Ninth City Burning (40 page)

I
n the morning, I returned to the Forum with Charles and Jax. There was a good-sized crowd, a strange sight after so many hours there with only Jax for company. Most present were Academy cadets, though I picked out legionary uniforms as well. A number of dark figures were making their way toward the Hall of the Principate, a gloomy stone structure occupying one full side of the Forum, and Charles directed us to join them. They led us to a large, vaulted room equipped with heavy, tiered seats, like a lecture hall at the Academy only far more imposing. At the bottom was a flat, round space, with twelve figures seated along a steep stone platform above.

“Those are the Princepts of the twelve cities,” Charles explained, “also known as the Consulate. They make all the major decisions regarding the war.”

I knew as much already; the layout and functions of government among the so-called Incorporated Peoples of Earth were also part of the Academy's curriculum. I even recognized Consul Seppora, the leader of the Consulate, elected from among its members to wield executive power and cast tie-breaking votes. From my vantage, she seemed very old and frail, her face thin and her hair so white as to be nearly translucent. She looked almost about to nod off until I realized she was actually watching the room through keen, hooded eyes. Azemon, Princept of Ninth City, sat beside her, and seeing him raised a question in my mind. In addition to being Consul, Seppora was Princept of Fourth City. Why weren't we meeting there?

When I posed him this question, Charles did not answer immediately. Instead, he directed me toward one of the auditorium's middle tiers, where three empty seats waited conveniently for us. Only when he was seated, with Jax and me on either side, did he say, “The reason the Consulate is
not meeting at Fourth City is that Fourth City was destroyed yesterday morning.”

The even tone in which Charles made this report surprised me. I had not been part of this place very long, but I knew there were only twelve cities like ours in the entire world. They differed from Ninth City in some of their particulars, but each was a vast center of population, home to millions of people. “Did anyone survive?” I asked.

This time, Charles did not respond at all, and I understood his silence to mean the worst had happened. I felt a pang of shock and pain at the thought of so many people gone in an instant, and I thought, dizzily, of how the same might have happened here, with only Jax and me to stand in the way of disaster. I suspect Jax was having similar thoughts; he had become very pale.

The room around us, noisy when we arrived, began to quiet. A man had appeared below the ledge where the Consulate sat, calling for order, though the real source of the room's newly subdued temperament was Consul Seppora herself, whose hooded gaze swept over the room, spreading silence as a knife does jam.

When she spoke, her words, magnified to fill the room, cut through any lingering whispers. “This assembly of the Consulate of Earth will now commence,” she said. Her voice had a hard, metallic edge to it, whether natural to her speech or an artifact of the magical means used to enlarge it I could not say.

Consul Seppora did not busy herself with preamble. She launched right into the matter at hand. “Recent events have convinced the members of this Consulate that the threat facing Earth is greater than we once imagined. Our purpose today will be to evaluate that threat and determine what actions are necessary by way of response. We will begin with reports from the twelve Principates and from the Front, after which we will hear recommendations before making our final decision. The first report will be from Imperator Feeroy of the Ninth Legion.”

Imperator Feeroy was another figure I recognized. He was the head of Ninth City's defense force, outranked only by the Dux of Ninth Legion and Princept Azemon himself. Feeroy was a narrow man with a squinting, aggressive posture that reminded me of a hen surveying the ground for some tasty morsel to strike at. His present demeanor lacked that hunched eagerness, however; instead, he seemed strained, a slick sheen of sweat
shining on his forehead and neck. I did not know why this should be. From the sound of things, Ninth Legion had acquitted itself admirably. Indeed, it was one of our own fighters that revealed the true nature of the Valentine attack: that it was no simple raid but the spearhead of a greater invasion. And yet Feeroy shied modestly from any credit, insisting that what mattered now was not the battle behind us but the danger ahead.

The reports that followed were not nearly so gracious, nor so encouraging. One by one, representatives of each Principate described how they had weathered the recent attack. First the Dux, as the head of each Legion is called, would set forth any military activity and losses, then the Praetor would describe the state of the city and settlements within the Principate's domain. I began to wonder why Feeroy had been the only one to speak from our Principate, when the Dux of Ninth City rose and began detailing our Legion's participation in the battle over the past two days. Feeroy, I realized, had been brought in only to narrate the turning point, the moment when the greater Valentine force first appeared.

Certain of these representatives were introduced with the word “provisional” appended to their title, and this, I learned, meant the title's former holder had been killed. It was the Dux Provisional of the Fourth Principate who brought news of the near annihilation of Fourth Legion, and the Praetor Provisional who told us of the destruction of Fourth City. Twelfth City had also fallen, and Sixth as well, and every Principate reported sweeping devastation among its settlements.

I could not help picturing Settlement 225—Granite Shore, as I knew it—and the people there, Mama and Baby and nearly all that remained of my coda. I listened with my heart in my mouth as Bennereg, Praetor of Ninth City, read the list of settlements lost from the Ninth Principate. When he passed over 225, I thought I would weep from relief, but, thankfully, I kept my eyes dry. By the time the last of the Principates had reported, the mood in the hall was heavy with defeat and despair. But the bad news had only just begun.

A woman seated among the lower seats stood and walked to face the Consulate. She was compact, sturdy, with short, spiky hair and clean, angular features. I could tell she was fontana, like me, by the gold pin at her neck, but that did not explain the reaction she drew from the assembly, the murmurs of concern I heard all around. I understood when she announced her name, “Fontana Malandeera of the Twenty-Second Legion.”
The Twenty-Second was an expeditionary Legion; she had come from the Front.

For nearly an hour, Fontana Malandeera told us the story of her last days at the Front. It began with victory, or the appearance of victory. After years of fruitless struggle, our forces succeeded in breaking the enemy lines, winning a series of decisive engagements all along the Front. The Legion pursued its advantage, chasing Romeo's scattered forces, beating our enemy back whenever he turned to fight. In a matter of days, we had advanced farther through the Lattice than in the past two decades combined. By the time we finally encountered a new line of entrenched resistance, we had seized no fewer than thirty Realms. Confident in our methods of war, and hopeful that Valentine power was finally eroding, we prepared to fortify our positions and consolidate our gains.

We expected a renewed offensive once the Valentine Host had a chance to regroup, and readied our forces to deflect a strong frontal assault. But what came was no simple counterattack. The Valentines struck from our rear as well, descending on Legions still vulnerable from our swift advance. Nor was this any mere incursion, simply a pack of token marauders snuck through our lines to cause disorder among our ranks. It was a full host, pouring after us through Realms we had only just taken from the Valentines, Realms we had scoured for any sign of our enemy and thought utterly secure. Somehow, Romeo had insinuated a vast army directly behind our lines. Everyone agreed this should have been impossible, yet clearly it was not, for here the Valentines were, breaking our Legions apart.

Surrounded, wedged into indefensible positions, cut off from any retreat, the Legion resorted to its most desperate option, the final fail-safe in case of utter defeat. They closed the Front. They shattered the Anchors used to hold open the portals between Realms, allowing the passages to collapse and effectively halt the enemy's advance. Those passages could be opened again, but not for some time, and until then the great Valentine Host would be chopped into disparate pieces, its strength divided. Only a small portion of Romeo's forces, those at the very rear of his attack, remained with a clear path to Earth, and what was left of the Legion vowed to delay them long enough to send warning of the Front's collapse.

Fontana Malandeera was the one chosen to bring this message, and
she raced toward Hestia with all the speed her magic allowed, knowing Romeo was following just as swiftly behind. But when she reached Dis, she found the enemy waiting to meet her. It was as she attempted to fight her way through—hopelessly, it seemed—with more Valentines swarming about her every moment, that the space below opened to a view of Earth, where she witnessed another battle in progress: our own Legions fighting beneath Lunar Veil.

All of this Fontana Malandeera recounted to us in the most matter-of-fact style, with no indication that it might well be the worst disaster ever to befall the human race. “What remains to say others have told better than I can,” she concluded.

The air in the auditorium had taken on a stale, suffocating feel. I had only been part of this Legion a short while, but news of its defeat struck me like a punch to the gut. I could only imagine how those around me, bred to fight this long war, must feel. I glanced at Jax; he sat perfectly still, jaw set, staring at some point in the distance.

“Fontana Malandeera brought with her messages from her commanders, which verify her testimony,” Consul Seppora said once Malandeera had taken her seat. Already, some in the assembly had begun to protest, shouting that Malandeera's tale could not possibly be true, but the Consul's clipped declaration silenced them. “We have every reason to believe the Front has dissolved and that our Legions there no longer represent a viable defense. We must proceed under the assumption that the Valentine Host will be able to move unchecked toward Hestia.

“By closing off the Front,” Seppora went on, “our Legions have delayed the Valentine advance, but only for a time. Based on the information brought to us by Fontana Malandeera regarding the composition of the Front, we estimate that the Valentine Host will reach Earth in force within seven years, our time. A smaller but still substantial portion could arrive in as few as thirty-one months. The remainder, that fraction not caught when the Front was closed, is already here, held back only by Lunar Veil, which will open again in twenty-eight days.” She paused, allowing us to absorb the meaning of her words. “We therefore have twenty-eight days to act. The Consulate will now open the floor to recommendation and discussion.”

That was hours ago. Since then, the debate has gone on and on. The
consensus seems to be that we would stand only a slim chance of defeating the enemy presently waiting beyond Lunar Veil. The Valentines will have time to muster a well-ordered attack, while our main advantage, the City Guns arrayed across our planet, has been crippled by the loss of three of our cities. Even if we are able to prevail in the coming battle, we would not survive the ones to follow. Earth is by all accounts a strong place to stand and fight, but only if there is someone to do the fighting, and it will take time to rebuild the Legion to a strength capable of resisting the Valentine Host. The most optimistic estimate I have heard for this task is twenty years. Others proclaim twenty-five, or thirty, or fifty. But all agree it will require many more than the seven years now left to us.

Somewhere amid the discussion, the endless review of figures and timetables, catalogues of our remaining defenses and the coming waves of Valentine fighters, the notion comes to me that a decision has been made, something everyone knows but no one is willing to voice. It hangs in the air like a ghost, floating silently down the aisles of arguing men and women.

Imperator Feeroy is the one to finally set it loose. He stands before the assembly and announces that we must leave Earth. We can escape through another of Hestia's gates before Lunar Veil reopens. If we close Saturnine Veil behind us, it will be some thirty years before it becomes passable again, and by then we can be gone without a trace, so lost among the Realms that the Valentines will never find us. When the time is right, we can settle again. We can find a new home, a new Earth. It is the only way to ensure humanity's survival, he says.

The protestations that follow are only for show. No one wants to advocate the surrender of Earth, but all are willing to be defeated in their determination to stay. I am reminded of the night my coda settled on Granite Shore, listening to them debate whether to go north and die of cold or head south and die at the hands of hostile tribesmen. To me, our discussion now feels just as hopeless. Though I find myself admiring Feeroy's courage in saying what no one else would, I feel certain that if we abandon Earth now, we will never be safe. But what can I say? No one will listen to me. What good is a feeling compared to the vicissitudes of war, to doom-filled forecasts, years of repairs and recruitment to reassemble our Legion, and the threat of an invincible enemy relentlessly pursuing us?