Chapter 1

“In ancient times,” the story began, “when primitive humans first spread across the stars, they bound themselves to each other for protection. They became willing slaves of god-kings and emperors in exchange for safety against drought, against cold, and against evil men. Only a few stayed independent–”

“What does independent mean?” the little girl interrupted.

The storyteller was Penelope, a woman approaching her late middle age, with lean cheeks and hair done up in a formal style. She sat in an elegant wheelchair that seemed almost to be an extension of the light gray chiton she wore. Next to her, tucked into bed for an afternoon nap, was her granddaughter Andromache. The sun shone brightly through the glass dome of the women’s quarters, and in the quiet moments one could hear the bustle of foot traffic on the street below.

That is, when little Andromache allowed there to be quiet moments. “And what’s a drought? And what’s ‘primitive?’”

Penelope sighed. “Let me try this again. Long ago, a lot of people became slaves to powerful men who promised them protection. Some planets decided that they didn’t want to bow down to an emperor, and ruled themselves. But the empires grew larger and larger, until one day an evil governor of the Bashi empire saw a woman named Philomena and wanted her to be his wife. She was already the wife of the noble king Attikos, but he thought to himself ‘The Bashi Empire is powerful. What can a single planet do against me?’ So he kidnapped Philomena and took her far away from home. Attikos was very upset, and he went to everyone he knew, saying that if they didn’t do something, it could be their wives who were next. So kings from all over the galaxy joined up with Attikos, defeated the evil governor, and saved Philomena. But Attikos knew that there would be other things that they couldn’t face alone. So he and the other kings decided to all be friends. If an empire attacked one of them, it would be as if it had attacked all of them. We used to be just a bunch of planets, but because of the Heshite Federation, we’re now a people. From our own Apokerat even to mighty Chryssa, all Heshite worlds look out for each other. Among all the nations in the galaxy, we’re the only ones who can truly say that we’re free, for we are ruled not by emperors or god-kings, but by the people.”

Andromache opened her eyes wide. “The people? Like me?”

Penelope chuckled. “Not… directly. But in a few years I’ll teach you how to make sure your husband votes just the way you want him to.”

A young woman pulled aside the curtain into the room. “Have you seen Timon? Our network’s down.”

Penelope looked up at her. “He said that he’d go to the gym after court today.”

The woman gave her curly hair an indignant toss. “What use is my fool brother managing communications for an entire city if he won’t even fix our house’s network?”

“Peace, Chloe, he’ll fix it when he comes home.”

Chloe gave a rueful smile and sat down on Andromache’s bed. “I know. I’m just going to be showing the girls my new project in an hour, and Sophia needs to call in.” She turned to Andromache. “And how’s my little dumpling? What story is grandma telling you today?”

“The one about Attikos and the Heshites!” Andromache said.

Chloe kissed her daughter on the forehead. “I’ll bet she skipped over all the exciting bits. Did she tell you about how Attikos hunted Kandalanu’s colossus to the galaxy’s edge? About the grand battle they fought there?”

“People shooting missiles at each other isn’t interesting. Building a society is,” Penelope remarked.

“Not if you put it that way,” Chloe protested. “But the way Attikos boarded the colossus, flying a few small fighters in through the breach he’d blown in its hull… The valor! The drama! The glory!”

Penelope shook her head. “I swear, Chloe, the way you talk makes it sound as if you want to be Attikos.”

“I don’t want to be Attikos! I want to be Philomena, whose virtue was rewarded with the arrival of her noble hero. Speaking of, is Apollo home yet?”

“I would expect that he’s with Timon.”

Chloe gave a dramatic sigh. “Will nobody rescue me from my cruel predicament?”

-  -  -

Across the city, Apollo sized Timon up from the opposite side of their sparring mat. Timon was a man around ten years Apollo’s senior, with a short beard and curly brown hair. He held his spear firmly in a neutral stance, and his eyes never left Apollo. But, as usual, he was debating the other gym-goers. 

A man named Cleomenes spoke up from one mat over. “And here I believed Citizen Phidias’s story. Goes to show that you can’t trust anyone these days.”

“I still believe it,” Timon said. “The facts line up much better with his side of the story. Besides, everyone knows Citizen Glaucon has it out for him.”

It’s like he thinks this is a symposium, not a gym. Apollo brushed a lock of golden hair out of his eyes as he planned his attack.

“You yourself said that you thought it was wise for him to settle,” Cleomenes said.

Timon gave Apollo an experimental jab, which was quickly deflected. “Yes, and I still do.”

“So why–” Apollo executed a deft lunge, but Timon swiftly knocked the padded spearpoint out of the way and countered with a strong thrust into Apollo’s chest.

Apollo staggered back, a little winded. “Wait, stop. What am I doing wrong here?”

Timon lowered his spear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it so hard.”

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine. But you keep on doing that… thing and I can’t figure out how to counter it.”

“It’s part of a standard attack pattern,” Timon said. 

“Curses,” Apollo muttered. “I hate when you say that. I come up with a brilliant play to fake you out only to discover some old wine-sack figured out a counter for it five hundred years ago.”

Timon chuckled. “If I remember the book right, you actually end up on top. You just have to learn the way the sequence plays out.”

Apollo heaved a breath. “Let me just get some water first.”

Timon nodded. “A break sounds good. Cleomenes, your question was..?”

“Why you think it was wise for him to settle out of court if he didn’t do anything wrong,” Cleomenes said.

Timon nodded. “Right. He’s innocent, but Glaucon’s a much better speaker. If the issue went in front of a jury, it wouldn’t go well for him.”

Cleomenes raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think the people of Basipolis would see through Glaucon’s rhetoric? You don’t have much faith in their intelligence.” 

Apollo spoke up. “Besides, if everybody settled like that, what’s our system for?”

“What do you mean?” Timon asked.

Apollo wiped his brow with a towel. “I mean that people have to have hope in order for the courts to work. If nobody stands up to Glaucon, he’s never going to get his just deserts.”

“But this wasn’t a battle that Phidias was going to win. Maybe it would spark an outcry, maybe not. All I know is that if he didn’t settle, Glaucon would’ve bled him for all he’s worth.”

Cleomenes frowned. “Again, Timon, you’re acting like the people of Basipolis are stupid.”

“I don’t think they’re stupid at all! I just think they can get so caught up in the moment that they fail to see the bigger picture.”

A small round communicator on top of Timon’s folded towel began to chirp, and Timon clipped it to his ear. Apollo and Cleomenes watched as his face grew puzzled. Soon he switched off the comm and turned back to the others. “It’s the towers. All off-continent comms are down, and we can’t contact Kerapan either. I need to go in person to see what’s wrong.”

“Do you need a ride?” Apollo asked.

“Much obliged.”

The two men put on street clothes: Apollo donned his meander-patterned tunic, and Timon put on a short sleeve shirt and pleated red skirt, covered by a long cloak. Timon took a little longer to get ready, since he had to get his service pistol from the locker, but they still made good time, catching the 6:45 train to Apollo’s district. They found their seats next to three women, who chatted amongst themselves with their arms full of shopping bags while their ‘male protector,’ a boy of around ten, sulked at being dragged along. 

The city of Basipolis flew past them, its tinted glass domes and white limestone pavement gleaming in the sun. The city’s crown jewel loomed in the distance: a titanic bronze discus thrower. This statue was of the city’s founder, a man named Basil. According to local legend, Apokerat’s head archon was so impressed with Basil’s skill that he gave him land, to be measured out by a single discus throw. So Basil stood at the summit of mount Aolia to get some extra distance, and Basipolis was born.

They got off a few stations over and walked the rest of the way to Apollo’s house, a squat limestone building on the edge of a park. A sign above the door advertised it as the “Flying Fish Shuttle Service,” and its flat roof served as a landing pad for the flying fish itself: a small twin-rotor aircraft called a gyropter.

Apollo started the engine and turned up the music until their bones were practically vibrating. Timon winced. “Oh, by the gods…”

The gyropter whirred to life, and Basipolis soon shrank beneath them. The rotors tilted forward and they picked up speed, heading towards the coast. Timon still cringed at the music’s thundering bass, but when Apollo put on a song he knew, he tapped his fingers to the beat all the same.

In a few minutes the ocean sprawled out in front of them, and Apollo turned to follow the coastline. The gyropter shook as a strong wind blew the clouds to shore, but he quickly stabilized the vehicle. Out to sea a gigantic ocean beast breached the waves, splashing white foam against the deep blue waters.

Apollo turned down the music. “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about something.”

Timon turned to give him his full attention.

“I’ve loved living so close to you all, and your mother’s been a big help to Chloe…”

“But..?”

“But… I want to move off-world.”

Timon raised an eyebrow. “Oh? To the capital or Lycurgia?”

Apollo shook his head. “Neither. I want to get out of the system completely. See the galaxy! Go to the edge of civilized space and join the fight against the savages.” He patted the dashboard. “Maybe I’ll switch old fish-guts here out for a doru. Now that’s a stylish ride.”

“You want to fight the Gutians?”

“Why not? I’ve seen the videos. If those bastards think they can get away with what they did on Melia, they’re dead wrong. And I want to be a part of it. There’s so much happening in the galaxy and I’m just… here. I’ve already talked to Chloe about it, of course.”

Timon chuckled. “Oh, I know she’s on board with the idea. But what happened that made you decide to go just now?”

“Oh, I would’ve been out of here long ago, but out-of-system travel is so expensive…”

“Apollo, you could’ve just asked. If this is really what you want, I’d be happy to fund–”

“No, no. I want to earn my dream myself. I guess all I’m asking for is your blessing.”

Timon smiled. “You have it. And when you’re summoned back to the capital to get your medal of valor, let me know. I’ve been meaning to visit the moon and that would be an excellent excuse.”

For a few moments only the whir of the rotors punctuated the silence. Then Timon spoke up again. “But I will miss you.”

-  -  -

In another hour, Kerapan’s space port came into view: An arc of concrete straddled two inland hills, studded with spacecraft of all shapes and sizes. But none of them budged from their docks. No craft came in, and none left. It was quiet.

“Too quiet,” Timon said.

Apollo had to agree.

The city proper rested just below the space port, its blue and white buildings crammed around a veritable labyrinth of roads. Apollo landed his gyropter next to the temple in the administrative quarter, and they quickly found the communications building. An attendant showed them up to the observation deck, where a dark-skinned man with a red headband paced.

“Dyktarch Timon of Basipolis,” the attendant announced.

The dyktarch of Kerapan shook Timon’s hand. “Good to see you, Timon.”

“What’s going on?”

He shook his head. “Sensors and comms are down across the city, and even the trains have stopped. Most small electronics have gone dark, but, praise Spairon, the mains seem to have survived.”

“A solar storm?”

“Sounds like it, but we haven’t gotten any warning of one. I’ve sent a messenger to the observatory- ah, here he comes now.”

A slave ran in and handed them a sheaf of papers. “The final readings.”

Kerapan’s dyktarch flipped through the pages, then wordlessly handed them to Timon. Timon took one look at it and put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

Apollo looked over Timon’s shoulder at the report. Graphs of various sorts consumed most of the pages, but he caught a glimpse on the front page of the report’s basic conclusion: “Solar activity nominal.”

“I’ll work on an emergency signal,” Kerapan’s dyktarch said. “Something has to have survived the pulse.” 

Apollo frowned. “What’s going on? What’s the sun doing?”

“Nothing,” Timon said. “That’s the issue.”

“What do you mean? If this isn’t a solar storm, what is it?”

Timon let out a long breath. “An atomic weapon.”