The park amphitheater was a toybox compared to the Apostar Primera Stadium. Chipped stone benches formed a half circle with three badly aligned holos at the bottom, their feeds flickering with static. The few dozen attendees waited in patient silence for the weekly program to begin.
For all the well-earned complaints about Tosamir’s expansion, at least Center Park had been left alone—if poorly maintained. He didn’t mind the buggy feeds or the uncomfortable seating, in part thanks to the tall oak trees along the top row which provided both shade and a buffer from the rest of the city. An oasis in a concrete wasteland.
Daiko sat at the top of the amphitheater, a patchwork shade loomed over him in the noonday sun. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, plucking a roasted almond from his bag and crunching it down to dust.
The two bravistas from the Primera appeared at his side. He gave them each a glance before dismissing them like the stone beneath him. Suraj Murphy—blockhead, in Daiko’s private lexicon—sized him up. At a nod from Alexi, the pair stepped aside for the Admiral.
Christian waited until the men were a few paces away before seating himself on the bench beside Daiko with an aged groan.
“They’re used to a more liberal occupation and they don’t fall out of practice easily.”
“Never much liked the Bravistas, but I’m glad they’re here,” Daiko said. “I can attend the Sending in peace knowing they’re near.”
“Right.” Christian surveyed the amphitheater, “I haven’t been to one of these in years; not on this side anyway.”
Daiko nodded and selected his next almond with care before eating it.
“I’ll be honest, Hitori, I wasn’t expecting your call.”
“To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to call you either,” Daiko held the bag to his side, “almond?”
Christian peeled off his white admiral’s gloves and poured a generous portion into his palm. He nodded toward the stage below.
“Haven’t missed anything yet, have I?”
“Accidentally early, actually. Feeds are buggy again. You know, if there’s anyone in the Empire with real influence, maybe you can convince them to make these transmissions more reliable.”
Christian chuckled, tossing back half the almonds and replying while he chewed, “I’ll let you know when I find one.”
Daiko stole a glance at his friend. The dappled canopy light revealed features of the man’s age the dark tunnel concealed—the roots of his gray hair were more pronounced, and the rings under his eyes aged him far past his years. He was thin too. Easy to miss when someone has maintained their perfect military posture.
“That uniform is brighter in the daytime,” Daiko said, nodding toward the bleachers where a few stray gazes landed on them. “You might need to sign a few autographs.”
“Doubtful. Even if they knew I was an Admiral, I’d just be another suit to them.”
“The pinnacle of power on Jupiter, calling himself a suit. Careful, you’ll give an old man hope again.”
The amphitheater PA grated to life. The holos’ static slowly solidified, and the Asparian Anthem swelled as the Empire’s sigil—a silver winged bear on crimson—filled the screen.
Daiko remained seated as Christain stood, making no comment. Daiko was too busy grumbling that his bag of almonds was empty.
As the last notes faded, the Empire’s sigil dissolved into a pre-cut reel. Mecks—the Empire’s prized symbol—clashed heroically with the Geos transers. It was hard to watch only in that it was so clean, and lacked any real substance of what made war terrible. He wondered, as he always did, whether some movie studio had put this together. Maybe he’d find out.
The music ended, and a wispy soldier appeared on all three screens, this week’s designated RICT presenter. The Royal Intersystem Communication Transmission rotated new recruits for the task—something about youth, vim, and vigor, if Daiko recalled.
“Greetings, Dearth, from the Imperial Capital of Jupiter, Nuv Tosamir on Alma Prime. Today, we’ve gathered troops four, five, and six from the forward moon guard.”
The feed cut clumsily from the makeshift studio to the tarmac where three groups of soldiers bunched into frame after an off-screen signal.
The camera zoomed in on one section to the far left, and began panning to the right slowly. Uniformity dissolved as soldiers were hoisted onto one anothers’ shoulders, tumbling, grinning, and shouting—all jostling to remain in the shot.
“Hi Mom!”
“Tosamir! This is for you!”
A young face popped up from below, looking a mirror image of Arthur, and recited the Empire creed:
“Power, Providence, Prosperity!”
In Center Park’s amphitheater, attendees sprang to their feet, waving back as if the feed went both ways. Sendings were recorded weeks in advance; outside of personal messages, soldiers never got to see who came to see them.
Behind the crowd, Nuv Tosamir’s skyline rose, an infant but budding copy of the skyline above Daiko at that very moment.
A sonorous tone played next. Soldiers in frame reveled like the war was over, Geos defeated, and transport departure imminent. But at the back, the hard-faced ones stood at attention. The feed wasn’t sharp enough to show their scars, but Daiko could see it in their eyes.These were the men he came to see each week.
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The feed returned to the wispy youth, who cleared his throat before speaking.
“With your support, we’ll take the fight to the enemy with renewed vigor. The Dearth soldier is the most elite fighting force ever to live, and soon the war will end.”
The soldiers on screen cheered; in Center Park, the response was quieter.
“The Empire’s Relocate and Prosper initiative remains active and brimming with new voyagers. Contact your local guild representative for bookings. Join us upon the new frontier!”
The feed shifted to a montage: glittering landmarks, thriving townships, and city-sized colony ships expanding with each new arrival. Then a wide shot of Jupiter from Nuv Tosamir’s sky— the planet was all swirls of blood and warm mud, encircled by a neon-green ring of debris consisting of shattered Cercanos moons, colliding and drifting for the past sixty years.
“And now,” the youth said, “Our Hero’s Ballad.”
Everyone stood again, Daiko included this time, as a third version of the anthem played—this one more of a dirge. Names and images of the fallen appeared, each face lingering less than three seconds before being replaced by the next. Daiko bristled at how quickly they vanished.
The feed closed then cut to a still image of the Imperio and Imperia astride grand warhorses, their children fanned at either side in their signature pose, and a message was written in cursive at the bottom of the image: Thank you for your service and commitment to the Empire. Power for prosperity with righteousness.
Then the screens went dark. A few soldiers in attendance saluted, Christian and Daiko among them. Bitterness aside, the groove in Daiko’s left shoulder still welcomed the weight of his right hand.
Silence settled over the park. When Daiko came alone, or with Cenn, he let these pauses stretch. Christian joined him now by unspoken invitation.
Finally, Daiko drew a breath and imagined Mina there pushing him to get on with it. He wondered which of his own adages she’d use against him this time.
“I’ll do it,” he said, avoiding Christian’s eyes as he reached for another almond, then remembered the bag was empty.
“Just like that…”
“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t enjoy arguing.”
“I came prepared to haggle, Hitori. The council expected as much. They won’t believe me that you just said yes.”
“Well, you can tell them I was wooed by your charm.”
Christian rubbed his hands on his thighs, trying to ground his excitement. “I’ve got a preliminary contract ready. Look it over, there are details you should know.”
“That’s great because I have some details of my own that you should know about.”
Christian stiffened, “what things?”
Daiko tipped the empty almond bag to his mouth, letting the sweet sugars fall onto his tongue.
“An Arcomeckanist needs a crew.”
“Of course,” Christian said, warily, "R&D in Nuv Tosamir is outfitted with everything, people included. The best engineers and meckanists in the system.”
“Good to know. I’m sure I’ll use them eventually, but I’m talking about my crew.”
“Your crew? You mean the Westwood Motors crew? You’re joking.”
“I wasn’t funny back then, and age hasn’t helped.”
“You can’t bring a group of common civilians to the warfront.”
Daiko smiled. “I thought the same thing, but have since come to my senses. Those civilians are the current Primera champions and they beat the Empire’s own contractors to do it.”
“That was a race, this is war. You said it yourself, SportMecks aren’t the same.”
“No one knows that better than me Christian. As your future Arcomeckanist, you’ll need to trust my judgment.”
“We’re talking about designing, building, and testing the most advanced meck the Empire’s ever seen. There’s no room for fluff or dead weight.”
“Agreed. If I needed soldiers, trust me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Christian’s expression tightened, like he’d reached for a pebble and found it weighed more than a boulder, “you’ve done it, my friend. You’ve surprised me. I can’t believe this is what you wanted to negotiate.”
“Me neither, can’t believe I said yes in the first place but after some thought—and a little convincing—it makes all the sense in the world. The Westwood crew meets meckanist standards, and I trust them. That matters more to me than I can describe.”
Christian ground his jaw, “Mina’s easy, she’s family but the others? Far more qualified people are waiting for you in Nuv Tosamir.”
“If only Mina would come alone. She’s made it clear: me, her, and the rest are a package deal. And about civilians, isn’t the Empire shipping thousands of families to Jupiter over the next decade? What’s a few extra visas between old friends?”
“The Relocate and Prosper Initiative is the reason I need you in the first place,” Christian’s tone sharpened. “Those citizens spend at least a year in labor settlements before earning full visas. Even soldiers serve under temporary status until their tour’s done. I can’t just hand out exceptions. You’ve got a martian, and a dishonorably discharged pilot, for Alfa’s sake.”
Daiko took a breath. This was as good a time as any to bring up the second half of his deal.
“Since you mentioned pilots. My other requirement is that I get to choose who pilots the prototype.”
Christian laughed.
“Since the Empire won’t let Cenn near a CORP cockpit, you mean the other one? Erin Kage? He’s good, but he’s never seen war, Hitori.”
“Not saying it’ll be one of mine, just that I get to choose.”
“That’s… easier done. Why so particular?”
“Can’t say much yet, but having the right pilot for the first run is integral.”
“We have great pilots, Hitori. Many trained by your own methods.”
“Then you know I won’t put anyone in the cockpit who doesn’t belong there,” he sighed, and hoped his tone sounded collaborative,
“This isn’t favoritism or some bitter-man’s gimmick. I promise.”
Christian rubbed his face, calculating.
“Does this specificity mean you’ve already got someone in mind?” His eyes emerged colder than Daiko expected.
“Not anyone specific, not yet.”
In truth he needed the right person. The mechanics of things was the easy part. After all, he’d taken a centuries-old sport and turned it inside out in under a few short years; in truth, he’d been preparing for Christian’s offer without knowing it.
“So,” Christian said, breaking into his thoughts, tone cautiously optimistic, “ten special citizen visas, and you choose the prototype’s pilot.”
“And they never see combat. No enrollment traps. We design, build, and test. When it’s ready for mass production, we hand over more of the reins.”
“More of the reins. Sounds like comprehensive jargon our lawyers are going to love.” Christian sighed. “I didn’t think you’d come easy, but I wasn’t expecting this. Honestly, I wouldn’t have blinked if you’d asked for something more extreme like a paddle to spank any Regia who tries to tell you what to do.”
“Well, I didn’t know you were offering. You’d do that?”
“No. But I was expecting it.”
Daiko gave his friend a well-earned smile. “Christian, you asked me to end the war. I wouldn’t have called you here if I didn’t mean to do just that.”
The amphitheater stood empty and silent for a time, disturbed only by a gust of wind. One of the suits behind them cleared his throat, and Christian checked his watch.
“That’s time for me. Look, I’ll have my people rewrite the contract, find a clever way to reword some of this but I’ll do my best.”
“Fair enough.”
“But I’m going to get ahead of this regardless. Tell Joyce she’ll have a draft of the contract delivered to her tonight. I leave the day after tomorrow, and I want to see your signature with my own eyes before I go under.”
So that was it. A chill slipped into Daiko’s jacket. He was going back and they were all coming with him.
“Another trip on ice, huh?”
“Hopefully my last.”
They shook hands, and the grip lingered. Then Christian asked, “Just between us—this meck you’re working on, how far along is it? I think the council is more likely to approve this if I can tell them you’ve already got something.”
Daiko’s grin turned wolfish. “Just tell them that when we get to Nuv Tosamir, we’ll hit the ground running.”
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