Chapter One

Day 1,500 of the War:

Cheloi stuck a finger between her neck and the high collar of her tunic, pulling at the material. She had the utmost respect for the camp’s laundry section but wished they didn’t keep using so much stiffener in the uniform.

She gave her reflection in the mirror a critical eye, following the crisp pleats in her trousers, confirming that the thin black stripes running down the outside of the legs were parallel, and that everything metallic on the uniform gleamed. Not a bad job overall, considering she lost her aide almost two months ago. Since that time, the state of her uniform was dependent on whichever hapless enlisted soldier the sergeant frog-marched into her office at the beginning of each day. The results were…inconsistent. This morning, her uniform looked good. Tomorrow, it might not. The unfortunate thing was that she was starting to get used to it.

She walked to her desk to pick up the overnight reports, trying to hide her limp, but was unsuccessful. One foot clumped on the floor with a heaviness she detested. The camp surgeon told her that the lingering unsteadiness was her own fault for refusing to be evacuated to a more modern facility, but Cheloi knew that any vacuum in the territory’s command would be filled in an instant, and by whom. She couldn’t risk it. So, instead, she gritted her teeth and paraded her disability in front of the General Staff every day, forcing herself to put weight on that leg and will precious strength back into the limb.

The weekly command briefing would be starting soon. Cheloi took a deep breath and exited her quarters.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about the loss of an aide. In a way, his absence was a relief because it gave her more privacy but, since taking command of the territory, she had become used to someone picking up after her. She missed that often unseen hand that anticipated her wishes, sourced favourite titbits for the dinner table and delivered crisp clean uniforms and gleaming shoes to her bedside at dawn. Sometime soon, she knew she would have to see about acquiring a new assistant/driver. Not today.

The rough, sandy floor of the underground complex muffled the sound of her shoes as she strode unevenly along the main tunnel. The soldiers liked to slide along the fine grains when they thought nobody was looking, scuffing their footwear terribly in the process. Even the junior officers did it. In truth she couldn’t find it within herself to begrudge them their little moments of fun. All of them were parsecs away from home and not anticipating a victory anytime soon.

Koul told her she was too lax allowing such liberties, that firm discipline in battle began with firm discipline in camp. She countered by replying that she considered it an innocent outlet for pent-up energy. As long as nobody was stupid enough to attempt a sand-slide in front of her eyes, she was content to pretend the practice didn’t exist.

The door to the main briefing room loomed and slid open at her approach. Of course Koul was already there. Koul was always there. It was as if he had a time machine, able to peer one hour into the future, to ensure he would be everywhere ahead of her.

Her lately deceased aide once told her that the soldiers called Koul “Ghost” behind his back, because of his unusual colouring. With his pale skin, burnished silver hair and light grey eyes, one could easily imagine him as an apparition, a manifestation from Perlim fable. The flaxen-coloured uniform of the Perlim Ground Forces, with its high-necked tunic and matching trousers outlined in black and gold, glowed against Cheloi’s darker skin. But on Koul it looked like a cage, imprisoning his ethereal-looking body on the material plane.

Cheloi nodded a greeting to him and he answered. Koul was nothing if not scrupulously polite amidst company. Turning attention from him, she scanned the rest of the table. Most of the sector commanders were already seated, their conversation lowering to a murmur at her entrance. The door behind her slid open again and she knew by the rhythm of the footsteps that her adjutant, Major Rumis Swonnessy, had just entered.

People did themselves a disservice by underestimating Rumis. He was tall, tanned and absolutely gorgeous. Others might think that Cheloi kept him around purely because he was so decorative. They might even have imagined a secret affair between them. With his dark, mysterious eyes, glossy black hair and dimples, it was an obvious but mistaken assumption. Cheloi liked and trusted Rumis, not because of his looks, but because of his abilities. His usually open expression hid a sharp and quick intelligence, and he had proven his loyalty to her in the past, two traits that were hard to find in the present environment. In the tank of sharks currently contained within the meeting room, at least Rumis was one shark on her side.

She walked to her customary seat, again trying to shield her limp as much as possible, and sat down. All eyes turned to her.

“I’ve been through the reports,” she began, putting the documents on the table in front of her.

Cheloi had been holding these meetings every week for more than a year. The format was unchanged. She would begin with a summary of the current conflict, adding directives and requests from Central Control. She would then turn the discussion over to her senior officers for a sector-by-sector outline. Their voices droned in the stuffy air of the closed room but she forced herself to pay attention. There was equally important information in what the commanders didn’t tell her as what they did. She cast a glance around the table, searching each earnest face for subtle non-verbal cues, hints that things may not be going as well as their words indicated.

Sub-Colonel Vanqill, for example, was a young and ambitious officer but lacking the finer appreciation of logistics and human resource management. He was boasting of impressive advances in Green sector but she could tell from the tightness around his mid-brown eyes that he wasn’t telling the full story. Further probing brought out the truth that, once again, his soldiers were outrunning the supply lines, daring the Menon fighters to cut them off. Not for the first time, she was forced to divert troops from the adjacent, relatively stable Black sector to intervene and help hold a route back to the straggling supply transports.

She knew what Koul would have done in a similar position. He would have tolerated one, maybe two, mistakes. But by the third time, Koul would have withheld reinforcements and let Vanqill and his battalions perish. Her second-in-command read her reluctance to let Vanqill charge into death as a sign of weakness but, after the Sab-Iqur affair, he knew better than to harangue her about it.

Diverting a company from the neighbouring Black sector to hold the Green line, however, meant mollifying Black sector commander, Colonel Senel Wakor. Cheloi still hadn’t succeeded in that task when the meeting came to an end.

With cool gleaming eyes, Koul watched his peers leave the briefing room then turned his gaze to his superior. There were now only three left at the table: him, the Colonel, and the Colonel’s adjutant, Major Rumis Swonnessy.

Like a signal, Cheloi heard Rumis’ soft sigh beside her. While she had been focusing on each of the commanders as they spoke, he had been watching the dynamics between the rest of them. His small exhalation told her that an argument was about to begin.

“With all due respect, Senior Colonel,” Koul began, when the door was safely shut, “I keep reminding you that you either need to pull Vanqill into line, or allow the Menons to do it for you.”

“It’s unlike you to mince words, Colonel,” Cheloi rebuked in a calm voice and tried not to notice the slight smile breaking on Rumis’ face. It was childish but Koul always seemed to bring out the worst in her. “What you mean to say is that we should let Vanqill and his soldiers perish.”

“This is not the fourth, nor even the sixth, time he has outrun his orders and his supplies.”

“He is unsettling the enemy by taking the fight to them for a change,” she countered. “While the rest of the commanders tend to a caution that borders on lethargy, at least Vanqill tries to be proactive. He may not always succeed, but at least he’s making the effort.”

“His efforts are turning him into a danger to himself as well as the entire Ground Forces deployment in this territory.” Koul was beginning to lose his temper, his voice rising and his jaw working even when he wasn’t saying anything. “If you don’t do anything about it….”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Koul?”

There was a moment of charged silence, before he pulled himself together with obvious effort. “He is a threat to the war effort,” he concluded in a sullen voice. “If everybody else starts thinking like him, the entire territory will fall apart.”

Koul’s way of looking at a situation was simple. If there was a risk to the campaign, the best way forward was to eliminate that risk and, as he saw it, Vanqill and his foolhardy tactics were the biggest risk to the Nineteen. Unfortunately, Cheloi was privy to certain information regarding the state of Perlim military resources, and the message from Central Control was clear. We are running out of bodies. Preserve the soldiers.

“We are an all-volunteer army,” she cut in, her expression kind, mostly because she knew it annoyed the hell out of him. “That means we conserve forces as much as possible. I agree that Sub-Colonel Vanqill is inexperienced, but he is also energetic. Furthermore, I will not allow an entire sector to be massacred just because you itch to teach a puppy some lessons.” She paused. “Of course, if you disagree with my assessment of the situation….”

This was not the first time Koul had challenged her and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. Every time he did it, it was up to her to slap him down. If he was a pet relehn dog, she would have had him shot by now for his pig-headedness.

Koul grimaced and looked away. “Yes, yes, I understand.” His hands, splayed on the table’s matte surface, pressed down so heavily Cheloi thought they would leave impressions on the metal. “You are in charge of this territory and I bow to the wisdom of Central Control.”

“Very good.” She nodded and allowed herself to relax, leaning back in her chair. “Now, do you have any ideas on how to handle Wakor?”

A veteran and the commander of Black sector, Senel Wakor also disliked the impetuous Vanqill for a number of reasons, including the fact that Vanqill was little more than half Wakor’s years and already a Sub-Colonel. The young commander also had a string of successes under his belt that seemed to defy the accepted and venerated tactics that Wakor had learnt at officer school and an arrogant energy that rubbed most of the senior officers the wrong way. Wakor’s dislike, more than apparent at the briefing table, was compounded by the constant redeployment of his own sector troops to help the younger man.

“Stop Senel from slitting Vanqill’s throat, you mean?”

ll three officers grinned in a rare moment of camaraderie and Cheloi felt the last of the tension bleed from the room.

Koul’s voice softened. “Let me think of something. There’s a reported rebel ammunition dump just beyond Black sector’s current sphere of operations. I think I can arrange a distraction for him.”

“Thank you, Koul.”

She made to stand up, thinking to pay a visit to the Tactical Room next, when Koul said something else.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Cheloi stilled before straightening. “Oh?”

“You lost your aide more than a month ago. Well, I have his replacement. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

Rumis shrugged behind Koul’s back, indicating he had no idea of what was coming. Whatever it was, Koul had kept things very quiet. Cheloi trained her face to impassivity.

“That’s very, considerate of you. Lead on.”

They left the briefing room in silence.

Cheloi heard sounds of industry from the kitchens as they entered the subterranean canteen. It was past mid-morning and preparations were already under way for lunch. For now, all the tables were unattended, the chairs unfilled, except for one.

A frown started gathering on Cheloi’s brow as the three of them approached the canteen’s lone customer, zigzagging through the rows of tables and hastily pushed back chairs. She felt a wave of impending doom lapping at her feet, surging higher the closer they got to the lone, occupied chair.

Had Koul somehow guessed…?

But how would he know? She kept that part of herself bottled up tight, vacuum-sealed against the world.

When they reached the inhabitant, in a rare moment of courtesy, Koul smiled and gestured with his hand. The stranger stood up. Correction, the woman stood up and turned around.

She was as tall as Cheloi with dark blonde hair, olive skin and hazel eyes. Unlike the Colonel, who sported a shorter more military cut, her longer hair was pulled back and pinned in a sleek bun, exposing streaks of pale gold. Cheloi imagined those golden streaks gleaming in the sunlight, as warm as the colour in her eyes, then quickly quelled the thought. What the hell was she thinking? Golden streaks? Warmth? What was wrong with her?

It was only the expression in those eyes that settled her again. She saw wariness, mixed with a degree of apprehension. That calmed her. Dislike, cynicism, anxiety, all these she could deal with, was comfortable with, although it made her wonder exactly what Koul had told her.

She knew what Koul thought of her in his private moments, because there were no truly private moments in the military, only relative ones. If Koul thought he was getting intelligence on Cheloi from intermediaries who were willing to talk, then it would be best for him to remember that it cut both ways.

Spraen. Cheloi’s lips twitched momentarily. Koul might think it an insult, but she enjoyed the comparison to one of the ravening scavengers of Perlim myth.

Coming to pick at your bones, eh Koul?

“Senior Colonel, may I present Senior Lieutenant Lith Yinalña.”

Cheloi clicked back to the present.

“Yinalña.” She rolled the name over her tongue, stressing the second syllable. It didn’t sound very Perlim-like.

The lieutenant, her soft military cap clutched in one hand, saluted smartly. Cheloi returned the salute and offered a handshake which, after a moment’s hesitation, was taken. Yinalña’s hands were warm but rough, indicating that the junior officer often dabbled in manual tasks. There was a sense of strength and capability in the short greeting, two traits that Cheloi usually admired.

Usually. She wasn’t liking any of this. She darted a quick glance at Koul but his expression was open and innocent. Or at least as innocent as an expression got on that particular face. She introduced Rumis, and they began a desultory conversation, but her eyes were still on Lith Yinalña, moving up and down her body in quick strokes, taking in the curves of her breasts and the swell of hips that the jacket couldn’t hide. The lieutenant’s pulled-back hair emphasised her high cheekbones and full lips. They may have been of the same height, but Yinalña was younger and less androgynous than Cheloi. The Colonel felt something flutter again, deep in her stomach. Her hand was still warm from the brief handshake, but the rest of her felt frozen and icy with premonition.

She was going to be trouble. Cheloi could feel it in her bones, a feeling compounded by the fact that it was Koul who brought her here. That figure, that hair, those lively welcoming eyes. Cheloi felt like she was standing on the edge of a dark precipice on a summer’s day, a glowing sun eclipsing disaster.

“Where did you find Lieutenant Yinalña?” Cheloi asked her second-in-command, making her voice casual.

“Quite by accident, while on a tour of Blue sector.”

So, last week. If I can believe him.

“If you recall, you sent me there to carry out an evaluation of the situation.”

Yes. It was not a happy time for the Empire. An entire company had been lured into a rebel ambush and killed almost to the last soldier. Koul had recommended withdrawing the company’s remnant to facilitate a regroup and injection of fresh soldiers. Cheloi agreed.

“Yinalña’s commander died during the retreat.”

“I see.”

“But the company’s Sergeant Major commended her diligence and engineering dexterity to me and I thought you would find that useful.”

It was only a slim straw but Cheloi grabbed it. It was nothing she wanted to articulate, but she had to get rid of her new staff officer as quickly as possible. “Won’t she be missed? After all, it’s the engineers that keep the wheels of the Empire turning.”

“She’s only had informal training.”

“So she’s not a formal member of the Engineers then?”

“No.”

Cheloi tried not to let the disappointment show. “No safer posts available?”

No, that question came out too quickly. She knew she shouldn’t be pushing matters so hard and so soon. Even now, she saw a trace of speculation in Koul’s pale eyes and cursed herself for handling the conversation so ineptly. If she’d been thinking, she would have accepted the driver with an offhand negligence then quietly ordered Rumis to find some way of getting rid of her. But something about Lith Yinalña unbalanced her in a way that more than three years of combat in a war zone hadn’t.

Koul’s words were slow and deliberate, clear signs that there was much more going on in his head than he was willing to admit.

“She volunteered for a posting at the front. I thought it a natural solution to the problem. Was I incorrect in my assumption?”

Koul tried to look puzzled but Cheloi saw behind his gaze to the underlying cold calculation. She knew she was going to have to concede the point.

“As always, Koul, you anticipate my wishes,” Cheloi smiled tightly and raised her voice to encompass the other two. “Perhaps Major Swonnessy can show the Senior Lieutenant to her quarters. We can set up a quick briefing for later this afternoon. Rumis, see to it.”

“Immediately, Colonel.”

Rumis Swonnessy smiled broadly at the lieutenant as he reached for her soft-pack, shrugging the bag’s thick strap lightly onto his shoulder. “Follow me.”

The speculative gazes from two pairs of eyes followed the figures as they wound their way out of the canteen.

Lith looked around her with unabashed curiosity. All the military facilities she’d been assigned to had so far been on the planet’s surface. This was the first time she’d been given an underground post.

“A bit different, isn’t it?”

She looked over at the man who accompanied her and nodded agreement. He was Major Rumis Swonnessy, Senior Colonel Sie’s adjutant. She hadn’t expected such a handsome face to match the reputation he had already built up. And she hadn’t expected such a pleasant personality either.

“The Nineteen, as you already know, is a long and thin territory, and all the transport routes travel quite close to our encampments. Central Control thought that siting our headquarters aboveground would make it easier for rebels to target us, so we were ordered to construct it underground instead.”

“It’s, er, very impressive.”

Actually, the word Lith was thinking of was more along the lines of oppressive, but she couldn’t say that to someone who was showing her around with such obvious pride. The canteen they had just walked from was near an exit, but Swonnessy pointed out corridors that led to other exits aboveground. Lith feverishly memorised their positions, afraid of an imminent attack of claustrophobia.

They passed through the administrative block, where the Tactical and Information Rooms were located, and she was shown where the Communications Room was situated, near the end of a long tunnel. Above her head, square panels of light, evenly spaced, illuminated the regular scraping texture of the walls and the grainy texture of the floors. Small crunches indicated footsteps of soldiers as they passed the pair, intent on their own tasks. It was like being in the belly of some infernal beast or trapped in a military-run underworld. Lith shivered, her guilty conscience prodded by the fact that she was actually where she had originally planned to end up. Her feet slowed as she fought the instinct to grab the bag off Swonnessy’s shoulder and flee. She fought to take in a full lungful of air. Was there a problem with the ventilation systems or was it her own fear, constricting her lungs and making it difficult to breathe?

Oblivious, Swonnessy happily chatted on, pointing out other major points of interest. They passed to the accommodation block.

“This is the Colonel’s quarters,” he said, indicating an otherwise anonymous door. “Most of your time will probably be spent shuttling between here and your own quarters.”

Lith frowned at the seamless black panel. It was strange how it looked like every other door. As though a monster—the Butcher—didn’t weave her plans of death from behind its bland exterior. Just thinking about what went on behind that door, the orders that resulted in thousands of innocent casualties and deaths, was enough to get her blood boiling and give her a much-needed burst of courage.

She smiled into the Major’s dark eyes. “I’m sure I’ll be kept very busy,” she told him.

He laughed and led her further down the corridor. “If you’re working for the Colonel, you don’t have a choice.”

He stopped outside another door and palmed it open. “This is yours.”

Lith stepped into the room that was to be her new home. It was a compact space, with a small bathroom off to one side. The air inside was stuffy and smelt a little mouldy, something Swonnessy noticed as well, because he stepped sideways to the climate-control panel just near the door and activated the ventilation fans. After waiting to make sure the characteristic whirring began, he continued forward and put Lith’s soft-pack down on her bed.

“The Colonel is usually up quite early, but you’re not expected on duty until seven. It’ll be worth your while to get fresh uniforms to her the night before rather than try scrambling around in the morning.”

She nodded.

“I’ll leave you to get settled. Let’s meet for lunch in an hour and I’ll take you through the rest of your duties.”

“Thank you for your help, Major.”

He smiled. “Welcome to Nineteen’s HQ. I’ll see you back at the canteen.”

Lith watched him leave and swiftly locked the door behind him, letting out a long breath only when she was alone.

The day had started out with a flurry, with sub-Colonel Grakal-Ski arriving to pick her up from the shambles of Blue sector command precisely at six. Not that he drove the wheeler himself. It was obvious to Lith that Grakal-Ski thought himself above such petty activities and she tried to smile reassuringly at the nervous-looking ensign who had been ordered to act as the Colonel’s chauffeur.

The Colonel had tried to be courteous to her, but it was a futile effort. No matter how much a smile tried to curve his lips, or how outwardly solicitous his words might be—“Are you sure you have everything, Lieutenant?”; “No, there’s no need for you to drive. I’m sure Ensign Kavky will be more than happy to get us back to HQ”; “Should you have any questions about HQ protocol, please feel free to approach me”—they couldn’t hide the essential coldness, the distinct feeling of aloof calculation, behind his eyes.

Grakal-Ski might be polite to her now, but Lith was certain that could easily turn into a frigid rage should she ever displease him.

Major Rumis Swonnessy, on the other hand, seemed to be no more than he appeared to be. She was surprised by how friendly and courteous he was and by the clear respect he showed the Nineteen’s commander. Lith was sure he was also a big hit with the ladies. Those laughing eyes, dimples, and smooth voice could coax the most reluctant woman (or man, come to think of it) to bed.

Senior Colonel Cheloi Sie, however, wasn’t what Lith was expecting at all. She had been anticipating the reserve, but not the courtesy. And she had certainly not expected to find her…attractive. The Colonel’s short practical haircut emphasised her bone structure, camouflaged by only a light padding of fat that made her seem more approachable and less like a flesh-filleting knife. Her skin was darker than Lith’s but lighter than the dark chocolate of her eyes. Her lips, dark and bluish in tinge, looked like they smiled often. And her voice was calm and melodious. If they had met in a bar somewhere, Lith might have even struck up a conversation with the attractive woman. And that thought scared her.

She grimaced as she flipped open the flap of her soft-pack. She thought she could still feel the impression of the Colonel’s hand against her own. The touch had been firm and decisive and Lith conceded that it was only a touch of immaturity that made her expect something chill, soft and clammy.

“Why couldn’t it have been soft and clammy?” she muttered. She paused in her unpacking, looking down at her upturned hand as if she could see the outline of Cheloi Sie’s fingers etched on her palm. With a rough movement, she rubbed it against the side of her trousers.

“A butcher,” she told herself in a stern voice. “Not attractive. Not interesting. Just a better-than-average mass murderer.”

And concentrated on getting ready for lunch with Major Swonnessy.