42 Íkanir 11377
17:55 Kaskanad Local Time
Altámarin
“The official declaration that faster-than-light travel was in fact a reality prompted less public shock than one might expect, however, mostly due to the many educated guesses on the Net about the activities of local governments. Some were founded on nothing but observation, where others owed much more to the leaking of information from classified sources. Adding to this was the unique situation spawned when each planetary system maintained a nominally separate communications network for a good while after the Argentil Conference. More on this Net-culture and the public impact of the rippledrive next class. I shall see you then.”
Most of Professor Ilvaris’ students had filed out quickly, and though a few remained to discuss more specific aspects of the lecture, he was left alone fairly quickly thereafter. Turning off the holoprojector, he removed his glasses and idly polished the lenses. This was a peculiarity his students commented on, as declining the readily available correction procedure was nearly unheard of, but Ilvaris somewhat enjoyed the anachronism of having the glasses perched on his flared nose; he fancied it gave him the look of an old-school academic. Being a history professor himself, he could get away with it.
42 Íkanir. As of yesterday, he had been faced with the new reality of life under the Ruscalidni for half a century. Admittedly, for the first year he had been engaged in a variety of semi-legal resistance movements and had therefore not rejoined civil society for a bit. If he hadn’t been working on research for the entirety of the previous day with his graduates, perhaps he would’ve given more thought to the significance, real or attributed, of the anniversary. Fifty years was enough for the radiation that had pervaded the ruins or Alenas to subside, making the less glassy outskirts suitable for reclamation. Fifty years was enough for many of the politicians and public figures that predominated the pre-invasion days to die, often unmourned by the public at large in spite of their accomplishments. Fifty years was enough to change the world irrevocably.
Ilvaris himself had always advocated an approach of “living within the truth” with regards to their new government. Recognise the situation for what it is; do not shy away from the ugliness of the past, for to do so is to neglect its importance. The frustrated impotence of the people in the first decade had been especially difficult to watch. In spite of all their longings to rebel openly, the Ruscalid government’s holding of elections and the return of Kaskanad to a democratic state, albeit one with a foreign governor, had placated the ire of the population. So it was that with time, all but a few of those who had once fought alongside the professor to defend their world now accepted the status quo. Many even served in the new domestic military or the police force, content with their lives a firm in their conviction that the best way to deal with the horrific defeat of 11327 was to move on, to forget if not forgive.
But Ilvaris was an historian, and as he could not possibly forget, little room was left in his guarded heart to forgive. He too had suffered loss in the risiarind of Alenas, less than most but more than some. He hadn’t had much of a family to speak of at the time; his connections with his parents had been poor. Certainly he grieved for his mother, burned in the capital, but that was so far overshadowed by his other emotions at the time that it had been as a pinprick to him. Overriding even his sorrow had been his guilt and his anger, anger at his inability to fight in the face of such power and guilt because it was because of his failure that Kaskanad had fallen.
“Colonel! Can you hear me? Get additional support up here immediately. It’s irrelevant whether or not we have sufficient fuel in the interceptors; the complements of the first four platforms are decimated and need replacement.” Static flared intermittently over the comms links, accentuating the unbearable tension that filled the room. Standing and shouting into a separate communicator, Colonel Ilvaris ordered the launch of another cargo shuttle to the orbital platforms that help position some five hundred miles overhead. For three days a war had been waged between the besieging corvettes of the Ruscal Nor invasion force and the obdurate defences of Kasakanad IV, with neither side appearing to get the upper hand. However, the drones that provided the backbone of the defence net for Ilvaris’ Círpryad Kaskanid were being mercilessly culled by the ceaseless interchange of projectiles above.
The assault of a planet was a delicate dance: starships were priceless and could not approach orbital platforms with impunity due to the sheer magnitude of the stationary weapons, and therefore they had to make their gambit from an oblique angle where the main batteries of the platforms could not target them. The platforms would rotate to compensate, and in that brief window where the railguns were coming into alignment, the most crucial interchanges occurred. The hundreds of drones that swarmed around the stations served both to harass and drive away the corvettes and, if necessary, to intercept shells likely to damage the platforms’ own mainline armaments. The sustenance of a decent number was therefore crucial, as any gap in the swirling patterns, though too complex for any biological eye to discern, could be exploited by the targeting computers on the attackers’ vessels.
The demoralising truth on the part of the Kaskanid forces was their acute lack of starships. Certainly a handful of civilian and trade vessels remained, berthed now in ground-based starports due to the dangers of leaving them at the orbiting docks, but these ships were not outfitted for any sort of combat. Ever since the civil war had worsened in this part of the Collective, buying military craft had been made virtually impossible due to the high demand and the volatility of contracts with any of the major shipbuilding corporations. And so Círpryad watched, limited to a defensive role, as its resources began to run thin.
“General Hírselas, we’ve launched an additional shuttle with the necessary reinforcements.” Colonel Ilvaris relayed a trajectory algorithm to his superior in orbit, ordering surface batteries to open fire along the path of the craft to protect it from errant pot-shots by the enemy cruisers.
“Lyanel Merynas, you are a lifesaver in the most literal sense. Prepare your support boys for the change of guard here in an hour. You’re coming up, and Lieutenant General Ulazas is taking your place at headquarters.” The General sounded exhausted, though no less commanding than usual.
“On it, sir,” responded the officer. Montrysan Risolan Hírselas was a role model in countless ways for the aspiring officer; his command of Círpryad had always been unswerving and regimented, yet considerate as well. If nothing else, the past eighty hours had shown that the man was made of the truest steel there was, and he had continued to hold out against a nominally superior force. The respect he commanded had raised morale considerably, and even now in the face of fire, the soldiers of Círpryad successfully struggled to remain calm, fiercely devoted to their work and the protection of their homeworld. As third-ranking officer, Ilvaris had felt his duty more acutely pressing on him ever since the General and his right-hand man, Ulazas, had departed to personally oversee the defences. Now that he was en route to join the General himself, he had made it his goal to leave things on the ground in Alenas in excellent condition, and so far his vigilance had paid off.
At the same time, however, Ilvaris felt a bit of trepidation: this would be his fifth time in orbit, as most of the defences were unmanned and only the occasion of his last promotion some five years earlier had warranted a trip to take a look at the runnings of the system. He still felt a thrill of excitement every time the engines of the shuttle kicked in and hurled him skyward off of the electromagnetic catapult at the base outside the capital, both at the thought of travelling to space and the possibility that he might not come back. The latter was amplified far more now, as no longer was this an inspection but rather a flight into the very teeth of the enemy that now besieged their planet.
That base had been lucky enough not to suffer a direct hit, Ilvaris knew, but the shockwaves off of the impacts had nonetheless killed most of its population as the structures fell in the death throes of the city. The radiation had meant that those who survived had to flee as rapidly as they could to avoid falling ill from the slew of exotic particles. The Lieutenant-General had been among those killed in the blast, even as his superior and Ilvaris fought to avert the calamity that had just befallen those they were sworn to protect. The professor could still remember the taste of the tears that rolled freely down his cheeks as he had fled in a shuttle, trailing fire as he left the ruin of the orbital platforms behind in his descent to the surface. In the end, despite every bit of intention to the contrary, he too had broken under the fire and been helpless to save the city.
They’d even had the gall to offer him the command of the reconstituted Círpryad two years later, despite suspecting him for various acts of terrorism. Perhaps the Ruscalid occupation thought it would bring him under their wing or make him easier to keep tabs on. Instead, he’d disappeared entirely from public life, working as an analyst at a financial firm for around ten years before adopting his current position at the university. Few staff ad fewer students knew who he had once been, and it was better that way. Despite his own admonishments to live within the truth, there were days Lyanel Merynas could not bear to face it.
A soft knock on the door of the lecture hall echoed a bit hollowly, and the professor raised his eyebrows. “Enter,” he called, hoping to convey that the intrusion was not exactly what he desired while maintaining a professional tone. The dark wood creaked a bit as it opened, admitting someone Lyanel didn’t recognise. Not a student; the man was far too old, and furthermore he wore a military uniform, though the professor could not make out his rank. All of a sudden, it hit him: today was also the date upon which he had scheduled a reunion of those who fought in the war under the auspices of Círpryad. Although he had only invited a handful of his friends and colleagues from that time, as his wife and daughter advised him to to raise too large a profile, this visitor was younger than any of them.
And yet, as he peered more closely in the dimmed lights of the room, there was something about the face that he did remember, though it had admittedly been a half-century.
“Do I know you?” Ilvaris asked the soldier softly.
The man nodded, his eyes fixed on Ilvavis. “Major Joshua Alaistir Avarnikks, Kaskanid Army, at your service.” He touched the brim of the worn blue officer’s cap with his left hand, bending slightly at the waist in respect to his former superior.
The professor pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, squinting at the Círpryad man in the doorway. “Well, don’t just sit there where I can’t see you, Major Avarnikks. Come in.” He beckoned, tapping a few buttons on his desk to brighten the room.
Avarnikks straightened, walked towards where the professor sat, and took a seat. As he sat, he removed the hat from his head, revealing a closely-cropped head of hair.
“Well, you’ve heard about our reunion I believe.” Ilvaris smiled slightly, corners of his mouth gently upturned. “And you must forgive an aging soul; I know we have met before, but I cannot for the life of me remember the circumstances.”
“I’m an armour officer; you were my superior for a few days before the end of the war.”
Ilvaris recalled a bit more now; Avarnikks had been one of the thirty or so group commanders and technicians that manned Círpryad headquarters during those last, futile blows against the besieging forces, up until hours before Alenas fell. “Yes, I remember you now. One of those who I sent to the alternate command across the city as a precaution against infiltration. I apologise for not recognising you more readily, Avarnikks.”
“I never was able to get out of the army, even after the change in government. It’s my life, and I couldn’t just leave it on a whim. I’m actually doing more civilian work than military work now, but I can still direct an armoured cavalry division like I did fifty years ago.
“They haven’t promoted you? I find that surprising.”
“The ones of us who are still around still harbour too much resentment to be given anything resembling real authority.”
“Hah.” The professor managed a wry chuckle. “If it were me, I’d fire you outright. At least you’d be shown some courtesy, but most of the folks in charge these days don’t have the dignity to say that to your face, eh? ‘I apologise for not being able to promote you just because we happened to kill your friends.’”
Avarnikks nodded slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting marginally before returning to its previous position. He was not one to allow his emotions to be readily apparent. “I assume we are expecting others to make an appearance sometime soon?”
“Not here we aren’t. Come; I’ve reserved the main ballroom of the school for us and I told them to have food. It also happens to be a bit less sombre in there.”
Avarnikks stood, his back ramrod-straight as he had been trained to keep it forty-seven long years ago. He tucked his officer’s cap under his arm again as he waited for his former commander to rise and lead the way out of the room.
“You mind if I drop a few things by my office on the way there? It’s but a short jaunt out of the way.” Ilvaris himself slid the armchair back and gathered his tablet and gloves from the table, sliding them onto his scarred hands as he prepared to exit.
“By all means,” replied the major. “I have reserved the remainder of the day for this meeting, if it should require that amount of time.”
“In all honesty, if you don’t feel like staying until the top of the night, it means I have done a less-than-wonderful job as host. Come, Major, let us walk.”
Opening the main doors of the building and crossing the central plaza, the professor angled for a thin, grey stone edifice not quite opposite the academic building they’d just left. A few errant snowflakes nestled in his brown hair as they proceeded, the soft crunch of fallen flakes underfoot the only sound in the otherwise deserted quad. Drawing a card from his sleeve, he tapped it gently against a reader cleverly concealed in a joint, ducking through the entrance with his materials. Ilvaris returned a moment later, neck wrapped in a soft grey scarf that nearly matched the visual texture of the stones, though a great deal softer. He nodded to Avarnikks and began to traipse back across the snowy square, boots leaving soft impressions in the inch or so of snow that lay on the ground. The major followed, his standard-issue yet quite comfortable boots crunching lightly in the wake of the professor. He placed his head atop his head as the snow began to fall heavier, hunching his shoulders against the biting cold.
In time, the pair approached a building with tall, paned glass windows and a good deal of light emanating from within, casting their shadows in relief upon the white blanket behind them. The snowfall had thickened as they progressed, and although not five minutes had passed, it was clear that it had no intentions of abating. A few other guests at the doors nodded to Ilvaris as he entered, and a pair of them even saluted, though he only shook his head and smiled, pausing and wiping the crusted snow from his boots before entering the ballroom proper.
Ilvaris was mildly shocked; significantly more people than he had been counting on had arrived, and they already stood in small clusters around the tables laden with sweets and a variety of fruits. Although he didn’t relish addressing them all at once, he recognised that it was unavoidable and would have to be done sooner or later. In the meantime, he picked up a few of the fruits and ate them; he’d given three lectures already that day and felt like prolonging the time before the next a bit further. Waving to a couple of his closer friends who he hadn’t seen in years, he beckoned them over towards where he stood. Although he didn’t know many people there, he’d explicitly instructed the people he’d invited to only bring along others who had served with or been connected to Círpryad; they could meet one another in the meantime.
He turned and raised an eyebrow at Major Avarnikks. “Go on, socialise,” he laughed. “This is supposed to be a celebration of the fact that we’re still alive. Drink to that if nothing else.”
Avarnikks complied.