Iam indestructible. I am stronger than any living human should be, and I can feel that strength every time I move. Where I once only saw grass, I now make out a sea of blades. The air looks like it ripples withwind. The world vibrates with a thousand new movements. My back has been torn open and rebuilt, my limbs laced with steel, my face partly hidden behind a black helmet and mask.
Only my eyes remain exposed. They are still as large and dark as ever, though they have been broken down and rebuilt into something new and superhuman. And now I see something different reflected in them whenever I pass a mirror—the presence of someone else haunting the back of my mind.
“Half of them are Marans,” Caitoman says to Constantine. After the many months I spent in captivity in the labs, I have picked up enough Karenese to get by.
“And the other half?” he asks. The question sounds disinterested, but through our bond, I notice the Premier’s attention pique, as if he had been waiting impatiently for Caitoman to tell him more about the prisoners.
Caitoman’s lips curl into a thin smile. He is all that Constantine is not: thick muscle and height and strength, full brown hair and mischievous eyes. But even Constantine’s eyes don’t possess the void that his brother’s have. When I look at the General, all I see is the ocean at night. Merciless and churning.
“Rebels we caught at the border states,” Caitoman replies. I struggle to keep up with his rapid Karenese. “Two of them were leaders of the recent unrest at Tanapeg. One of them is from Carreal. She was heading the attempt to break Carreal from the Federation.”
Rebels from the border states, Tanapeg in the west and Carreal in the south. I’ve been hearing about them for months, ever since I first started shadowing the Premier and protecting him. Through our bond, I sense a deep satisfaction coming from Constantine at his brother’s report.
“I assume you’ve questioned them thoroughly,” Constantine says.
Caitoman lifts an eyebrow at his brother as an unspoken understanding passes between them. “You should know that,” he replies.
My hands clench and unclench, even as I tell myself to control my emotions. I have directly witnessed how General Caitoman interrogates his prisoners. Seen with my own eyes how many tools and weapons he uses, how creative he can be, how good he is at keeping people alive through it all. How that thin smile remains even after the very end.
I force my thoughts of the General away and instead look around the arena, always watchful for any threats to the Premier.
