Cycles of War: History, Politics, and Fate – Chapter 6 Excerpt – Saphira Don

  The Klynos aerodrome burned under the artificial midday light.

  There was no heat, the climate was regulated to the millimeter, yet everything seemed to sweat. The platforms, the metal, the newly issued uniforms. There was something in that light that did not illuminate; it revealed. As if the truth were trapped in the edges of things, waiting for someone to face it.

  Dossian Glass did not greet anyone. He didn’t need to. Some faces looked vaguely familiar: people with whom he had shared trenches, shelters, silences. Others didn’t. There were men and women with vacant eyes, prosthetic legs, involuntary tremors. One of them, someone named Urko if he remembered correctly, had already vomited twice before nine.

  But they were all there. Standing. Uniformed. In line.

  Like pieces on a board already played.

  The ceremony took place on runway five. All around, press drones floated with smooth movements, circling to capture perfect shots of the aligned soldiers and the improvised stage. There were flags. A platform. And a man at the center.

  Loran Vek.

  He dressed as a civilian but wore a ceremonial jacket of the Universal Government that left no room for doubt. He was impeccable. Hair carefully combed, smile calibrated with precision. He took the microphone with the ease of someone who knows he was born to speak and that people will listen, whether they want to or not.

  "Today we are not here to make promises. We are here to acknowledge," he said in a tempered voice, projecting every word as if it were not the first time he said it.

  The gathered crowd, composed mainly of officials, reserve soldiers, and a group of schoolchildren chosen for the photo, watched in silence.

  "These men and women standing before you have already served. Already bled. Already given what cannot be demanded. And yet, they are here again. Not because they were forced, but because they chose to protect us once more."

  Dossian watched Vek’s face as he spoke. There was no cynicism. Or at least, not the vulgar kind. He seemed pleased. Almost proud to be there. As if he believed every word. As if the spectacle were real even for him.

  "We know some question the deployment of veterans. Some believe this war should be fought only by new blood. I do not. I believe courage does not age. Duty does not retire."

  The applause was precise. Timed. Several came from strategically placed assistants.

  Dossian looked to his sides. A man on his left had a face full of badly welded scars. To his right, a woman trembled slightly, as if her body remembered something she no longer wanted. Many didn’t speak. Others could barely bear the weight of the new uniform.

  War had spat them out.

  And now it swallowed them again.

  "This will be a mission with history," Vek continued. "And you will be remembered as the shield of Klynos. As the line the enemy will not cross."

  Dossian lowered his gaze. Not out of respect. To keep his expression from saying anything.

  How many shields can a city raise before it is hollow?

  The speech ended with a symbolic bow toward the soldiers. The applause was sustained. The drones descended a few meters. Faces were captured. Heroism properly framed.

  Then a synthetic voice spoke from the speakers:

  "Begin formation. Boarding authorized. Platform seven."

  The lines began to move. Some with steady steps. Others dragging old wounds. Dossian walked among them without looking back.

  The soft roar of the already running ships vibrated underfoot. The hangar opened its upper gates with ceremonial slowness, letting in a blue light that simulated sky.

  And as the soldiers boarded, one by one, without words or shouts or promises, Dossian thought:

  There is no glory in what begins now. Only routine. Only duty. Only war.

  And he stepped forward.

  The restaurant was nearly empty. A discreet place, far from the Assembly, where shadows stretched across frosted glass tables and the background music softened any compromising conversation. Lin had chosen the place carefully, not out of paranoia but because certain discussions required a more private stage.

  Besides, he had to admit, he liked the place. It had a rustic charm, almost farmhouse-like: adobe walls, tiled roofs, the kind of space where he could almost hear chickens running outside, and for some reason, that relaxed him.

  Harold Verateu arrived late. He always arrived late. Not out of carelessness, but by habit: a reminder that time belonged to him, that he could not be rushed. Lin watched him enter with his relaxed stride, fluid gestures, that natural ease with which he always seemed in control even when he wasn’t.

  "If you wanted me to listen, you could have requested an audience like any delegate," Harold said as he sat down, not even looking at him.

  Lin smiled with the same calm with which he had been waiting.

  "You would have denied it. Like any diligent assistant."

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  Harold let out a short laugh and leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze slide across the table before focusing on him.

  "Since when do you use courtesy dinners to do politics?"

  "Since you became a wall instead of a door."

  Harold did not answer immediately. He took the glass the waiter placed before him and rotated the liquid with an absent gesture. It was the same gesture he used when he wanted to avoid a question.

  "If you came to talk about Bastion, save your diplomacy. You have nothing to offer me."

  Lin held his glass between his fingers but didn’t drink.

  "I’m not interested in offering you anything, Harold. I want to know what Lilian wants."

  Harold raised his eyebrows, his knuckles whitening around the stem of the glass. A small twitch in his eyelid betrayed a crack in his fa?ade.

  "And what if she doesn’t want anything?"

  Lin leaned forward slightly, holding his gaze.

  "Everyone wants something."

  Harold didn’t deny it. Instead, he sighed and brushed his hand along his jaw, a barely perceptible gesture of tiredness.

  "Lilian doesn’t negotiate with numbers, Lin. You can’t give her an equation that will convince her to accept a war crime."

  Lin rotated his glass, thoughtful. That was the problem with people like Solvyn. Many delegates only needed the numbers to align, the logic to be convenient, the interests to match. Not her. She needed to believe. A foolish trait.

  Harold studied him in silence before speaking again.

  "You were always good at convincing me of things, Lin. But I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m not the one you need to convince."

  "I know." Lin set the glass down and clasped his hands on the table. "But you are the one who can tell me how to get through to her. And I need your help."

  Harold sighed and looked toward the large glass wall facing the city. The lights of the administrative dome flickered with a static glow, unbothered by anything happening beneath them.

  "If you want to talk to Lilian, you’ll have to give her something worth more than what she’s about to lose."

  Lin didn’t respond immediately. He simply watched him, letting the weight of the conversation settle.

  Harold kept staring at his glass, twirling it slowly, as if the movement could align his thoughts. But Lin knew him well enough to sense that he had already made up his mind about something.

  "And what is she about to lose?" Lin asked, leaning forward.

  Harold exhaled softly, as if the answer were obvious.

  "Seriously? I thought they sent you well informed."

  Lin waited.

  Harold set the glass down with a faint clink and rubbed his face, as though chasing away a stubborn idea.

  "The Link Project."

  Lin remained impassive. Not because the answer surprised him, but because he expected something more.

  "I already knew that," he said calmly. "But Solvyn is not a martyr. She won’t fight for lost causes. What makes her think she can win this?"

  Harold let out a short laugh.

  "Because for the first time, she has something to fight with."

  Lin didn’t interrupt.

  "Look at the Assembly, Lin." Harold gestured vaguely, as if the building were right behind them. "The war is becoming unpopular. More systems want to negotiate instead of keeping the bloodshed going. The resistance to the Link Project is only the tip of the iceberg. If Solvyn holds firm, if she manages to block it, she’ll consolidate herself as the leader of the opposition faction. And if that happens..."

  "Santiago will have to negotiate with her."

  Harold nodded slowly.

  "And you want him to do that before she reaches that point."

  Lin tapped his fingers on the table. He didn’t need Harold to explain the political math. He saw it clearly: Solvyn wasn’t simply blocking Bastion because she considered it a war crime. She was using it as a platform. If she held long enough, public opinion could tilt in her favor. And with that, her position in the Assembly would become unmovable.

  She didn’t need to win. She only needed to endure.

  "So the question isn’t what she’s about to lose," Lin said quietly. "But how much she’s willing to risk to gain."

  Harold fell silent. His jaw tightened slightly.

  "Don’t underestimate her, Lin."

  "I’m not."

  Lin took his glass, rotated it once more, and finished the last sip. He placed it gently on the table and adjusted his coat.

  "So this is a lost cause? Nothing we can do?"

  Harold shrugged.

  "For now, you’re on the losing side."

  Lin nodded. That had been a waste of time.

  "You said everyone wants something." Harold looked directly at him. "What about you, Harold? What do you want?"

  Solvyn’s assistant blinked, his expression shut tight, unreadable. For a moment, it seemed he might answer. But he didn’t.

  Lin didn’t push him. He didn’t need to.

  He stood, placed enough credits to cover both drinks. Harold hated when he paid for him. Which was why Lin did it gladly.

  "See you at the Assembly."

  Harold didn’t stop him as he turned to leave. But Lin felt his eyes on his back until he crossed the doorway.

  The image of Robert Santiago materialized with surgical smoothness in the air, floating before Lin in perfect resolution. The holographic backdrop imitated a sober office, though Lin suspected that, as usual, Santiago wasn’t actually there. The First Delegate had many offices, but only one public face.

  "First Delegate Santiago," Lin greeted with a slight nod. "How is the Kingdom of Ygara treating you?"

  "Lin," Santiago answered, smiling with that studied naturalness that made him as magnetic as dangerous. "Surprisingly well, especially when they are not threatening to kill me."

  One of those Santiago jokes that were, in fact, pure truth.

  "Will we have their support for the war?" Lin asked.

  Santiago made an almost theatrical grimace of annoyance.

  "From what they tell me, they’re debating it, but I’m certain the answer is no. I even see it likely that they are helping the savages. Perhaps sending weapons to planets far from Tau Ceti IV. I imagine some presence in Yraguasteros."

  Lin frowned.

  "But that makes no sense, sir. What could be safer than alliance with the stronger power? We're in a better position than the separatists. We have every advantage."

  "Which implies that after we finish off the separatists, the kingdom could be next," Santiago said, raising a finger in his usual lecturing tone. "Everyone fears Goliath because he can destroy them. No one confronts him directly; everyone claims to be his best friend. But if they can hand David the sling to bring him down, they’ll do so gladly. And so will the next Goliath. And the next."

  "Then why doesn’t anyone ally with the Neo-Xylpharians? If anyone can turn the war, it’s them."

  "Because no one wants to stand next to the enemies of history, Lin. Everyone wants to believe they are the good one in the war, the helpless victim, the heroic defender."

  Santiago let his gaze drift, distant for a second. Lin cleared his throat softly to pull him back.

  "Anyway," Santiago said, "this is why we need Operation Bastion. How is the Council treating you?"

  "With sharpened teeth, as usual."

  "That’s how we like them," Santiago replied with amusement. "What do you have for me?"

  Lin clasped his hands before him. His posture was immaculate.

  "I managed to secure Vek’s loyalty. He won’t be a problem during the vote. But..."

  Santiago lifted his eyebrows slightly.

  "But?"

  "I reviewed the profiles of the other delegates. Their backgrounds, their connections, their voting history. They all have clear lines they won’t cross. I don’t know who could break theirs. And Solvyn is impossible."

  Santiago didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back in his invisible chair, folding his hands across his chest with paternal ease.

  "You lack imagination, Lin. You have always been excellent in execution, but too soft in your methods."

  Lin kept his expression neutral, though his eyes glimmered faintly. The word had hit him.

  "I’m working on it."

  "Don’t work. Act," Santiago said, leaning forward. "Have you reviewed the operational details of Project Bastion?"

  Lin blinked. Hesitated for a moment.

  "Yes. Everything seems in order."

  "No," Santiago said, firm though not raising his voice. "I want certainty. Concrete measures. This move could define the war."

  Lin nodded. His clothes felt heavier, as if invisible hands were tightening around his neck.

  "And think outside the box, Lin. You’re not here to ask for permission. You’re here to break whatever needs breaking. Whatever is necessary. Understood?"

  "Understood, First Delegate."

  Santiago held his gaze for a moment longer. Then nodded slowly.

  "I knew you’d understand."

  The call ended.

  The hologram dispersed like transparent smoke. The office fell silent. Lin exhaled slowly, turning his neck to ease the tension. The soft hum of Omnis alerted him to another incoming call. This time, without hologram. Only voice.

  "Son?"

  His mother’s voice carried warmth, though somewhat forced. As if she knew they were speaking on borrowed time.

  "Hi, Mom," Lin replied, his tone softer than at any other point that day.

  "You sound tired."

  "It’s the climate these days," he joked without any intention of being funny.

  "Are you eating well?"

  "Yes."

  "Sleeping?"

  "Enough."

  A brief silence. The kind that only happens between people who know each other deeply.

  "You didn’t call me for three days, Lin. I thought something happened."

  "I know. I’m sorry. The Council has been complicated."

  "Can’t you come for a few days? Just to disconnect a little. Even just for dinner. It’s been so long since you sat at the table without thinking of something else."

  Lin lowered his gaze. The desk before him was perfectly ordered. As always.

  "I’ll try, Mom. But I have to hang up now. A call I had pending dragged on longer than expected."

  "With Santiago?"

  "Yes."

  "And how is that man?"

  Lin smiled faintly. It was the closest he had come to a real gesture all morning.

  "As always. How is Grandpa?"

  "Complaining, as always. It makes him sick to see you close to that disgusting Santiago."

  "I can imagine..."

  "Lin..."

  "I’m fine. Really."

  She didn’t insist. She only sighed.

  "Alright. Call me when you can. Don’t take so long this time, okay?"

  "I will."

  "I love you, son."

  "Take care, Mom."

  He hung up.

  And for an instant, a single one, the silence seemed heavier than usual.

  Lin stayed still, staring at the air where Santiago’s image had floated seconds earlier. He thought of the smell of his mother’s house, so colorful, so strong, so impossible to forget. A pressure struck him like a kick to the chest and a thick yellow liquid poured from his mouth. Two more expulsions followed in the next thirty seconds. He patted his pockets until he found a handkerchief and wiped his lips, drying his tears.

  It struck him as strange. He rarely vomited. Something must have disagreed with him at lunch.

  Then, as one who remembers he cannot stop, he turned on his heel and left the room.

  Nothing could stop him now. Nothing could limit him. Not even himself.