But Prima had a tougher nature than anyone expected, including Prima. She didn’t corrupt, and she didn’t dilute easily. After one hundred days at the desk, her citizens demanded another thousand days, and by the end of the term she had mastered the office and its limitations. No serious candidate faced her in the following election. Prosperity followed, and every scandal was small. Understanding traders and the corona markets, she was able to deftly avoid even the odor of impropriety. The world concluded that the woman couldn’t be compromised, fouled or seriously tested. And that’s why the Corona District worshipped their small lady, most of the citizens nourishing some deep personal reason for these remarkable feelings.
Energy and focus were her strengths.
She was charming, and her memory was tenacious, and she never stopped surprising her staff as well as the public when it came to threading solutions through tangled problems and little disasters.
In reflective moments—a rare commodity for any Archon—Prima recalled her father sitting inside his tiny, paper-choked office. A good friend was near death, and she was about to take the Archon’s desk. Her logic felt sound, but emotion carried her words, and she spoke about her plans and half-born policies until the heavy warm voice interrupted her speech.
“You know, my dear,” said Father. “I always imagined you as the next trader sitting in my chair. But since that future isn’t great enough for you . . . ”
“This is a temporary job,” she insisted.
“Lie to someone else,” he said.
Hearing that, Prima’s first thought was that she needed to improve her skills weaving the truth.
“Let’s discuss the future,” Father continued. “Starting now, I want you to aim for twenty thousand days from now. That’s my only advice, daughter. Picture the historian sitting at her dusty little desk, a cup of tea at the elbow, and now watch her write her seminal account of your life. ‘Earn a hundred good acts for every bad.’ That cliché is not a bad way to judge any life, particularly your own.”
She was thinking that just then, the heavy knowing voice shamelessly tugging at her pink human heart.
And that’s when an aide behind her said, “The fletch is still waiting, madam.”
She said nothing.
“Madam Archon?”
Her aide was named Bealeen. He was young and had a duty, and he also had a hope that was nicely aligned with his duty. He was trying to coax one stubborn woman to a safer place, which would have the benefit of saving him too.
For emphasis, Bealeen repeated, “Madam.”
“Enough,” Prima said, lifting a finger, tapping the man on his lips. “If they attack again, I’ll flee. But not until then.”
They were sharing a remarkable room where only maintenance crews and new Archons were typically allowed. Tens of thousands of days had passed since important noise had occupied this space. But the command post was now full of talk and busy bodies. Every chair was claimed, and more people crowded beside the various reinforced windows. The sitting people called to one another when they weren’t focused on crackling, wire-born voices. News was being gathered and shared. Those on their feet knew to whisper when they spoke, keeping the noise to manageable rumble. For people without jobs, the windows were the main attractions, and everybody had to defend their portion of the glass, staring out at what had swiftly become emptiness: a panorama of sun-pierced air that made eyes blink and tear, the occasional blimp or fletch gliding between the smoky bits of wreckage still tumbling from the highest reaches.
Bealeen moved closer. “But madam. For all we know, Hanner’s high trunk is burning.”
A stout woman filled the nearest chair. She was wearing a drab grayish-green militia uniform, half a dozen unplugged call-lines stuck between her fingers and two headsets pressed against her ears.
The Archon touched a broad shoulder. “Any word from the scouts?”
“Anytime,” the woman said.
That same answer was offered ten recitations ago. Since the elevators rising to the Hanner’s roots were waiting for repairs, one small fletch had been dispatched to investigate the blast zone. On the Archon’s explicit orders, every other available aircraft was saving people, or at least patrolling at the ready for survivors. Of course that scout might have been destroyed by falling debris, or the damage to Hanner proved hard to measure, and even if the mission went well, the crew would need a secure line that was still intact, leading back down the trunk to her.
Once again, the Archon asked, “Which trees?”
The sitting woman was tough as anyone, her adult life spent in the District’s small army and then the reserves. But the voice cracked when she said, “Rail.”
Rail was her home. Her sister and two nephews missing. Watching that tree fall into the sun, everybody assumed Hanner and the Ivory Station were next. This was the nerve center to the District; every enemy wanted it destroyed. But the explosions and subsequent fires had fanned out in the opposite direction.
“Marduk and Yali,” she said. “Hartton and Cast and Shandlehome.”
Then the bombs had finished, but the morning’s weak rains had left the forest ceiling as dry as possible. A dozen smaller, younger trees were still burning, still collapsing, following a widening, endlessly brutal arc.
Contemplating fire, the people at the windows looked up. But roots and the remnants of the severed trunks continued to smolder, and smoke always loved to gather in the highest reaches, hiding everything.
What kind of weapon could inflict so much horror?
And which enemy would be stupid enough to use it?
The suspects were few, and everybody understood who they were—so few that spare fingers would be left on the counting hand. But nothing was certain, including who should be cursed.
Prima gave the woman a comforting pat on a shoulder.
The nagging aide had given up on Prima. Moving down the window, he offered his sage advice to the very worst person.
“She needs to be safe,” said Bealeen. “If you insist, she’ll take the fletch that’s fueled and ready.”
“No,” said the anguished man. “I’m waiting with her.”
“But the Happenstance is waiting,” the young man said. “Think about it. The two of you could fly to safe places, hunting for your son from there.”
“Kill that notion,” Merit said.
But the aide believed that he had the rank as well as the urgency to tell the old man, “You aren’t in a position to dictate.”
Too late, the Archon considered interceding.
But Merit turned to stare at this busy runt. The poor man looked ancient, that scar on his face deeper than ever, blood making his cheeks glow. It was hard to imagine how someone so plainly miserable could muster the energy to remain on his feet. Yet the big eyes were full of scorn and conviction, and a matching voice said, “One little ship can’t do anything, hunting all of this space. The survivors are everywhere, and we’re here. If Diamond and Haddi are alive, they know to come here. Here. This is where the world can reach us and we can talk to the world, and this the best awful choice that I have.”
Instinct told Prima to do nothing.
Devoid of good sense, Bealeen said, “I am sorry, sir. But you surely know that your family is most likely dead.”
Merit understood quite a lot. The awful words had no effect. How could he suffer more than he was two moments ago, before this babe came by to pester him?