“No,” Lisse said, more abruptly than she had meant to. “I’ll handle it myself.”
“If you insist,” Kiriet said, looking even more tired. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then her face was replaced, for a flicker, with her emblem: a black candle crossed slantwise by an empty sheath.
“The
Lisse thought that she was all right, and then the reaction set in. She spent several irrecoverable breaths shaking, arms wrapped around herself, before she was able to concentrate on the tapestry data.
At one time, every war-kite displayed a calligraphy scroll in its command spindle. The words are, approximately:
Even by the mercenaries’ standards, it is not much of a poem. But the woman who wrote it was a soldier, not a poet.
The mercenaries no longer have a homeland. Even so, they keep certain traditions, and one of them is the Night of Vigils. Each mercenary honors the year’s dead by lighting a candle. They used to do this on the winter solstice of an ancient calendar. Now the Night of Vigils is on the anniversary of the day the first war-kites were launched; the day the mercenaries slaughtered their own people to feed the kites.
When he was done, they knew how to hunt. Few of the mercenaries forgave him, but it was too late by then.
The poem says:
It is worth noting that “have” is expressed by a particular construction for alienable possession: not only is the having subject to change, it is additionally under threat of being taken away.
Kiriet’s warning had been correct. An Imperial flight in perfect formation had advanced toward them, inhibiting their avenues of escape. They outnumbered her forty-eight to one. The numbers did not concern her, but the Imperium’s resources meant that if she dealt with this flight, there would be twenty more waiting for her, and the numbers would only grow worse. That they had not opened fire already meant they had some trickery in mind.
One of the flyers peeled away, describing an elegant curve and exposing its most vulnerable surface, painted with a rose.
“That one’s not armed,” Lisse said, puzzled.
The ghost’s expression was unreadable. “How very wise of them,” it said.
The forward tapestry flickered. “Accept the communication,” Lisse said.
The emblem that appeared was a trefoil flanked by two roses, one stem-up, one stem-down. Not for the first time, Lisse wondered why people from a culture that lavished attention on miniatures and sculptures were so intent on masking themselves in emblems.
“Commander Fai Guen, this is Envoy Nhai Bara.” A woman’s voice, deep and resonant, with an accent Lisse didn’t recognize.
Softly, she said to the ghost, “They were bound to catch up to us sooner or later.” Then, to the kite: “Communications to Envoy Nhai: I am Lisse of Rhaion. What words between us could possibly be worth exchanging? Your people are not known for mercy.”
“If you will not listen to me,” Nhai said, “perhaps you will listen to the envoy after me, or the one after that. We are patient and we are many. But I am not interested in discussing mercy: that’s something we have in common.”
“I’m listening,” Lisse said, despite the ghost’s chilly stiffness. All her life she had honed herself against the Imperium. It was unbearable to consider that she might have been mistaken. But she had to know what Nhai’s purpose was.
“Commander Lisse,” the envoy said, and it hurt like a stab to hear her name spoken by a voice other than the ghost’s, a voice that was not Rhaioni. Even if she knew, now, that the ghost was not Rhaioni, either. “I have a proposal for you. You have proven your military effectiveness—”
“—quite thoroughly. We are in need of a strong sword. What is your price for hire, Commander Lisse?”
“What is my—” She stared at the trefoil emblem, and then her face went ashen.
It is not true that the dead cannot be folded. Square becomes kite becomes swan; history becomes rumor becomes song. Even the act of remembrance creases the truth.
But the same can be said of the living.
DIGITAL RITES
by Jim Hawkins
Amber Holiday lies on her immaculate stomach and looks out from the swimming pool high on the Corfu cliffs at Bella Vista. She knows the cameraman she can see in her peripheral vision wasn’t taking snapshots of the spectacular views over the rugged coastline of Paleokastritsa. He isn’t interested in the roof of the Monestario, couldn’t care less about the silver-encrusted iconostasis inside, is unimpressed by the perfect blue and turquoise Ionian Sea lapping gently into the sea caves in the sandstone strata far below. All he is interested in is the moment when she unhooks her bikini top, slips into the water for a quick plunge to perk up her nipples, climbs out, and stands glistening by the side of the pool like a newborn Athena bathed in the golden light of the sun that is dropping ever faster towards the open sea to the west.
Paparazzi! She has lived her life surrounded by paparazzi the way a dead dog lives its death surrounded by blowflies. Maybe now she’d given him a good angle on her tits he’d crawl off to whatever pathetic stone he lived under and leave her alone. No chance.
Knowing it is futile, she pulls her mobile phone out of her bag and speed-dials Dave Marchant, the studio’s Media Relations boss.
“All I wanted was ten days of peace!” she shouts into the phone. “I’ve been here forty-eight hours and I’m up to my boobs in telephoto lenses!”
“Not me, Julie. Defo not me.”
“Lying shit. Get these pap scum off me! And don’t call me Julie.”
Marchant sighs and says, “Julie—I’ve told you before. Paparazzi come with the job. In fact, paparazzi are the
