Most of them walk to the palace across the People's Square. From the apartments in the old town that have been commandeered for the workers of the interim government, it is the most direct route, and the roads are still too torn up for any heavy traffic, so it's easy to cross the square.

  Dena is the only one who takes the long way around. The city has been secure for months, with the regime forces all but contained to Haddath province. If there are still snipers on the roofs, he is not in danger of attracting their attention. And yet, Dena thinks, he will never retrace his steps from that day if he can help it. At least not in the morning, when that monstrous, cold shadow covers the beaten tarmac.

  Despite his circuitous route, he still arrives first to his desk in the large, open office and he will leave last. It's still a war, he tells himself, and every day is still a battle. The fact that he is not dying in the mud means he owes a debt to those who are. And it's a debt he is in a position to repay, because every hour he works to unearth evidence of the regime's history more people join the cause. More people feel free to speak their mind. In three months, the people in his office have done more to end the war than the whole of Command put together in the three years since the fight started.

  They use a simple strategy. Whenever they discover something new, they hold back almost everything. The smallest kernel of the story is put out there. To the press, over the radio. Just enough to get people talking, and joining the dots. Shire was a perfect example. It took Dena a long time to convince Horamk not to release all the information at once. But the man understood strategy. On his own battlefield and on Dena's. So they released just the bare minimum. Enough to surface the truth. 8300 people had died, and almost everybody in the country had been affected in one way or another by the efforts to cover it up.

  They released just enough to force the regime to respond. Just enough to get to the point where silence became its own denial. And then, when the response came, all they had to do was find those documents that proved it wrong. Again, just enough to force a response. Anything specific enough that they could contradict it with evidence. Step by step, they forced the regime into the fish trap.

  For every piece of evidence they released, there were people who knew. Who, this time, had seen with their own eyes that this specific detail was exactly true. And that meant that they could no longer look away, or claim that the waters were muddy. With every release of documents, there was someone somewhere, who realized that there was nothing complex or subtle about it. The interim government always told the truth, and the old regime always lied.

  The result was that Dena's operation quickly expanded. Within a week, ten people from the second battalion were assisting him. Within two weeks, command had assigned him twenty specially selected officers, mostly technicians with university backgrounds. There was some pushback against Dena leading the operation, but the second trusted him more than anybody Control sent. Moreover, Horamk had got a taste of politics, and needed results he could take credit for.

  Dena doesn't look up when the door opens. Kirem is usually second to arrive to the office, and the members of the second don't deal in pleasantries such as saying good morning. A trait Dena values greatly.

  "Lodjeambo!"

  Even after all these weeks, the mere presence of Horamk still terrifies Dena. He's still not sure whether or not to salute, so he just sort of stands to attention.

  "Commander."

  "You went to university. Do you speak Lingua?"

  "Sure. What's going ..."

  "The phone's ringing."

  "Shit."

  In the comms room, there is a small, dedicated switchboard. The line has always been active, but there has never been an answer on the other side. It had taken them a while to figure out that this was the official communications channel to the Assembly of World Nations. Officially, the Assembly still acknowledged the regime when the second took the Palace. Diplomatically, they must have decided to sever communications until the dust settled.

  As the revolution progressed, and the regime was pushed further back, re-establishing communication with the Assembly became an unspoken mark of victory. If the Assembly made contact, deemed it diplomatically sound, then it would surely be a sign that they thought the revolutionary army was not only winning the war, but that they could be trusted to govern the nation. People rarely said it out loud, but everybody kept their eyes on the lights on that little desk whenever they entered the comms room.

  Dena half-runs after Horamk, who somehow maintains the same pace with nothing more than a decisive stride.

  "Where is Akeamla? Surely, this is his call to take. He speaks Lingua well enough."

  "On his way. We thought it would be better to answer while we have the chance. Don't want to risk them hanging up and not trying again."

  Dena walks on in silence, trying to gather his thoughts. There's nothing to plan, he realizes, because he has no idea what's coming. He doesn't know who is making the call or what they'll want to discuss. He decides to focus on how to answer, his first reply. Nothing has been decided on how they will present themselves as a country. There's no standard way to answer the phones.

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  In the comms room, there are twice as many people as there usually are, and none of them are at their station. To a man, they are staring at Dena, as Horamk guides him in. They have arranged themselves in a broad semicircle around the small desk in the corner. Dena sits at the desk, and puts on the headphones. The microphone is a bulky, separate device that sits on the desk.

  "Press there to answer" says one of the operators, indicating a key below a blinking light. "You hear three beeps before the line opens. We... ehm. We don't know who speaks first."

  Dena thinks back to his college days. His first dates with Schtor. The days when an amazing, exceptionally beautiful, fiercely intelligent woman had suddenly decided to show an interest in him. She was bound to be far more experienced than Dena, and she didn't seem like the type that found nervousness endearing. He remembers walking across campus, tied up in anxiety, when a realization came to him. He would simply have to accept embarrassment as a substantial risk.

  That was all it was. His anxiety was nothing more than an unwillingness to accept any embarrassment. He would simply need to accept it as something that would in all likelihood happen. But it was a risk worth taking. Inaction, or hedging his bets, these would ensure failure. But walking into danger with the eyes wide open, this allowed some chance of success, at least.

  Dena tries to recapture that mood. This analytical shortcut to self-confidence that saw him through those first dates. The key was always to pick a strategy and to commit to it. It might fail, but at least it's not guaranteed to fail, like his natural attitude would be.

  He taps the button with pretend confidence. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly as the three beeps ring in his ears. He decides to wait just long enough to be sure that the line is open.

  "This is Dena Lodjeambo. Interim minister of foreign affairs for the provisional government of the sovereign nation of Hide Madarbei."

  There had been no official decision on whether to follow the ministerial subdivision of government that was common in the overseas liberal democracies. There was no ministry of foreign affairs yet, and Dena would certainly not be assured the post. Even the name of the country was subject to crippling debate. The regime had rechristened it Awad Madarbei over five decades ago: the Empire of Madarbei. It seemed reasonable to return to the Republic of Madarbei, but the decision had not been made.

  Commit to a strategy. Horamk, at least, would understand that. The worst they could do was fire him.

  There was some crackling on the line, followed by a long silence.

  "Mr. Lodjeambo. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance" sounded a jovial, female voice on the other side.

  "My name is Paal Asimoto, I am a senior diplomat for the federated states of North Aeropa. It is my honor to speak to you on behalf of the Assembly of World Nations. "

  "The honor is mine madam."

  There is some diplomatic back-and-forth, non-committal congratulations, and suggestions to enable more frequent diplomatic intercourse, at some point in the future. Clearly the Assembly is still hedging their bets to some extent about who will win the war. This was to be expected. The Assembly had always left Madarbei to its own devices, and their policy of strict non-intervention had not made them any friends among the revolution. Still, even the hardliners accept that the true mark of victory would be retaking the seat on the Assembly council that the regime had left vacant for generations.

  "Now, Mr. Lodjeambo, I'm sure you appreciate that we usually take these things very slowly. One step at a time and so on. But there is one topic that we, well, all of us here on this end, we felt it would simply be ungentlemanly, if you will..."

  "I see. Please feel free to discuss whatever you feel is urgent."

  "Well, first, I hope you'll indulge me in answering some questions that may seem a little peculiar. You see, your country has been exceptionally isolated for many years, and we had some broad ideas about what you do and do not know, but I'd like to confirm our suspicions before I make a fool of myself."

  Dena wants to tell her to get on with it.

  "By all means, ask away."

  "To start with, I suppose, is it true, mr. Lodjeambo that in your culture there is not a particularly strong religious element?"

  "The regime did not look kindly on religion, if that is what you're getting at. Various religions form a part of our culture, but their practices have been repressed over the past few generations. It is the intention of the new government to re-establish freedom of religion, with a codified separation of church and state. Does that answer your question?"

  "Somewhat, yes. If you don't mind me asking, then, in the minds of your people what is the overarching theory, if we can call it that, about the origin of our world?"

  Dena is taken aback by the question.

  "The world? Do you mean the universe? I'm not sure I see."

  "Indulge me if you will, mr. Lodjeambo. Our planet, Ard. The world we inhabit. To your mind, and that of your countrymen, where did it come from? How old is it? Was it created?"

  For the first time in the conversation, Dena is entirely at a loss. He looks around at the people in the room. Not one of them seems to have a clue what the diplomat is referring to. Dena digs deep to remember his education. Science had never been his strongest subject.

  "To be honest, I don't remember the details. It's perhaps a million... no, a billion years old. I think it formed from a disc of gas, together with the sun."

  "I see. And we, mr. Lodjeambo. Humans. Where do we come from?"

  "Well, the theory we were taught is one of evolution. A kind of gradual change from chimpanzees or gorillas, or some kind of ape similar to them. To be fair, the discovery of these theories are usually attributed to members of the Keamla family, which few of us believe. I always expected that the theories were true, but that they were invented by others. To be honest, madam, we have more immediate concerns most of the time."

  "Of course, of course. I fully understand."

  The line stays silent for a while.

  "I suppose, I just had better blurt it out. You are not wrong mr. Lodjeambo. Evolution is how we humans came about. At least, that's what most of us here believe. It's just that, well, it didn't happen on this planet."

  The voice leaves a silence to let the message sink in.