In the rolling grasslands of the Turkmenian Karakum there roamed a pretty young Bedouin girl called Amira. Many a mad wind of the Hindukush having roared down the mountains with fierce pleasure, have reached the valleys, where, taken aback by the sudden greenness of the grass, the tinkle of bells on four hundred sheep and the scent of Amira’s hastily tied hair, the fierce winds have calmed down to a gentle breeze and have blown over Amira’s face, causing the drops of her brass earrings tinkle against each other in mild appreciation of the world. In situations like these, Amira was foolish enough to laugh aloud to herself and to fling whatever she was holding up in the air, simply for the pleasure of watching the wind carry it away.
The sight of such silliness gladdened Amira’s many grandparents who, seated outside their tents, chuckled quietly among themselves but fell silent as soon as they caught a glimpse of Amira’s father herding his animals across the fields. Amira’s father rode a fine Arabian steed, owned 3 wives, 14 children and a gun which he has never been seen to use but which he polishes regularly and keeps in excellent condition. It was said that he had once made a whole tribe of the deadliest of Tatar bandits flee with a single roar. However, Amira and her brothers and sisters who had almost never heard their father speak, only sniggered among themselves while listening to these stories. With every passing autumn, Amira’s father spoke lesser with humans and more with his animals. He longed to be able to read and this longing produced in him a strange sadness that found no place in the valleys cradled by the harshest of the hills. But since no one in his family had ever believed that a nomadic horseman could desire anything other than a life of valour, they thought that the sadness in his eyes was because of the fact that he had 9 beautiful daughters to marry off and everyone knew that in the valleys where the nomads roamed free and the mad winds calmed down to tease the sequins on the blouses of young girls, eligible grooms were impossible to find.
It so happened that one plain summer afternoon, when the wind was engaged in a merry game with the clothes hanging by the stream, Amira who was sitting nearby and mending a hole on a rug, came to the conclusion that the time was ripe for her to get married. And immediately, the mind of this wandering nomad who had learnt since birth that for her survival she was not to attach herself to any earthly constant, descended with unnatural firmness upon the prospect of losing itself to a man who would be the prince of her dreams. The wicked wind of the valleys murmured their approval and immediately began to flirt with the red silk thread with which Amira was working, making it flutter frantically quite like Amira’s foolish little heart.
The following night, long after all the fires had been put out and the sheep were snoring in their pens, Amira woke up with a start. As the cloth window of her tent flew open at the command of the conspiring winds, Amira saw the shadow of a man standing by the river. Driven by curiosity and shielded by the protection only the innocence of youth can provide, Amira brushed her sister’s sleepy arm off herself and crept out of the tent for a better look. Her eyes followed the moonlight which in perfect harmony with the scheme of the winds led them to the stream. Amira’s heart leapt to her mouth. There was a man standing with his horse on other side of the stream. In the faint light cast by the moon, he appeared to Amira like a warrior prince who had travelled across the mountains and braved the deserts to win her heart and steal her away to his kingdom. His face, half-lit by the moonbeam, showed off the rugged beauty that Amira was convinced came only after having fought many a brave battle. She had only heard of princes like these in stories recited to her by her many aunts and which she herself had recited to her younger sisters more than once. Little did she know then that her heart would one day beat as fast as a galloping Bedouin steed for a prince who could only be found in the fairytales of the nomads of the grasslands. As her knight lifted his face, his eyes, Amira felt, beheld her in the way Husrev’s eyes first beheld Shirin as he watched her bathe, in the fables of Nizami. It was beyond Amira to translate the maneuvers of the mysterious wind of the valleys and so the faint rustle of her skirt, the gentle tinkle of the water of the stream and the murmur of disquiet in the lone camp fire’s flickering light together reached her ears as the quiet and deep voice of her gallant groom to be.
‘Come with me, Amira,’ she heard him say. ‘Marry me and we will ride away to happiness.’
Amira’s cheeks were warm with emotions that had spent a million years rehearsing in preparation for this very moment. Her palms were sweating like the time when she had been caught stealing a sweetmeat by her father. The cunning wind was meanwhile whispering in her ears more words she thought were being said to her by her stranger of a suitor.
‘Fear not, Amira,’ she heard. ‘Only the stream lies between us. Come to my arms. I have been waiting for you since time immemorial.’
A thousand storms raged inside Amira. Outside the sly wind fell quiet in greedy anticipation of her actions. Amira clutched at her scarf, looked at the reflection of the prince on the stream and as if convinced by the promise of the shadow on the flowing water, slowly started walking towards the stream. At the edge of it, she stopped and looked up at her fabled warrior. In the one moment that passed before he silently stretched his hand to help her across the water, Amira felt herself hesitate. The most abnormal feeling of uncertainty strangled her for a moment and she stopped and looked back at the tent she had been sleeping in until a little while ago. The night was deep and though her family was fast asleep Amira felt everyone beginning to stir in realization of her absence. She paused anew driven by the sudden recognition of the fact that she could not swim and the waters were perhaps too turbulent for her to wade through. As if acting on cue, the wind orchestrated every sound in the valley to enter Amira’s ear for a third time as the voice of her beloved.
‘I yearn for the moment when we will be united, my princess. I have travelled far and wide in search of you. I am weary and thirsty. Will you not allow me to drink the water of the stream from your hands?’
Like a wildflower tossed in a winter gust, Amira threw herself on her suitor’s arm as if the very question of her survival depended on it. Clutching at it, she crossed the stream, the cool waters of an unnamed river caressing her ankles as if to say goodbye. She forgot about her father, her sisters, her grandparents, and about the colors in the carpets she and her family had made off the wool of 400 sheep. In front of her stood the traveler, her hand in his, his eyes upon her. The wind, mad once again in raucous celebration, became a fierce gale, blew out the camp fire and made the tents sway to an unheard rhythm. In one of these tents, Amira’s oldest grandfather sighed in his sleep and turned.
-
The next morning when Amira’s father woke up to the cry of one of his sons, the winds smirked and blew over Amira’s raped and lifeless body for one last time before heading southwards.
Soumashree Sarkar, UGIII
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Red vs. Blue
I shoved the barrel of the revolver into the traitor’s mouth. The Red’s eyes bulged. He choked on the gun.
“You should have surrendered.”
“Ethan,” Jon Tristan said, standing at my shoulder. “That’s enough.”
“No, Jon. This is enough.”
I pulled the trigger and made one helluva mess.
Afterwards, as the twin moons Phobos and Deimos rose in the west and east, one after the other, Jon and I set about burying the squad of Red Phantoms on the lush, green slopes of Olympus Mons, the highest mountain in the Solar System.
“Got any painkillers?” I asked. The altitude made the work hard, the air too thin. My head was killing me.
Jon wrapped his Blue armband across his brow to keep his hair out of his eyes as he worked. “Why do you use that old gun? The Red’s fear it, you know. Call you ‘Gunslinger’. Not very practical, is it. Only six sh—”
“—shots to the barrel. Yeah, I know.” I patted the original Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum, made trusted and true in the old United States of America at the turn of the millennium—some five hundred years ago. “It reminds me of home.”
Jon turned his gaze up to the plateau, reaching six miles above the surface of Mars, at the very tip of Olympus Mons. Creeping green vines clung to what was once barren red rock, disappearing into loose white clouds. In the three centuries since Mars had been terraformed from a wasteland of dust and windstorms, the plant and animal life had flourished.
“We’re along way from home, Gunslinger,” he said.
“Hmm… you looking for a few weeks Earth-side?”
Jon scoffed. “That won’t happen this far west of the Moon.”
I scowled and booted the last dead Red into the pit. The whole stinking planet had become a giant headache—a pain in the ass, Tess—for the Earth Defence Force. The Reds wanted ‘freedom’, wanted independence from Earth—and control of Mars and all its resources. They were traitors, spoilt children, clinging to red dust.
Terraforming Mars had taken the best part of four centuries. The planet was seeded in the 22nd century. Heat factories were constructed, converting CO2 into oxygen, nanobots introduced for nitrogen. Enormous solar mirrors in orbit directed light towards the poles. Superconducting rings buried at key lines of latitude, thousands of miles across, created a man-made magnetosphere, reflecting harsh radiation back into space. Comets and ice-rich asteroids were manoeuvred into sub-orbits around the planet, releasing vast amounts of water as they burnt up. Once the key building blocks were in place, the process was accelerated through a series of chain reactions and micro-feedback loops. Genetically adapted plant and animal life was introduced at the beginning of the 24th century. A hundred years beyond that, Mars was declared safe for biological humans. It had taken five hundred years and collaboration on a planet-wide scale, but it was done.
Humanity had created a second Earth.
Not long after, humanity started its first interplanetary war. The original settlers, the ‘Reds’, declared themselves independent from Earth. Mars, and all its vast potential, was to be denied to its creators.
The stink of blood and death clouded my nostrils. I drew my trusty revolver and punched six dark red holes into the scum at the bottom of the pit. The shots echoed across the undulating slopes of the enormous mountain, carried on the still air. I didn’t care if there were more Reds around. Jon and I were the best Hunters on two planets. We could handle it.
“Yeah? Who killed you?” I spat into the pit.
Jon cocked his ear, listening to something I couldn’t. My nano-communicator had been fried by Red electromagnetic cannon fire some days ago. “EDF commends us for holding Olympus Mons. Ethan Reilly is hereby promoted to Field-Commander, First Class.” He laughed, shifting our reserve ammo belt from one shoulder to the other. “Looks like you might get Earth-side after all, Commander. You’re being recalled.” Jon’s voice caught in his throat. “Oh… hell. They want you to lead the armada from Serenity Base against Ascension City.”
“Piss on that. I’m staying grounded until every last one of these rebel bastards is dead and buried.”
Jon’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. I could sense his discomfort. He was good at his job, but he didn’t want to be. I think he didn’t quite know how to kill himself. “Killing Reds won’t bring Tessa back.”
I shook the dead shells from the Colt’s barrel and handed it to Jon. “Hollow points reload,” I said, a brisk order, and turned to shovel dirt back into the pit.
The Martian moons hung in the sky against a curtain purpling toward night. Jon handed me back the Colt. I pointed the barrel at the bright star in the southern sky, at Earth, two hundred and twenty million kilometres away. “Killing Reds makes me feel better. Makes me feel like I’m making a bloody difference.”
Jon laughed. “Oh, Ethan, you are in the unique position of knowing you are able to make a difference. Most people never see that, they wait for someone else, anyone else, to be the difference. That makes you, right now, across both worlds, the most dangerous man alive. Mars fears you and Earth respects you. You have the opportunity to change how this story is supposed to end.” Jon shook his head. “Don’t. You. Fucking. Waste. It.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe the Reds aren’t all wrong. Maybe at the head of an Eternity-class battleship armada you could force a peace.”
“Bullshit.”
“Is it? Tessa saw this war for what it was—brothers fighting brothers. She came here to make peace.”
“And they killed her in the uprising. They think they can just bite the hand that feeds them and not get smacked for it? No.” I shovelled more dirt into the pit, masking that stench of death. With any luck we could reset the ambush and catch some more of the bastards tomorrow. “I will take that armada and turn Ascension City back into red dust.”
“I thought you might say that…” Jon whispered.
Any soldier worth his salt could’ve sensed Jon’s next move. I twirled on the spot, drawing my revolver, as Jon raised his pulse rifle against me. I was the faster draw, always had been, and I didn’t hesitate. My finger hammered the trigger, as it had done a thousand times before, and a round of hot, solid lead—
The barrel turned with a dry click. Misfire? No…
Jon’s smile was grim. “Sorry, Reilly. Must’ve missed a chamber on the reload.”
I licked my lips. “Your mother was a nano-augmented whore.”
A sphere of arced light burst from Jon’s rifle and obliterated my shoulder, cutting through it as if it were warm butter. I was thrown back into the pit atop of the Reds, my shooting arm flying clean away from the rest of my body. Blood sprayed in a violent arc against the star-strewn sky.
This ain’t no painted desert serenade…
There was no pain—only cold, red dirt. Earth shone like a beacon so far away. Jon blocked the stars, kneeling down next to me in the pit. He unwrapped his Blue band from around his head and dabbed it against the bright, crimson socket where my arm used to be. It stained the cloth, soaked it. Not red, but—
“Close enough,” Jon said, wrapping the band back around his arm. He spared me a final glance and then turned and walked away.
I remembered running into the sea back home on Earth with Tessa. You’re my sad song, she had once told me, and you’re stuck on repeat, baby.
I remembered the smell of her wet hair. My headache was gone. I imagined her blood trailing through the waters of Mars. Bless her—she had been trying to do the right thing.
Jon Tristan would have understood.
