FIVE MONTHS AGO
Kochin awoke to a clamor in the streets. He blinked, rubbed sleep out of his eyes, and dragged himself out of bed. Unemployment had been destroying his habits—and his savings. Sweeping hair out of his eyes, he crossed to the shophouse window and cracked the shutters. Below, a sluggish crowd had gathered, though Kochin couldn’t tell what for—until he saw the papers in their hands. Something lurched in his throat and he remembered Commissioner Nem’s words: War is coming.
Throwing on a dress shirt and slacks, he stumbled out of the shophouse and found himself in the thick of the crowd. He pushed through, trying to find a newspaper automaton and catching snippets of conversation along the way:
“This’ll be war, I tell you.”
“Theuman lives for the Yarongese? Disgraceful.”
“Finally, the Commission will make a real decision.”
“You voted him in. If this means war, that’s on you.”
War. Commissioner Nem had mentioned it. All of Theumas had been teasing it for months and months and months—and maybe that’s why it felt so impossible now, despite Commissioner Nem’s election.
Kochin cleared the crowd and reached the newspaper automaton, slotted a chem coin, and wrestled an issue from its arms. There, on the front page, was the headline.
SIMBAL CAPITULATES TO DALTAN RULE—WAR COMES TO THEUMAS
It was cloudless the day of the Commission’s address, set on the capitol steps. This year’s summer was a sadist, and the crowd outside the capitol was a sea of parasols and hats. Kochin was in the far back of the square, such that the five commissioners were just dots at the top of the stairs. Commissioner Nem’s figure was the easiest to discern—broad shoulders, wide stance, a man who held presence among the thin and tall frames of the others.
It was Commissioner Nem who finally stepped up to the podium to speak—a good choice, Kochin figured. He was recently elected, still popular, Theumas’s latest figurehead of change. Loudspeakers wired throughout the square carried his voice even to where Kochin stood.
“Good morning, my fellow Theumans,” he began. “I understand what most of you have come to learn today, so I won’t tax your patience any further. Our closest neighbor, Simbal, has fallen. Daltan’s land grab has surrounded Theumas on all sides. Last week, on the sixth day of the Sixth Month, we commissioners five and our Parliament came to the decision to declare war against the growing crisis of Daltanny.”
Shock rippled through the onlookers, but this was inevitable, wasn’t it? Kochin had already known their decision from a phone call with Commissioner Nem. Still, it staggered him all the same. Daltanny had all but declared war on Theumas by claiming the last of its neighbors, but Commissioner Nem’s statement made it real. It created an official enemy out of Daltanny. It meant deployment to foreign lands, the first time the Theuman military had seen battle in decades.
After the square quieted, Commissioner Nem continued. “I understand that war may feel like a foreign and regressive arena. For so long, we’ve been comfortable to stay within our twelve boroughs. It is not our intent to go to war for war’s sake. Rather, it is our intent to fight against a corrupting power who has, since its inception, gone uncontested. And it’s not about what we have to gain by fighting; rather, it is about what we have to lose if we don’t act now. The tragic fates of Yarong and Simbal serve as cautionary tales against the folly of hesitation.”
They were grand words, but Kochin wondered if personal interest hid behind them. It was no secret where the commissioner had earned his wealth.
Commissioner Nem went on: “Daltanny defies all the values we hold dear. Where we build, they destroy. Where we cultivate, they conquer. Where we innovate, they injure. This is a tyrant that has stifled the freedoms of many nations before. This is an empire that claims to be our neighbor, yet has prepared weapons against us on the island of Yarong. And they are a deepening darkness that will continue to spread without the presence of light. They intend to wave the Daltan flag over the entire landmass. Let’s not make it easy for them.
“It is only because we, as Theumans, have so much to be proud of that we have so much to lose. We take pride in our commitment to innovation. We take pride in all that we’ve fostered and advanced. As our next chapter, let us take pride in our contribution toward the greater fight for peace and freedom.”
Those final words speared Kochin through the chest—their familiarity, spoken to him by a girl on her deathbed. Peace, freedom, and …
And the word she hadn’t managed to get out. Kochin exhaled a shaky breath, turning away from the rest of the address. He’d gleaned all he’d wanted to know, anyway—had found the answer to the only question that mattered to him.
Theumas was at war, and Yarong was finally within reach.
“Wouldn’t that be funny? I give you my life in some grand gesture—only for you to squander it on a battlefield a few months later?”
Nhika was haunting him again, trailing behind him as he buttoned up his vest and donned his suit jacket.
“That won’t happen,” Kochin murmured. Yet, it was exactly the kind of sadistic ploy the Mother would conjure, punishment for him taking the spot of a real heartsooth. But what other choice did he have?
“Emaciated scholar like you?” Nhika said. “You’re not exactly a soldier. I give you three weeks, max.”
“You’re so very inspiring.”
“I could go on.”
“It won’t be necessary.”
“What I’m trying to say is that it’s a stupid decision, in case that wasn’t clear.”
“It certainly wasn’t subtext.” Nhika was referring to his decision to enlist. For the past couple weeks, he’d waited for the draft—but his selection window had come and gone, and he never received the call to service in the mail. In any other situation, he would’ve been relieved to escape the draft, but this war … it was a charter to Yarong. It would be so easy to enlist, just a short walk down to the registration offices, and he’d claim a ticket.
“Oh, one other thing,” Nhika continued. “No guarantee you’d even be sent to Yarong.”
“Fifty-fifty chance,” Kochin said. On the commissioner’s orders, there were only two stations where he might be deployed: the Theuman-Daltan border in the Gaikhen Mountains, or Yarong. “I’ve gambled on worse odds.”
She raised a leery brow. “Then you’re a terrible gambler.”
Kochin dismissed her with a wave—because that wasn’t the real Nhika. That was some facsimile he’d conjured, his doubt given voice. The real Nhika might’ve even egged him on; wasn’t that how she’d convinced him to betray Santo? He’d hauled himself to safety by her noose.
Before he could leave, she beat him to the door, one arm across the exit as though that could stop him. “Kochin, this is bigger than your quest. This is war.”
“And I’ve got my gift.”
“Heartsoothing can’t heal everything. I’ll remind you how Yarong fell to Daltanny in the first place.”
She was right. He snaked a hand up his chest—right shoulder, where Santo had shot him. Admittedly, most things on the battlefield could kill a heartsooth: land mines, mortars, bullets. Out there, under gunfire, he’d die just as quickly as any other Theuman, especially without a bird in his palm.
“Well then,” he said, his smile grim, “I suppose I’ll see you one way or the other.”
When he stepped through the door, Nhika was gone—and with her, the last trailing doubt in his mind.
Kochin took himself to the nearest registration office in the Pig Borough. On his way, he witnessed a Theumas he’d never seen before—one shaped by fear, anger, confusion. A few shophouses down, a storekeeper swept the broken glass of a shattered window into a bin, muttering something about looters and the end of times. Not five steps more and there was a storefront vandalized by whitewash paint, bold letters that said DEATH TO DALTANNY. Just below it, in red: NOT MY WAR.
The former sentiment must’ve been the prevalent one in Theumas—otherwise, Commissioner Nem never would’ve been voted in. Or, perhaps, no one had expected him to act so quickly, or everyone saw him as the milder of two poisons. Still, Kochin had never lived in a Theumas so at odds with itself.
His mother had told him about a Theumas like that, though—the one she’d immigrated to. She knew war better than most Theumans did, a disease brought to Yarong by Daltan soldiers. She was just a child then, but she still remembered the bombs, the gunfire, the gases. Bullets that tore through skulls faster than a heartsooth could mend them and masked soldiers wrapped in gloves and uniforms, no inch of their skin showing despite the beating humidity of the island. Never mind that heartsooths were few in every village; everyone was treated as a possible heartsooth, gunned down from afar if they could not be captured.
His mother had escaped by boat, adrift on an endless sea until Theuman fishing vessels chanced by them on neutral waters. There, lifted onto the deck by a net meant to trawl mackerel, she had been given new life.
She’d said the city she’d entered couldn’t agree with itself—were they the ones offering Yarongese immigrants salvation, or were they the ones who fashioned gloves against heartsooths and adopted that same Daltan insult, bloodcarver? Were they the ones exemplifying virtues of peace and progress, or were they the ones turning a blind eye as Yarong pleaded to its mainland neighbors for aid? Sometimes, Kochin still wasn’t sure.
A short trolley ride later, and he’d reached the registration offices. There, he was met by a troubling line—no, not a line, upon further inspection. A protest, signs held high that read: PEACE IS PROGRESS and NOT OUR LIVES FOR LIVER EATERS.
Kochin let out a sigh, unimpressed—another mixed bag of sentiments. Theumas never could quite figure out if they were open-minded or if they still clung to outdated ideals.
Ignoring the protesters, he found the true line to the registration office snaking around the block and joined it behind a couple of women nearing their thirties. They shared quiet chatter, just audible beneath the chant of protestors.
“We really thought we could age out of the draft, didn’t we?” one of them said with a sigh.
“You almost did,” joked her neighbor.
“Just how old do you think I am?” Her indignation was only met by laughter.
“Honestly, I don’t see why we can’t send automatons instead. We’ve got automatons that clean for us, automatons that play music, automatons that sell papers. Surely, it’s not that hard to make an automaton that can go to war for us.”
“Maybe Congmi Industries will. Goodness knows Congmi Quan Andao isn’t getting drafted. Perhaps he can help us out with all that time on his hands.”
They shared a hearty chuckle at that, and the line advanced forward.
Congmi. That was a name he hadn’t heard in a while—not since Nhika’s death. Mimi and Andao would be exempt, for sure, one on premises of age and the other for industry. Trin might have to scrounge up a different excuse. One night, a long time ago, he had promised them he would never set foot in Central again. But that was before Nhika had died. Honor was not a concept that a grief-stricken heart remembered. And if they were ever truly her friends, they would understand why he had returned.
At last, the line crawled in through the propped-open doors of the office, and he reached the recruiter, who only looked up at him in expectation.
“Draft registration card?” he drawled.
Kochin slid his card across the desk and the recruiter flipped through some papers before giving Kochin a beleaguered look. “Your number wasn’t called.”
Kochin cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m here to volunteer for service.”
The recruiter blinked lazily, as though the statement was taking a moment to root. When it did, he lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “For what station?”
Kochin hadn’t prepared for this question, but the answer came easily. “Combat medic, sir.”
With a grunt, the recruiter stamped his registration card and sent him off to the adjacent station for a physical. The rest went routinely—his physique checked, his vision tested, his height measured.
Then, at last, they shuttled him to a room in the back with a group of other volunteers, right hands raised as they recited the Theuman enlistment oath:
“I, Ven Kochin, pledge to hold highest the safety of my city-state and its denizens. I swear to obey the orders of my Commission and superior officers. And I vow to fight in defense of Theumas for all its people, against all its enemies. This, I place before all else.”
Even as he repeated it, he knew it was a lie. He owed nothing to this city—the one that had trapped him, the one that had killed her. When he swept up to Yarongese shores on tides of blood, it would not be Theumas he fought for.
But the oath was the last thing he needed to be sworn in. The recruitment officer pinned a badge to his lapel— I VOLUNTEERED!—and slapped some papers into his hands, promising instructions for training camp by mail soon.
Just like that, Kochin was a soldier.