time since the war, Catrine says. She's in hiding, waiting for the right moment to come out.
Tasneem Kyoh is legendary, Murray says. I can't believe she's alive.
She's not, Hatsuye says. She's lying. You're lying.
I'm telling the truth, Catrine says.
Proof would help, Hatsuye says.
Do you have a wave system? Catrine asks.
Murray points at the wall beside the bed.
Catrine fiddles with the system, then settles on a raw frequency that's crunchy with static. Between the static, however, a woman's voice can be heard.
I heard that earlier, Hatsuye says. Someone else was listening to it.
Meet Tasneem Kyoh, Catrine says.
... hard to remember what things were [static] the Council. Before the Citadel. We're made to work [static] forget to remember. But I remember. I never forget. I remember [static] was stolen away.
Catrine turns the system off.
She's in hiding, seeding the Machine class with these messages, waiting for something to sprout, Catrine says. So far, there's not much. Little uprisings here and there, always crushed by the Citadel.
Where is she? Hatsuye asks.
In hiding, Catrine says again. She's not coming out until she's needed.
She's needed now, Hatsuye says. This revolution needs a face.
If she comes out now, the Citadel will kill her, Catrine says.
Martyrs inspire change, Hatsuye says.
Maybe, says Catrine. But if they killed her now, it would be a story. Not a martyrdom. There aren't enough people in the movement to rise up yet. There's no movement. Most of the system never hears these broadcasts. Most of the system never hears about the little rebellions. They have their own problems.
I'd like to meet her, Hatsuye says. How old is she now?
Must be a thousand, Murray says, unwrapping his belly.
Not quite, Catrine says. She's between five hundred and six hundred years old. I always forget exactly. She never liked that. My memory wasn't good with those kinds of things.
You said the system needs a reason to rise up, Hatsuye says.
They need a reason to believe that freedom matters, Catrine says. Most of them need a definition for freedom. They'd be lost if they had it. They've lived under the Council for so long. Someone needs to remind them of what we once had.
Tonight might serve that purpose, Hatsuye says.
They wouldn't tell me much, Catrine says.
Neither will I, Hatsuye says.
Murray stands up, and unwraps his chest. Two breasts plop out, imprinted with bandage marks.
Catrine stares, then looks at Hatsuye.
Hatsuye shrugs. We have secrets, too.
Murray looks up and sees Catrine staring. What? he asks.
You -- you have breasts, Catrine says.
Yes, Murray says.
You're -- are you a woman?
Hatsuye rolls her eyes.
It's a fair question, Murray says.
Hatsuye walks over to Murray and pulls at the bandages on his head, revealing first one eye, then the next.
Hey, hey, whoa, Murray says. That hurts. Let me do it.
Murray pulls and pulls, unwinding the bandages carefully. A shock of red hair emerges, matted and snagged by the wrappings. Two blue eyes, a narrow nose, two sharp cheekbones. Plump, feminine lips.
Hatsuye turns to Catrine, whose mouth hangs open.
Catrine Newsome, she says. I'd like you to meet the real face of the revolution.
She's a little dramatic, Murray says, extending one still-bandaged hand. I'm Evelyn Jans.
Greatfall
Olympus is a prism.
Its great columns and spheres of glass catch the waning Mars sunset and fragment it, spearing shards of light this way and that. The rusty desert surrounding the city dances with thrown light. Tiny beads of light flit through the streets and airways, each containing a Martian. An Olympian. The city is approaching nightfall, its residents struggling to get home, to see their families, to dine and sleep.
Deimos is a great stone, tumbling overhead.
It it pitted and cavernous in places, the enormous chasms plugged with mining scaffolds and building-sized drills and thudding, pounding
Tasneem Kyoh is legendary, Murray says. I can't believe she's alive.
She's not, Hatsuye says. She's lying. You're lying.
I'm telling the truth, Catrine says.
Proof would help, Hatsuye says.
Do you have a wave system? Catrine asks.
Murray points at the wall beside the bed.
Catrine fiddles with the system, then settles on a raw frequency that's crunchy with static. Between the static, however, a woman's voice can be heard.
I heard that earlier, Hatsuye says. Someone else was listening to it.
Meet Tasneem Kyoh, Catrine says.
... hard to remember what things were [static] the Council. Before the Citadel. We're made to work [static] forget to remember. But I remember. I never forget. I remember [static] was stolen away.
Catrine turns the system off.
She's in hiding, seeding the Machine class with these messages, waiting for something to sprout, Catrine says. So far, there's not much. Little uprisings here and there, always crushed by the Citadel.
Where is she? Hatsuye asks.
In hiding, Catrine says again. She's not coming out until she's needed.
She's needed now, Hatsuye says. This revolution needs a face.
If she comes out now, the Citadel will kill her, Catrine says.
Martyrs inspire change, Hatsuye says.
Maybe, says Catrine. But if they killed her now, it would be a story. Not a martyrdom. There aren't enough people in the movement to rise up yet. There's no movement. Most of the system never hears these broadcasts. Most of the system never hears about the little rebellions. They have their own problems.
I'd like to meet her, Hatsuye says. How old is she now?
Must be a thousand, Murray says, unwrapping his belly.
Not quite, Catrine says. She's between five hundred and six hundred years old. I always forget exactly. She never liked that. My memory wasn't good with those kinds of things.
You said the system needs a reason to rise up, Hatsuye says.
They need a reason to believe that freedom matters, Catrine says. Most of them need a definition for freedom. They'd be lost if they had it. They've lived under the Council for so long. Someone needs to remind them of what we once had.
Tonight might serve that purpose, Hatsuye says.
They wouldn't tell me much, Catrine says.
Neither will I, Hatsuye says.
Murray stands up, and unwraps his chest. Two breasts plop out, imprinted with bandage marks.
Catrine stares, then looks at Hatsuye.
Hatsuye shrugs. We have secrets, too.
Murray looks up and sees Catrine staring. What? he asks.
You -- you have breasts, Catrine says.
Yes, Murray says.
You're -- are you a woman?
Hatsuye rolls her eyes.
It's a fair question, Murray says.
Hatsuye walks over to Murray and pulls at the bandages on his head, revealing first one eye, then the next.
Hey, hey, whoa, Murray says. That hurts. Let me do it.
Murray pulls and pulls, unwinding the bandages carefully. A shock of red hair emerges, matted and snagged by the wrappings. Two blue eyes, a narrow nose, two sharp cheekbones. Plump, feminine lips.
Hatsuye turns to Catrine, whose mouth hangs open.
Catrine Newsome, she says. I'd like you to meet the real face of the revolution.
She's a little dramatic, Murray says, extending one still-bandaged hand. I'm Evelyn Jans.
Greatfall
Olympus is a prism.
Its great columns and spheres of glass catch the waning Mars sunset and fragment it, spearing shards of light this way and that. The rusty desert surrounding the city dances with thrown light. Tiny beads of light flit through the streets and airways, each containing a Martian. An Olympian. The city is approaching nightfall, its residents struggling to get home, to see their families, to dine and sleep.
Deimos is a great stone, tumbling overhead.
It it pitted and cavernous in places, the enormous chasms plugged with mining scaffolds and building-sized drills and thudding, pounding
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