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Bauwerji Crow crouched on the promontory with one hand on the ground between her boots. She pinched the sand and brought it up in front of her face, narrowing her eyes to watch the granules as they were blown away on the wind. Once it was all gone she wiped her hand on the trousers of what had once been uniform slacks. The maroon material had been faded by the sun and sandblasted by her long journey, the frayed ends tucked into her boots. The jacket was equally worn but the day was far too hot for her to wear it. She’d reverently folded it and placed it in the pack currently hanging heavy from her shoulders. Her sleeveless undershirt was nearly soaked through with sweat, but she would give it another few hours before she took it off. The red of her arms was deepened from exposure, but that couldn’t be helped. The sun was close to setting, and the marginally-cooler night temperature would feel blissful on her bare skin.
There had been a time when her uniform was beautiful and new. She remembered seeing it hanging from the corner of her bunk waiting to be worn. The brass buttons had been small suns that gleamed against the darker material. The piping along the collar and sleeves, long gone now, had been a beautiful pure white. She’d worn it with pride for her first day at the Institute, her rust-colored braids tucked under a cap that was almost the same color.
She was a fourth-generation novitiate and as such was allowed to wear the braids in honor of her mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and great-great-grandmother, the ‘ji who had come before her in the ranks. The first morning she reported for her division was beautiful and clear. The temperature moderators were in full working order and provided a gentle breeze that blew among the gathered soldiers as they awaited to give their official pledge to military service.
In the two-hundred and fifty years since the last war, the Balanquin army had largely become ornamental. They went through training for battles they would never fight and lackadaisically completed drills just to have something to do. For the most part they wore their uniforms and marched in parades, they made public appearances and served as ornaments for public officials when giving a speech. Regardless of their nonessential status, it was a source of much pride to wear the official uniform of a novitiate, and Bauwerji looked down to admire the threading on her pristine white gloves.
Because she was looking down, she was not one of the unlucky few blinded by the initial explosion. Several had seen streaks of light in the sky and looked away a moment before impact, but those who were watching their leader approach the podium would never see anything again. Bauwerji was thrown off her feet into the person behind her, and still her response was to apologize for falling. Slowly she realized that she wasn’t the only one knocked off her feet. All around her novitiates were sprawled on the cobblestones with streaks of bright black blood trickling down their faces. Uniforms that had never been worn before that morning were now ripped and stained.
Two more explosions occurred to the north and east, one on either side of the Institute. The air was full of screams now, oddly dulled in the deafening aftermath of the attack. Bauwerji fumbled for the pistol hanging from her side even though she knew there was nothing to shoot at. Their enemy was safely invisible somewhere far away, flinging rocks at them from a distance. Cowards, she thought, rolling onto her hands and knees to push herself up.
Others were fleeing. Where to? Where would be a safe haven? She watched as a column of smoke descended from the sky and smashed into the study hall like the fist of a goddess. Stone and smoke billowed from the wreckage and she knew with cold horror that close to seventy of her classmates had just died. A hundred yards away, next to the statue of the Institute’s founder, she saw an Opvoedor whose name she didn’t know lift his face to the clouds and bellow “We are at peace!” as if their enemies were unruly students he could simply shout down with logic.
More explosions echoed from the valley, and the ground under her feet felt uneven. It was as if the solid planet she had stood upon her entire life was now a flat piece of rock balanced on a spire. She tried to run but only made a few faltering steps before the ground seemed to shift again and she fell on her face. Her nose was bloodied but she forced herself to go on. She had lost her cap, her braids falling against her shoulder as she ran.
Again an explosion on the outskirts, but this one was different. It was followed by a series of secondary explosions, an air-trembling cacophony that washed over the Institute grounds like waves in the ocean. In the wake of this disturbance was a blast of unbelievably hot air. She heard people praying to their various gods and goddesses as the heat settled over them like a cloud.
The temperature moderators had been hit. She tried to remember the season they were in, but it was no use. The Balanquin people built the moderators to maintain comfort year-round. Sometimes it was a bit colder and other times it might be warmer, but extremes were a thing of the past. But now the heat... it stifled her, made it difficult to breathe. Sweat was already gathering under her uniform jacket and she clawed at the top button as she watched those around her do the same.
“There are safeguards,” she heard someone say with a voice dulled by shock. “This should not be happen. This should never have been possible.”
Bauwerji looked at the devastation around her, the students who were one pledge away from becoming soldiers dedicated to protecting their country and their world. Their halls of learning had been destroyed, their classrooms buried under rubble. She realized with horror that it had been a crippling first blow by an enemy who struck without warning and immediately took out two of their best defenses. The few soldiers who had survived would be forced to fight in conditions more terrible than they had ever experienced. She could barely breathe in the heat, let alone fight.
We are now at war, she thought, and we have already lost.
Communication lines were also targeted, so it was months before the whole story about the day was known. Those at the Institute called it the Rain of Fire, but their leaders called it only “the Strike.” In addition to the Institute, targets included three strategic locations on the outskirts of their capital. The meaning was clear: we will not destroy your seat of power, but we could do so if we choose.
Their enemies were from a cloistered country called Catarahh. An envoy was dispatched before all the smoke had dissipated and he delivered a list of demands. Either the Balanquin people lay down their arms and accept the Catarahh as their new leaders or the bombings would continue. The Balanquin government capitulated with only a brief debate. After two centuries of peace their leaders doubted their ability to fight back. Destruction was a given, but surrender meant they could minimize the damage. A document was written up detailing the terms of their agreement. As soon as it was signed, the envoy raised his gun and shot the Balanquin president in the head.
“The Balanquin people no longer have a government. A country without a government does not require its own leader.”
It was three days after the first strike, and in those few hours Bauwerji had watched her people go from a peaceful superpower to an enslaved colony under the heel of what soon revealed itself as a brutal hegemon. All Balanquin industry was usurped for Catarahh purposes. The Balanquin built up Catarahh’s armies and began constructing more weapons like the ones that had devastated their own country. They lacked the manpower or time to rebuild their temperature moderators so the country fell into an unprecedentedly ruthless heatwave. Those who opted not to work for their new oppressors often chose suicide, although many were caught and sent to work camps where armed guards could force them to work.
Bauwerji didn’t understand the logic of threatening suicidal people with armed guards. She also didn’t understand why her people had simply bowed their heads and gone along with their occupiers. A group of upper classmen from the Institute found the surviving class of novitiates and joined them together as a true army. They revisited their training with more focus and determination than they had before. Now there was a true enemy, now there was a purpose to their fighting.
She picked up another handful of sand. Before the moderators were destroyed this had been a prairie. Now it was nothing but wastelands. When she let the sand go it pulled away from her with greater speed than the first test. She had a cloth tied around her neck and she lifted it up over the lower half of her nose. Moments after she placed the goggles over her eyes a gust of wind blew in a wall of loose sand. Her hair, still in braids, whipped up and trailed behind her as she stood and started down the steep incline. She kicked up small stones and puffs of sand ahead of her and, when she reached the bottom, she broke into a slow sprint. In the twelve years since the Catarahh invasion she had become acclimated to the heat. All Balanquin had, to one degree or another, found ways to cope.
Their numbers were fluid. Many of the first wave, those who had created an entire army practically from scratch, were killed early. They recruited more when they could but it was imperative that they keep moving, always moving, always silent, always fighting. Their largest cities were now strongholds for Catarahh occupiers. The rural areas still held to the old loyalties, but that was only because their invaders couldn’t be bothered to venture that far into the interior. The only thing to be found were farmers, and farmers had to travel to the city to sell their food anyway. There was no need to dominate people who would, by necessity, bring themselves to you eventually. It was hard enough making anything grow in the new climate so they couldn’t afford to be picky about who they sold to.
Bauwerji continued across the plain. She was overheated and exhausted, but she was always those things. She’d learned to fight through the pain when the cause was just. She remembered the young girl she had been, knowing from a young age she would follow in the family tradition. She had stroked the arm of her mother’s uniform jacket, had stuck her fingers into the large gloves, and imagined herself standing silently beside a president as he made a speech. She imagined marching in parades, posing for photographs. The army had been an easy job. It was a job of leisure and celebrity with little to no real responsibility.
The very thought made her laugh behind her mask. She had seen her friends killed in cold blood, and she had been forced to leave behind colleagues so she wouldn’t get captured herself. Captured Balanquin soldiers were made examples. Limbs amputated on live screenings, imprisoned for life with a camera in the cell to record every agonizing moment. One captured soldier had the Catarahh loyalty pledge tattooed into her face backwards so it would confront her every day in the mirror. The Catarahh were brutal and creative with their torture.
Ahead of her, a deep crevasse had been cut through the sand, partially scoring the bedrock underneath as well. She drew her pistol and began following the trench. It had obviously been made by the object they’d tracked since it entered low Pelorum orbit. They watched as it nudged itself north by a few degrees, a trajectory change that had guided it away from any populated cities to crash into the badlands. Not a meteor, nothing natural, but something with a guidance system. Anything with a guidance system was worth a several-days journal through heat and dryness to investigate.
It took another two hours of walking before she spotted the vessel. The sun had crossed the horizon by that point so it was almost too hard to see. Her goggles had ambient enhancers which showed her the landscape tinted bright blue and green. The ship wasn’t a design she recognized, neither Balanquin nor Catarahh, but it could have been a prototype. It was about the size of a four-person coastrunner, but it lacked the defining characteristics of that particular ship.
She kept her weapon up as she approached the open hatchway and peered inside. Silent. Empty. A short flight of stairs led down into a cramped but brightly illuminated corridor. Wreaths of smoke curled near the ceiling and clouded the overhead lights to create shadows that danced over the walls. Carefully Bauwerji descended into the ship, checking fore and aft for any signs of movement. She heard nothing. She crept forward through a door that was wider at the shoulders than at the top or bottom, into a circular room.
The air was cold. Not cool, not modified for comfort, it was cold. She closed her eyes and pulled down her mask, parting her lips as if it would help her appreciate the sensation more. All thought of danger left her mind. She dropped her gun on the floor, shrugged out of her pack, and took off her goggles. The coolness made everything seem unimportant, and she laughed as she held her hands out. She didn’t know if she somehow expected to touch the cold, but she spread her fingers out and basked in it.
There was a sound behind her, a nasal and palatal language that sounded more like someone choking on their food than any attempt at communication. She turned, half-expecting an animal, but saw a man cautiously approaching her from the direction of the hatch. He must have been on the other side of the vessel when she approached. He wore a mask that covered his entire head, his face reduced to a pair of reflective lenses and a small speaker over his mouth. He held up his hands to show he was unarmed. He spoke again, more grunts and glugs, but made no move against her. Bauwerji narrowed her eyes and shook her head at him. He carefully gestured behind her, and she turned to look at a flashing console.
“D’guey l’t’tah. Ka’n’duu.”
Bauwerji stepped to one side and the man approached the console. He removed his glove, baring his fingers, and she looked away from the exposed flesh. She heard him tapping the screen briefly, and then something deep within the ship began to hum.
“Ahaha!” the man said. “Ng’cju. Aha!” He looked at her, tilted his head to the side, and said, “K’ngee e ka uh?”
She stared at him and he turned back to the console. He typed again and began speaking. “Sotheli? A’nik oou’vo’tah? Priv privat. Privot scome chlefthe... these will work.” He registered the change in her expression. “There? This? Hello. Can you understand me?”
“Yes.”
He straightened. “Odd. We’ve never had to use that filter before. Anyway. My name is Elin Cizek. I’m Ladrona. I doubt you’ve ever heard of us. No offense, but your planet is kind of off the beaten path.” He waited for a response. “Elin Cizek is my name. And your name...?”
“Bauwerji.”
“Bah... Bow... huh. Interesting name. Is that your species?”
“It’s my name. Who are you? Why can I understand you now?”
He said, “Ah, the blessed tech. Shall we sing its praises. I was supposed to give your planet a quick scan before heading home. See what was here and report back. My engines had other ideas.”
“Report back. To... whom?”
He hesitated. “I don’t think I’m really supposed to say. We have rules about this sort of thing. If it’s all the same to you, I would just like to finish repairing my ship and leaving before anyone else stumbles across it.” He pulled out a padded bench and sat down facing the console. “I’m guessing from the state of your clothes you’re not from the city I nearly crashed into on the way down.”
Bauwerji snorted. “Not any longer. Our country was stolen from us in a cowardly sneak attack. Our people slaughtered by cruel and evil people with whom we had no fight. You should have crashed into the city. It might have done more good than damage.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “I’m sorry. That sounds horrendous.”
Bauwerji hugged herself, still reveling in the cold but knowing she didn’t have time to get used to it. “I walked for a very long time to get here. If you could at least provide me with water, or food, or medicine. Medicine would be lovely...”
“Food and medicine?”
“Whatever you can spare would be wonderful. There are people back at my encampment who don’t have much of either.”
He faced forward again and drummed his fingers on the edge of the console. “These people, the invaders...”
“The Catarahh. My people are called the Balanquin.”
“Okay. They cut off your food and medicine? Force you to live out here in the desert?”
She said, “They don’t force us to do anything. We live as their slaves or we eke out what living we can here.”
He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Vastag is going to murder me for this. You said your name was Bowery?”
“Ba...” She didn’t see what difference it made; it seemed difficult for him to say it correctly anyway. “Yes. Bowery.”
He opened a new screen and began typing. “Well, Bowery, my ship is hanging back at the edge of your solar system. I’m going to send them a message to come look into what’s happening here.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Call it compassionate aid. If what you say about the Catarahh is true, then they’re the sort of people we don’t like. We call them bullies. Food, shelter, medicine... refusing any one of those to an entire group of people is reason enough for us to get involved. My captain may not like it, but we’re going to do whatever we can to help you.”
Bauwerji moved closer. “Thank you, Elin Cizek. My people will be forever in your debt.”
“We don’t believe in debts, Bowery Crow. At least not personal debts from one person to another. We believe in people helping people. We get you back on your feet and, one day someone might require your help.”
“And then I help them?”
“You do what you want. But... yeah, helping them would probably be the decent thing to do.”
The bench was wide enough that Bauwerji could sit beside him. The screen was awash in a language she didn’t understand, but she watched as strange shapes and characters scurried across the pale blue glass. She looked at Elin.
“Why haven’t you taken your mask off?”
“We haven’t scanned this planet yet. All sorts of toxins could be here and, since I wasn’t supposed to land, I could expose myself to anything that happens to be floating around.”
“And I could expose myself to any of your toxins floating around in this ship.”
He nodded. “I suppose you could. But then I would give you medicine to help fight it. Besides, the cold air is worth the risk, don’t you think? It’s pretty hot outside.”
“You have no idea,” she muttered.
The console made a sound and she leaned away from it, but Elin seemed to expect the noise. “It’s just my ship. They’re on their way, and they should be here within the hour. While we’re waiting, maybe you could help me put the finishing touches on my repairs.”
She managed a weak smile. “Another debt.”
“I’ll start running a tally.” He chuckled and patted her arm before he stood up and walked back toward the hatch.
Bauwerji looked at the completely alien display. Life from other planets. They had long known it existed, of course, but they’d never seen much need to go out and find them. Now one had dropped down into their laps, and he brought with him the potential to finally turn the tide of their insurrection. The possibilities made her head swim.
Hope. For the first time since her graduation, standing with the other novitiates, she was feeling hopeful. She smiled and stood up to follow Elin outside to see what she could help him with. There was a chance that Elin Cizek’s crash landing in their desert was the best thing that could ever have happened to them.