New Horizons

This Peaceful State of War Originally published in Writers of the Future Vol. 27, this story was the start of my entry into professional publishing. Note: the spelling has been Americanized (shock, horror!) by request of the publisher. "Ash," Brother Copernicus says. I rub the substance between the thumb and fingers of my gloves. It’s fine and powdery, and white, unbelievably white. A thick layer of it covers the field of tree stumps and broken branches, all the way to the wall of rain forest in the distance. Heat shimmers above the brilliant surface. Yesterday, when arriving from Solaris Station, I saw these tracks from space. They looked like scars, as if a deranged soul has taken a knife to the planet, cutting scores in the cover of forest. "The Hern burnt these tracks wherever they destroyed the Pari villages." There is raw hatred in Brother Copernicus’ voice, even when filtered through his rebreather mask. "They stacked up the debris from the houses and the bodies and burnt the lot. Always at night, so we wouldn’t notice." I let the powder trickle from my glove, fighting the impulse to rub my hand on my protective robe. I can’t. The action of rubbing might trigger a spark that will lead to all sorts of trouble in this high-oxygen atmosphere. Those warnings played in the cabin of the landing craft have etched themselves in my mind. "Why is it so white? Has anyone analyzed this?" The color intrigues me, and I wonder why the ground underneath the patch where I’ve picked up the powder is moist and cool. "I’m sure someone has. Is that important? It’s ash, Envoy, human ash." Brother Copernicus brandishes the word human like a sword, challenging anyone who dares to disagree. "You’re standing on the biggest murder site in all of humanity." The camp looks like a prison with two perimeter fences, one about five meters inside the other, the top bar of each armed with spikes as long as my hand. Through two lots of metal security mesh, I can make out tents of the infantry variety lined up in perfect rows. There is no sign of movement, human or alien. I follow Brother Copernicus along the walkway of rubbery mats. My crutches keep sinking into the little crevices in the mats that allow rain to filter through. Sweat rolls between my breasts and over my back. At the moment, I hate every gram of my uncooperative body and my body has a lot of grams, let’s leave it at that. You’ve spent too much time in space, Miranda, the doctor at Solaris would say in his self-righteous voice. I agree. I love low-G environments, I thrive in crisp recycled air. I hate planets. I’m a whale on a beach. Three guards stand at the camp entrance, missionaries in ankle-length brown habits with sleeves tucked into their gloves. The religious garb contrasts oddly with the plasma guns on their belts and crossbows in their arms. I stare at the weapon in the closest guard’s hands as he busies himself opening the gate. Why the heck would they use crossbows? Brother Copernicus has already gone through the open gate. "Envoy Tonkin, if you please." I’m still waiting for the first signs that he’s getting annoyed with my slow walking pace. There are none. He’s the model religious brother: patient, friendly, selflessly taking up the cause of the downtrodden— convinced that I represent the enemy. We walk through into a metal cage and wait for the guards to shut the gate behind us. "Pretty crazy security," I say, hating the way the mask reflects my voice back at me. "It works, though. The fighting stopped the moment we locked up the local band of Hern. There have been no more attacks on Pari villages, at least not in this area." He lets the obvious go unspoken: the slaughter continues unabated in all the places where the Universal Church doesn’t have a mission, which is pretty much all of the planet. He and his mission want to stop the war. The Solaris Agency wants me to assess if that’s even feasible. I feel in my bones, the way my contract was phrased, that they want humans off Bianca, that it’s too risky, too expensive. To him, I am the enemy. We walk into the murderers’ camp. The second gate shuts behind us with a definitive clang. "This way," Brother Copernicus says. The Hern are all in the mess tent. When my eyes adjust to the drop in light, I cannot help but feel awed. Oh my, the sight of these alien people: their sheer size, their athletic build, their hair-covered backs, their green skin and black, animal-like eyes. Missionaries patrol the perimeter of the tent, crossbows slung across their shoulders. Of course, a plasma weapon will cause considerable risk in this high-oxygen atmosphere. Use it, and you might blow up the whole camp—much safer for all to resort to something less destructive first. Brothers in protective gear are wheeling dinner trolleys between the tables. There is no food on the trays, only jugs of what looks like cordial. None of the aliens take any interest in the trolleys. None of them communicate. They sit on their benches with their backs incredibly straight and watch me—every single one. There must be at least three hundred of them and their presence is overwhelming—and then their smell. No one warned me about the smell. It’s strong, it’s musky. It permeates the filter of my mask. I feel like I’m choking. I hold the hose to the filter canister on my belt, struggling not to rip the whole contraption from my face. I can’t, I know. The lethal soup of molecules that passes for air would kill me within minutes. The inside of the visor fogs up. In the narrow aisle, I accidentally bang my left crutch into the back of a bench. "Excuse me." I’m taking deep gasps of air. From the corner of my awareness, I notice someone getting up. Before I know what’s happening, I’m on the ground and several hot-skinned bodies crash into me. People are shouting and screaming. Two twanging shots go off. A missionary drags me under the cover of a table. As quickly as it started, it’s over. I sit up, dazed. One of the Hern is held down by three missionaries sitting on top of him, another is pulling at a crossbow bolt in his thigh. The rivulets of blood that run from the wound are nearly black. The creature’s eyes are fierce with anger. I feel sick and filled with a renewed respect for crossbows. A missionary rushes to me, but instead of helping me to my feet, he picks up my crutches. "You’ll have to keep these outside," he says and he runs away, carrying my only means of independent motion. I’m too flabbergasted to reply. I know the church doesn’t want me here, but does that have to mean they humiliate me in front of the natives? Brother Copernicus helps me up, alone, which must take some strength. When he supports me through the aisle, I feel the muscles straining through his layers of protective clothing. He’s trembling. The reflective visor hides his face. "I’ll explain later," he says in a low voice. I want to shout Now’s as good a time as any, but I’m not going to make a scene here. The Hern inmates are all watching us. I make my way to the table holding onto his arm, even though my left knee spikes with pain every time I put weight on it. A group of men hustles the attackers out the door and everyone continues as if nothing has happened. Some missionaries are already seated at the table in the middle of the tent. Most have taken off their gloves and hoods, which are UV protection, but the men still look the same to me with their shaved heads and shaved eyebrows, wearing the same brown habits. When they use face masks, I can’t even begin to guess who they are. They nod greetings as I sit down. They sure remember who I am. The Hern envoy who approaches the table is huge. The frame of the bench creaks when he takes his place opposite us. His black eyes rest on me, making my skin crawl. They are round and lidless, surrounded by a ring of long lashes. These creatures are human? I bow. "Envoy." He doesn’t show any emotion. I touch my chest. "I’m Miranda Tonkin. What is your name?" I hold my hand out flat. No pointing. They might take that as a sign of aggression. His face remains blank. "I’m sorry..." I hiss a whisper to Brother Copernicus. "What’s his name?" Although I’m only guessing the creature is male. "They have never used names with us." No names? Some tribes consider names personal property that loses power when spread too widely, but they usually have nicknames. Clearly, the Hern distrust the missionaries too deeply to give out any personal information. I’m wondering why they even allow themselves to be incarcerated in this camp. Surely they could escape if they banded together and made use of their formidable strength? One of the missionaries rolls out a map of a terrain that has no natural vantage points except a grid of latitudes and longitudes, and the paths of burnt forest penciled in. He points at various sections, also penciled in. Another missionary explains for my benefit how the church is negotiating sections for the Pari and Hern to live separate from each other. The Hern envoy looks on, saying nothing while the missionaries carve up his homeland. His eyes move, but the rest of his body is perfectly still, reminding me of a predator. Who is the prey? In the middle of a conversation between two brothers, he points at me. "Munni," he says. His voice is rough. It’s the first time I hear any of them speak. A couple of other Hern grumble at this word. Black eyes meet mine, conveying that somehow this means I’m fair game. I glance at Brother Copernicus, but he shrugs. "One of the words we haven’t been able to translate." He sounds nervous. I wonder how many words they have been able to translate. How many words they’ve even heard? Not too many, I’m thinking. I’m sorry you had to experience that," Brother Copernicus says when we’re outside the camp. "Sorry?" I have my crutches back, given to me by the guard at the gate. "Yes, I should have looked closer at those crutches. If I’d realized they were made of titanium, I’d have given you some replacements. For some reason, exposure to titanium makes the Hern go crazy." "Why couldn’t you explain that in the tent? The Hern can’t understand us anyway." He shrugs, and it strikes me he’s been getting increasingly uncomfortable. Because he doesn’t like being assigned as my guide? Because his superiors have told him to do things he doesn’t agree with? Like deliberately letting me take my crutches into the camp? "What is so special about titanium?" My heart is thudding. I could have been killed in that camp. The brothers would have reported it as an accident and no one at Solaris would ever have known the truth. "We need more time to research these people. Their attraction to titanium is not on our list of priorities, as you may understand. The Hern are a particularly impenetrable folk, but if the segregation plan works, we’ll save a lot of lives." "Segregation is an ugly and temporary solution and only works if both parties agree to it and understand the concept. Do you think these Hern understand?" Are you sure you’d call them human? "We’d police the boundaries—" "Do you think they understand?" He faces me, but all I see is my own refection in that white landscape, like a walrus on a sunny beach. "Solaris thinks the church are idiots, that we’ve botched this project, don’t they? You’re going to recommend withdrawing the agency’s subsidy, aren’t you?" I don’t reply. "Wait until you see the Pari and tell me these people don’t deserve saving." "I’m an envoy, an observer. I don’t make the final decision. The board does that," neglecting to mention that I sit on the board as rotating member. "I’ll decide what I’ll recommend when the time comes."