“No going back in time and fix—”
“We correct it now with new legislation, and Kantian will bring a new perspective to your moral compass.” She pauses to take in several calming breaths. “You’re content to sit back and let the Throgen Empire slaughter the Mokarran while you build a fleet to protect us from the war—” The bubbles gurgle. “A war you know is unavoidable.”
“Kantian won’t adjust my compass. Not the way your perspectives do.” Maxtin patrols the room. “I’ve heard of a radical new treatment. It’s worked for many Osirians.”
“No! No more treatments. No. I’ve reached my end. I’d finish it myself, but I don’t have the strength to hold my sidearm and pull the trigger at the same time.”
Maxtin’s red eyes dim.
“Don’t look so despondent. There is no sin in ending pain when it is real. Did I ever tell you of my childhood—my time on Chapek Colony?”
“No…” Maxtin placates her—something well practiced.
“It was a dome colony. The planet’s atmosphere was toxic. Something in the atmosphere could be crystallized and sold as cheap power cell insulation.”
“We use a synthetic now.” Maxtin calculates when the introduction of synthetic power cell insulation happened. He figures it was around the time of his birth.
Easter continues, “The dome sprung a leak. Toxic air flooded in. The colony had shelters for this exact emergency. Room enough for everyone with some to spare.”
Easter slaps a button on her chair. A wall panel slides open. Her hand moves past the joystick accelerator. She grabs the wheel to propel herself outside.
Maxtin matches her slow pace into the botanical garden. A peaceful breeze blows through the exotic flora.
“I built this garden as a memorial to those who died during the Battle of the Twin Suns.” Her eyes shoot a dagger-piercing stare at Maxtin. “I don’t want it renamed Easter Memorial Garden or some abomination to my memory.” She takes quick breaths to keep her momentum going. “Thousands perished, needing to be remembered over me. I’ve already arranged for a memorial wall and a flame to respect those whose names have been lost.” She stops propelling her chair before a wall of fluted bell-shaped flowers growing from vines that dangle in the water. “The rescue ships were delayed.”
Maxtin refused to comment on her shift in conversation.
“They executed the elderly first—unless they were essential to maintaining the shelters. No rescue ships.” Easter reaches with boney fingers to pluck a flower. “Next, the nonessential personnel were gathered to draw lots.” It takes her great effort to break the stem. “Still no rescue ships.” She struggles to raise it to her nose.
Maxtin respects her too much to offer her assistance.
When Easter brings in air without pain she continues, “Those considered essential were redetermined. Still no rescue ships.”
Maxtin doesn’t need to ask what happened to those who were no longer considered essential personnel.
“Finally, when only the necessary adults were left, they turned toward their children.” Easter raises up in her chair ready to hurl the wrath of the heavens at him. “Maxtin, you’re not the rescue ship.” She slumps back down. “You can’t save everyone.”
“Your deathbed endorsement will ensure Kantian’s election after your passing.”
Easter plucks a petal from the flower. “I know it will, and you’re going to have to make some harder choices for the UCP if it’s going to survive. Kantian will force you.”
“So the rescue ships came?”
She drops the petal into a pond. “No.”
Maxtin glances at her, and for the first time he’s confused by her story. “But you’re here.”
“The rescue ships made contact, but they wouldn’t arrive before the remaining air was used up.”
A fish snatches the petal.
“The amount of air needed to survive was recalculated. The children were gathered and their grade cards pulled.” Easter plucks another petal. “Anyone above a certain grade score was spared—poor learners were executed.” The petal flutters from her fragile grasp and lands on the water. A small fish snatches it. A larger fish swallows the first fish.
THE SCRAPING OF a toenail on steel catches Amye’s ears. She draws her blaster as she spins around to find—Tibbar. Blood-stink emanates from the shrapnel-shredded armored skin of its left leg. Seven hundred pounds of muscle, teeth and claws designed to cleave flesh from the bone lumbers forward. Its green eyes glow as its clawed hands grip a crude dagger. It whips its tail to create an equilibrium allowing it to lunge.
Amye fires a wild shot—missing. As she dives out of the Tibbar’s grasp her jacket shreds under its claws. She trips over her own feet in her haste. Her blaster flies from her hand. It flips end over end until it’s out of reach. She stumbles forward on her toes, but no amount of twisting her torso prevents her fall.
The bottle tucked into her jacket shatters. Alcohol burns the fresh cuts in her skin. Glass permeates her flesh, adding more holes in the jacket Reynard presented her when she joined his crew.
Amye draws her dagger. The razor edge gleams as the perfectly balanced blade flashes through the air. The dagger drives itself into the eye socket of the creature. Its howls. This gives her a few precious seconds to move farther out of reach. Over the screeches, a lumbering thunder permeates the alley.
••••••
A MECAT STOMPS through the ruined section of the city. The freshly-painted sigil across the hood—an Osirian female, body bent into a V, falling out of her skimpy uniform—signifies that this mercenary belongs to Lance “the Bettys.” The Mecat carries a full complement of ordnance.
The patroller’s thermal scanners detect the life signs of two combatants, and then two more heat images light up on the edge of the screen. The merc in the Mecat operates a joystick controller that manipulates the plasma cannon. He has orders to shoot to kill anyone who disrupts the new peace established on Asym.
••••••
THE TIBBAR RAKES the dagger from its eye.
A
