The Treason of War. (( chapter one: a pulse. ))

The Treason of War. (( chapter one: a pulse. ))

AUGUST 30, 2068 - 13:07
SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

The day seemed in no mood to cooperate with what Aleta considered the ‘requirements’ of a proper funeral. Hundreds of people were in attendance, as was the expected turnout for Corps Commander Fallon Stone’s death; the sea of black crowded the cemetery despite the blinding sunlight and the unnatural heat wave that had swept over the Graille Empire since the beginning of the summer. Amidst the dresses and formal attire stood lines upon steady lines of soldiers in smart raven-hued uniforms, a fiery-golden winged crest emblazoned adamantly on the light cotton. Aleta stood silently in place with the rest of the Corps but her eyes darted about those around her, evidently searching for someone while attemping to hold back tears.

“… Do not stand on my grave and weep; I am not there. I do not sleep… ”

But he’d said he’d be here.

“… Do not stand at my grave and cry -- I am not there. I did not die.”

She looked past someone’s head to focus on the speaker, but the young woman was looking past him, into the distance. Who or what she saw, she couldn’t name. Perhaps she didn’t want to.

Logan, you said you’d be here. I can’t do this without you.

It was a short, ceremonial service, more for the sake of saying that there was a funeral and less for the actualy mourning period. Everyone present knew that the sadness would come later, when they were alone in their houses and apartments and offices and thought that no one was looking. People began to leave almost immediately after the formalities, but the soldiers waited until the last shoe and sandal had cleared the cemetery before saluting and dispersing back to their separate duties throughout the City.

Aleta remained on the sidewalk, analyzing the elaborate headstone. Her charcoal hair, tied back in a low ponytail, couldn’t keep a few weak strands in line, and they blew about her pale face shamelessly and into her slate grey eyes. Her feet turned on their heels in a smooth, practiced motion and she strode back towards the grave.

There were no roses on the grass, no farewell tokens -- only a white flag with a bronze cup, its hidden contents aflame and wings spreading outward from its sides like crimson hands extending upward, draped over the stone. The girl reached for it and smoothed out a wrinkle in the cloth, smiling. Her boots automatically snapped together as she stood at attention; her chest rose and fell; her lungs heaved; it was as if her body were strangling her.

“It was an honor serving under you, sir,” Aleta murmured. A swift salute followed, stiff and uneasy. She choked on her words.

“I… I’ll never forget you, Uncle Fallon.”

And without any further hesitation, she left the cemetery and didn’t look back.



SEPTEMBER 22, 2074 - 06:34
PRESENT DAY

Aleta loved the City, without a doubt. It was rare that she’d even been beyond its walls; the pulse of the streets and the thrum of the people became part of her bloodstream and she welcomed the sensation with the grace of one who had been doing so for the whole of her life. The clean air, the sparkling glass faces of the towering buildings in the rising sun, the first hints of fall that stung at her slowly reddening cheeks -- it all led to a well of emotion that told her that she was in the right place. The white noise of each person’s unhurried steps and murmurs hushed conversation and the hum of car engines and the world’s calm breathing fell to a bare minimum of near-silence around her.

This was the peace that the Phoenix-Graille Corps brought to New Terra. Or hoped to bring, at any rate.

The young woman tipped her head back, straightening the collar of her uniform without much thought. A ruby-bejeweled feather was pinned smartly to her lapel, just above her officer badges; both were hidden slightly behind her dark hair, which she was happy to have had the chance to straighten that morning. High-laced combat boots hit the concrete of the sidewalk at a steady, even pace in time with the beat of the world around her.

Aleta wasn’t abashed to say that she was a creature of habit: her walk towards the heart of the City to the Corps Headquarters was evident proof of it. A massive building that soared higher than any of its surrounding skyscrapers, the Phoenix-Graille Corps Headquarters stood exactly sixty-one floors in height, and extended more than ten floors below ground. Stone, steel, and glass rose adamantly from the street on up; the crystalline windows reflected the image of the morning like a mirrored obelisk that showed what New Terra had become. Every day, Aleta noticed, that image changed.

The Headquarters’ high-walled Main Gate seemed small and inconspicuous in comparison to its larger counterpart. The woman flashed her ID wrist plate pass the infrared scanner without even pausing and the guards at the door allowed her entrance without protest. Her gait was long and strident as she swept through and beyond the front gardens filled with wilted summer flowers hating each breath of autumn air that nipped their leaves and well-worn granite statues of various heroes amongst the ranks of the Corps. Whenever she passed Aleta could help but feel so insignificant beside them, especially the tallest one that stood, menacing, in the center of the path before her.

“Uncle Fallon.”

The young woman stopped in front of it and her body stood at attention, left hand behind her at the base of her spine and right hand at the side of her brow in a proudly practiced salute. It wasn’t as if she loved the statue, or liked anything in particular about it, but the impression it left on her was one of an undying urgency -- a reminder to her of why she was there, and why she woke up each morning, and what her purpose was. It was a passionate dignity that burned, smoldered in her chest, and refused to let go.

Some people turned to God. Aleta turned to here.

“Good morning, sir! It is an honor to stand in your shadow, sir!”

The statue didn’t answer, the same as every morning, but Aleta took the silence to be a sign of fair skies ahead and continued on. Any day when she didn’t wake to gunshots was a good day.

Calloused hands pushed open the heavily reinforced doors with little effort; their carefully balanced hinges allowed them to swing apart easily, and the young woman smiled with grim satisfaction when she heard them slam against the walls to either side of her. The bright light from the outside illuminated her form from behind, casting a single elongated shadow on the floor of the hallway as she walked forward. A rush of air blew her hair and uniform just before the threshold completely shut, then died. Silence, save for her own breathing. Then:

“Commander on deck!”

The thunderous sound of dozens of boots meeting rang, beautiful in its chorus. As her eyes slowly began to adjust to the different light in the antechamber Aleta could make out two rows of soldiers on either side of her, creating a path through the room down which she walked. Two in particular stood out, phoenix-feather pins fastened to their collars: the tall man on her right had dirty blonde hair that didn’t quite agree with the neatness of his clothing and the faintest, yet unmistakable trace of a smile on his lips; the other was a grave-looking woman about the same age as her, with wide shoulders and voluminous scarlet hair tied tightly in a bun at the nape of her neck.

“Salute!” the red-haired woman commanded.

The order was instantly obeyed. Aleta proceeded down the ranks, back straight and head held level, eyeing each soldier with calculated precision. She sought meticulously for a laxness in posture of a break in consistency -- to her delight, there were none. Her feet came together at a sudden stop in the center of the path. “Good morning, men!”

“Good morning, ma’am!”

“At ease.” Aleta resisted letting a smile cross her face. “Lieutenant Zalene! How is the cow?”

An even younger woman, perhaps just touching twenty, with bouncy blonde hair in tight waves and glistening blue eyes dropped her salute and stepped forward. “Ma’am! She walks, she talks, she tastes like chalk! The liquid from the female of the bovine species is highly prolific to the -nth degree, ma’am!”

Heh… straight from the reef book. This year’s graduates are exceeding expectations.

“Good to hear, soldier. Group Commanders Zalene and Andersen, report to my office in ten minutes.” The young corps commander stepped into the steel-plated elevator with a brisk about-face. “Carry on, men!”



SEPTEMBER 23, 2074 - 06:55

Aleta leaned back in her rolling chair, files on the latest movements of the Resistance resting on her lap. Her feet were propped up in a laid-back manner on the deeply varnished maple wood dest -- a piece that would cost an average person an arm and a leg nowadays, with the Northern Forests being the closest source of wood for several miles around.

She loved her office more than her actual apartment: the wall behind her consisted of crystalline floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass, leaving her free to overlook the buildings and the people below. She could make out the sun just above the horizon that she was sure expanded further than her panoramic windows allowed her to see; the other walls served as stained wooden shelves for a whole manner of other objects besides the large collection of photo albums and war strategy books that were once her uncle’s, covering almost two-thirds of the available space. Things were almost instinctively neat, orderly, and flat surfaces sparkled in the sun streaming through the glass. Aleta absentmindedly hummed along to the voice and guitar of an Old Terra country artist, bobbing her head in time to the rise and fall of the notes in the warm air.

A knock on the door inteterrupted her thoughts. “Come in,” she replied, turning down the music. Her two City-branch group commanders entered silently.

“Colonel Andersen reporting, ma’am.” Fyre Andersen held her head high with her usual relaxed confidence, composed as ever. In one hand she held more folders that Aleta assumed were for her and also the topic of discussion for the meeting. Her companion, however, came empty-handed, his hair mussed and stubble growing on his scarred skin. He smiled easily.

“’Morning, Aleta.”

Aleta sighed, put her feet down, and sat upright in her chair. “Good morning, you two.” She reached out to accept the files in Fyre’s hand. “So… what do you have for me today, Andersen?”

The woman cleared her throat. “Last night, the Resistance moved from their position on the western edge of the Chain dangerously close to the Corps Northern Forests Outpost. It seems that their skirmishes have become more and more frequent… we received a vague distress signal, garbled because of the thunderstorm passing over the Chain, at about 0600 today. They’re requesting immediate reinforcements.”

The corps commander frowned. “I see. Any further information?”

Fyre set out another set of paper-clipped files before her, along with what looked like candid close-up of a man with a sharply angled face and greying hair pulled back into a low ponytail. “Resistance leader Chess is once again on the move. He was last seen no more than two miles out from the Northern Forests Outpost.” She revealed a map below the photo. “I personally find the increased attacks on both the Northern Forests and Mountain Outposts disturbing. They’re getting too bold to merely be brushed off as usual. CMO is our closest main base to Rowan, and if High Queen Tien requires our aid… ”

“… we have to give it to her. I know.” Aleta nodded to Logan. “Do you have anything to add, Major General?”

Logan, who had been slouching, straightened a bit. “I spoke with Colonel Camden, and he says that -- other than Chess’ constant presence -- there has been nothing extremely abnormal as of late around the Mountain Outpost. However, Sergeant Falcone dropped a report on my desk this morning regarding the sighting of an albino figure who has supposedly been seen around Headquarters prior to Commander Fallon Stone’s death.”

“Keep the file. I’ll take a look at it myself. As for CNFO…” Aleta thought for a moment, eyes turning towards the frosted glass map hanging from the ceiling in front of the one empty wall close to her desk. Her fingers sought out a red marker and drew out a concise plan with swift, bold strokes. “… Send Platoon Six up Rehand Pass and hit them here.” She made a red ‘x’ on the left side of the last-known Resistance encampment. “Platoons Two and Three can head straight to back up the Outpost. Alert Group Commander Camden ahead of time, Andersen.”

Fyre nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Zalene,” she added, pointing to the man with her marker. “You’ll be leading the expedition. Be ready to leave by sundown with the company. I want you at CNFO by morning, and I want a radio report every three hours, on the hour.”

“Understood, Ale -- ”

She shot him a glare. “Ma’am.”

“ -- ma’am,” Logan corrected, flinching back. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good, then. Dismissed.”

Aleta didn’t bother to wait for them to leave the room before she turned her chair to the windows once more. Behind her, the door closed with a quiet click. The young woman looked out on the City with a tired, passive eye; the morning crowd had thinned out since she was on the street earlier that day, and the sun had more leverage in the sky.

Logan’s voice startled her when he spoke, barely louder than the soft tune of the background music.

“… You should just leave it be, Aleta.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she muttered, without turning.

“I don’t think that the albino man had anything to do with your uncle’s death. If it did, the Council would have investigated it long ago.”


“And if the Council had granted Uncle Fallon’s petition to run background checks on the Corps members that they themselves appointed instead of claiming discrimination and vetoing it -- ”

“Aleta.”

“What?”

“It’s the past.”

He handed her the folder and rested his arm on the back of her chair, looking out past the glass -- past the buildings. There was a silence in the air and the music floated on, attempting to fill what seemed like miles of empty space between them with only inches of lyrical words. At best, neither of them needed to speak out loud at all; the silence spoke for them. “Aleta, look ahead for a bit. It’s your birthday tomorrow. Don’t overwork yourself. People worry, you know.”

“No. You worry. Everyone else seems to understand that i’m no longer a little girl.” Aleta sunk a little lower in her chair. “Now go away. Didn’t I give you the Northern Forests assignment? Besides. You know the rumors.”

Logan bent his head. “Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

“Well then. You’d best hop to it.”

He left. Aleta waited until his footsteps faded when he turned the corner before reaching around and tossing the folder into the waste basket.