The Red Future

This story, Halo: The Red Future, written by slowfuture, was voted as the Best Short Fiction of 2022 in the Fifteenth Annual Halo Fanon Wikia Awards.

This article, Halo: The Red Future, was written by slowfuture. Please do not edit this fiction without the writer's permission.

The Red Future

The Red Future
“Each of us have a gift, you see, given us freely by the universe. And each of us with every breath gives something back” ― Kim Stanley Robinson, Red Mars
Protagonist	Andra Kearsarge Hera,
Author	slowfuture
Previous Story	None
[Source]

Halo: The Red Future is a short story in three parts by user slowfuture. It tells the story of Andra-D054 as she makes a brief stay on Kropotkin and learns about life outside of the regimented and fixed UNSC, eventually she finds an old mentor and seeks to learn what made them so willing to give up the life they had always known.

Contents

"The chief guide which must direct us in the choice of a profession is the welfare of mankind and our own perfection. It should not be thought that these two interests could be in conflict, that one would have to destroy the other; on the contrary, man's nature is so constituted that he can attain his own perfection only by working for the perfection, for the good, of his fellow men. [...] If we have chosen the position in life in which we can most of all work for mankind, no burdens can bow us down, because they are sacrifices for the benefit of all; then we shall experience no petty, limited, selfish joy, but our happiness will belong to millions, our deeds will live on quietly but perpetually at work, and over our ashes will be shed the hot tears of noble people."

― Reflections of a Youth on Choosing an Occupation, Karl Marx

Part One: Coffee and a Dream

Against the backdrop of a clear, starless early morning, a tattered red and black flag fluttered in the soft breeze. The golden hammer and compass faded, the letters on its edges illegible. Its frayed fingers stretched out across the city below. The stars found themselves in the bright orange hues of the houses and office buildings, contrasted sharply with the grey, lifeless brick. Some of the outer walls were lucky to be decorated with posters of realistic men and women, eyes piercing towards the heavens, holding the tools of their labour. Slogans ranged from: ‘Together we shall conquer the stars!’ to the more milquetoast; ‘Let us work as one to achieve economic stability!’ The paint was faded, the paper matched the flag above it as it was shorn at the edges. Yet, the smiles of the workers remained uncorrupted, fighting against the creeping entropy.

The twin moons began their retreat beyond the horizon and the first rays of clementine sun emerged, cutting through the heavenly black above and warming the grey below. The air was cooling, but retreating. The flag high above the city came to a stop and died, falling gracelessly against the pole. It was still too early in the sunrise for most workers to begin their day, their well deserved rest unmolested. Still, some workers lazily walked the streets, their eyes glazed with sleep. The morning coffee shops needed to be opened for the other labourers to become energised before their day began. One such worker, a small datapad in her hand, cap in the other, stood alone.

Andra Kearsarge, Colonial Literature student and Spartan supersoldier, squinted at the propaganda. Her eyes focused on one particular woman. Dark skin, unnaturally bright eyes and an unsmiling grimace. Scars delicately copied across her dour face. She looked familiar. Andra had been on Kropotkin, the only communist human world, for seven weeks, ostensibly to discover its literature. Andra scratched her neck and walked off, the woman on the wall lingering in the corner of her eye. She yawned, and a small tuft of auburn hair fell from the tight bun on her head. She tutted and agitatedly put her cap on: a small light bulb logo was stitched proudly in the middle. The only small piece of colour on her dirty grey work suit. Her heavy boots plodded heavily on the pavement, but unnoticed. She gave some workers a gentle nod of the head, others a quiet toothless smile.

She pushed through the door to a communal canteen opened early to serve coffee and breakfast.

“Hi Andra,” a woman’s voice said with a welcoming smile, “the usual?”

“Yeah, thank you, Mary,” came her reply.

She pulled a chair out and sat down. She shuffled the chair towards the table awkwardly. Once comfortable, she took her cap off and set it in front of her - the hair now more out of place, Andra had to blow a wayward strand from her face. She reclined and buzzed open her datapad and clicked on the book she had spent the last few days reading.

“There you are, lovely,” Mary said, setting down a steaming hot cup of coffee, “Hanh is just finishing up your food, shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Thank you, Mary,” Andra replied, returning the smile.

“Who are we reading today?”

“Rosa,” Andra said, looking at the hardened face above her.

“Enjoying it?”

Andra laughed, “I’m not sure, still only 150 pages in.”

“Rosa, god love her, was a great leader, but her penmanship left a lot to be desired.”

Andra smiled sheepishly. Mary placed a comforting hand on her shoulder before heading back to the canteen’s kitchen.

Andra gripped the mug and brought it to her lips, blowing gently before taking a sip and setting it back down. She leaned over and took out a sachet of brown sugar, shook it, and ripped it open with her teeth before pouring it in and using the spoon to stir. Her eyes never left the datapad.

“Revolution is the greatest act of the love the proletariat can do for itself,” the sentence Andra’s eyes rested on said.

She set her datapad down and chewed on her lip in between taking sips of the bitter coffee, the sugar barely cutting through. As with all the other revolutionary literature Andra had consumed during her stay, she found it hard to reconcile with her own experiences. Life as a Spartan taking down numerous insurrectionist cells had hardened her against their beliefs. She’d heard stories from Josh and Callum about active cells that had fought against the UNSC during the Great War. It was not something she clearly understood and the thought caused some lingering revulsion to bubble up in her stomach.

Despite this, Kropotkin felt different. Andra looked up from the datapad and out onto the street through the great window beside her. Her mind drifted to working with Stray all those years ago. She’d seen some Kropotkin revolutionaries among the ship she had been stationed on; the way they stood and presented themselves made them stand out in her mind. Their neat black uniforms peppered with the scarlet red blood of the proletariat, their eyes determined. She’d remembered their hands too, calloused from a lifetime of labour outside of their revolutionary goals.

Still, it wasn’t their uniforms that painted them so vividly in Andra’s memory. They stood on the other side of the hanger, amongst themselves. The Pro-Stray faction of the insurrectionists threw them nervous gazes and had their backs turned almost the entire duration. The Kropotkiners didn’t seem to mind, but some of what these other, grizzled rebels spoke about surprised the then young teen. She remembered the oldest of her crowd, a woman in her mid-sixties, her hair white, her face covered in scars and an eye missing covered by an eye patch. Andra remembered that she spoke in frenzied whispers, calling them red terrorists, dangerous ideologues, unhinged revolutionaries. Andra remembered it being met by stern nods and grunts of agreement by other equally aged insurrectionists.

Even then, aboard a ship with discordant groups and factions, she felt such a damning indictment had been incorrect. As quickly as they had appeared, the Kropotkin detachment had left without a word, orderly and disciplined. Andra had not had an opportunity to speak to one of them and the purpose with which they had marched through the hanger to their ship suggested to her that at the very least, the woman had been correct about them being ideologues. A man who had been in the room during the negotiations had cracked a joke about them being short-sighted farmer socialists; anarchists living in a dream.

Andra was brought out of the memory by her breakfast arriving, the plate landing on the table with a sharp jolt.

“There you are, lovely,” Mary said, “would you like some salt or pepper?”

Andra shook her head.

“More coffee?”

Andra shook her head again.

“Okay, Andra,” Mary smiled, her hand returning to Andra’s shoulder, “you enjoy your breakfast and I’ll speak to you after.”

Andra picked up a spoon and cracked the soft yellow yoke that sat atop her savoury congee; it was a darker yellow from the chicken stock the canteen used. She scooped some up, blowly quickly on the steaming food, and popped it in her mouth. The congee was silky, and the egg cooked exactly how she liked it. The crunchy green onions brought some much needed textural contrast and a refreshing vegetal flavour. She smiled as she had every morning since she’d found this canteen. It was quiet, the food was good and Hanh and Mary always had a cheery word for her - Hanh had taken to giving her sweets after she once let out that she had a sweet tooth that she was fighting.

She continued to survey the world outside the window. The buildings were austere, utilitarian, built with a purpose in mind and forgoing the aesthetic. The licks of paint that could be found were on the flags hanging proudly from masts and the propaganda that ran everywhere, written in the multitude languages spoken by the masses of Kropotkin. The sun was still only beginning its morning journey, and small strobes of light drifted delicately from behind the highrises. The streets still stood empty, still far too early for most. It was quiet. To Andra, it was eerie. There was not much to see outside her window but the oppressive quiet and solitude of an early morning.

That made it all the more compelling for her to study, to take in. She was far now from the cacophony of battle or the competing voices of the classroom, each chaotic and domineering on the senses in their own unique way. The first two weeks on Kropotkin had been an adjustment for Andra. Of course during the midday the world was alive and full of sound, but it was not frenzied - almost purposeful and orderly. But more often than not, the young girl, body full of scars and head pounding with trauma, had been able to find moments of genuine quiet; the opportunity for reflection abounded. Her senses, her understanding of life, had been challenged from the first moment she entered Lenin City airport.

She was not naive. Life on Kropotkin was hard. Luxury did not exist and was almost a dirty word; a vice unworthy of indulging. Cut off as it was from the human empire, things ran out, food stuffs at times became scarce. The massive 3D printers that ran full time could only provide so much, this world could only provide so much, exploited and stripped bare as it had been in its first two decades and then the devastating civil war over the next decade and a half. Such a predicament could have sent others less devout in their beliefs scurrying back to the warm embrace of the UEG, but she found Kropotkiners hardy. She still struggled to understand the immense pride with which these poor outer colonists spoke of fighting against the struggle they had brought upon themselves. She had never seen people so unafraid of the challenge, of surpassing their own limitations. Struggle, she found, was a way of life to these people and one they gorged on.

The contrast of Earth, the jewel of humanity, the world billions had died protecting, sharply appeared into mind. She thought of her time in Seattle, a city so profoundly rich and prosperous, a city that made this one look like a village in comparison. The tall, opulent skyscrapers, glittering like jewels in the starlight, shone brightly in her memory. The more you looked down, past the skycars, further from the heavens, the earth rotted and twisted rose up to meet your gaze. The streets were littered with colonists arriving on Earth with nothing, their life scorched in hellfire and cooled in glass. Left to wander aimlessly through the streets, off the grid as their records were destroyed. Abandoned by the same people they had fought to protect. Life on Earth, it seemed, was chaotic and individualistic and hard. Life on Kropotkin was hard, brutal, but communal. It confused her.

“I see you’re finished,” Hanh said, tossing a sugar sweet at Andra to break her stupor.

Andra gratefully took it and put it in her pocket; a treat for later.

“Thank you for breakfast,” she said.

Hanh simply smiled as he took a seat next to her. Mary was close behind, two cups of coffee in hand. One was steaming.

“Shit,” Hanh said, turning and taking the non-steaming mug. “Thanks, Mary.”

Mary rolled her eyes playfully, a small lock of ginger hair complimenting her happy face. She took the seat next to Hanh’s and laced her fingers with his, softly stroking his thumb.

“Mary mentioned you’ve been reading Rosa - what do you think?”

“Like I said to Mary,” Andra replied as she turned to face the pair, “I’m only about 150 or so pages in.”

“I know, but you have some impressions of her?”

Andra nodded.

“I guess I do,” she said, “She’s not as eloquent as the others I’ve read but there seems to be more… Fire? I think, in her writing.” The pair nodded.

“Who have you read?” Mary asked.

“Uhh, I’ve read some Marx, of course, a little Lenin, but I’ve mostly been reading you Kropotkiners, so Rosa, Friedrich, Erich. Read a couple by Erich, actually.”

“Ah, I knew she’d be more like me, didn’t I, Mary?” Hanh laughed, planting a playful kiss on Mary’s cheek.

“Still,” he said, more sombrely, “Friedrich and Erich were taken from us too soon.”

“Like you?” Andra asked.

“Yes,” Hanh nodded, “an anarchist. A syndicalist, really.”

“I don’t know about that,” Andra laughed tonelessly.

“Leave the poor off-worlder alone, Hanh,” Mary said.

Andra turned to face Mary more readily.

“Are you not an anarchist?” she asked Mary.

Mary shook her head.

“No, I’m a Marxist-Leninst in the old parlance; like Koslovic was in the 22nd century. I just think Koslovicism as a term is a bit misleading.”

“You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t really understand the difference - don’t you both want the same thing?”

The two Kropotkiners turned to each other and smiled, a private joke Andra was not privy to.

“In a sense, I guess we do,” Mary replied.

“The distinction doesn’t matter too much on Kropotkin admittedly,” Hanh continued, “we’ve allegedly achieved communism.”

The last word lingered a little too long on his tongue, said with some indignance.

“We have a bit too much state for him and his,” Mary said.

Hanh raised his hands.

“It’s academic, I can’t deny I would change things, but things are working and I’m not an idealist.”

“What would you change?” Andra asked.

“You don’t want to hear that, it’d bore you,” Hanh said sheepishly.

“Please,” Andra protested. “I would like to.”

“Go on, Hanh,” Mary encouraged, “the Stasi aren’t going to come through the door.”

Hanh laughed.

“Look, the crux of it is I regret how the anarchists during the Revolution were willing to take such a back seat to the Reds, but I understand it.”

“He’s still bitter that the Revolutionary Communist Party was supported by Thebes when they arrived.”

“A little, yes,” he said.

Andra could tell this was a well thrashed out argument. Mary’s counterpoints seemed to effortlessly appear almost before Hanh had finished speaking. She could not deny the love each of them had for each other. Their eyes shone bright and beautiful when they looked at each other. Their cheeks flushed red, their smiles never leaving their face. What might have once been a painful political difference seemed resolved, a fun game the pair played now to whatever audience would indulge them.

“But,” he continued, “Prachanda’s uprising, brief as it was, really changed the development of Kropotkin. We don’t have a state, not really but some apparatus is there and it’s holding us back.”

“Hanh,” Mary replied, “we have the entire human sphere against us - we need something to protect ourselves from the imperialists!”

“Mary, please,” Hanh said, grabbing Mary’s hand softly, “I know. I understand it, I just don’t agree with it. Plenty of us in the AWCK feel similarly but we know we’re not sidelined here as in revolutions past.”

“Sidelined in revolutions past?” Andra asked, interest further piqued.

“You really don’t know your history of workers’ uprisings, do you, kid?” Hanh retorted.

Andra blushed and shook her head.

“Kropotkin was the first Workers’ State to accept Anarchists. Rosa was a Marxist-Leninist, so were most of the leadership at the time, but they took us Anarchists on board, listened to us, treated us as equals. In times past we’d fight, the Red and Black.”

He pointed to a flag outside.

“That’s why our flag is red and black; unity of the Marxists and Anarchists; the masses united as one.”

“To this day,” Mary began, “I still can’t believe Rosa accepted the proposal to establish the Syndicalist Councils so quickly.”

“Friedrich and Erich’s legacy,” Hanh said, “god I miss them dearly.”

“You both fought in the revolution, then?” Andra asked.

They nodded.

“And the Civil War after,” Mary said.

“Our fighting days are done,” Hanh said, picking up where Mary left off. “There’s a younger generation of Kropotkiners now taking the struggle to the stars.”

Andra looked away. Before her sat two hardened, battle tested, revolutionaries. They did not seem the type. Mary was plump for a Kropotkiner, and Hanh had soft features but his eyes were piercing and silver. Yet, here they sat, on the world they helped to forge, making coffee and conversation with an off-world stranger who had happened to look lonely one day.

“But,” Mary said, “we’ve talked enough about old Kropotkiner wounds. The future is all that matters.”

“Indeed,” Hanh said.

He rolled another sweet towards Andra.

“So where is Joseph taking you to work today?”

“Some industrial park,” Andra said, “One of the generators for the big 3D printer there has started sputtering along, we’re there to investigate it. Not sure if we’re fixing it though.”

“Is he still working you hard?”

“He is,” Andra said, throwing the hardened candy into her mouth.

“Labour is man’s greatest endeavour! You must put your soul into it!” Andra said in a mock imitation of Joseph.

Her companions laughed.

“That was quite good, kiddo,” Mary said.

“Do you like the work?” Hanh chimed in.

“Yeah, I do,” Andra replied thoughtfully, “it’s nice to play a part in building something.” The warmth of the smile her companions beamed at her almost brought the young Spartan, so far away from everything she knew, to tears. A lump formed in her throat and she had to swallow hard. Mary and Hanh reached over and took a hand each and squeezed.

“It makes life worth living, Andra,” Mary said, “there’s nothing better in the whole galaxy.”

The door to the canteen chimed and another person walked in.

“Be right with you, lovely,” Mary said standing up. Hanh followed suit and headed back into the kitchen, both mugs in his hands.

The new person said nothing and took a seat at the other end of the room.

“You have a good day now, Andra,” Mary cooed as she cupped Andra’s face, “labour hard, rest easy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Andra smiled, she lifted the mug on her table and gulped the last cool dregs of her coffee. Her mouth was met by the sugary sludge at the bottom of an ill-stirred coffee. She crunched on the sugar that remained and got up. She put her cap on and waved at her companions before heading out the door.

The sun was fully risen, the sky cloudless and azure. The air warm, Andra immediately began perspiring in her thick jumpsuit. Even so, the day was young and eager to be grasped. The task of fixing something essential, contributing something positive to this world, no matter how small, filled the young girl with hope and joy.

It really did feel good to build something up instead of tearing it down.

Part Two: The Gift of Labour

"What I was born to may not be taken from me. She hesitates. It may only be added to."

― A Song for Arbonne, Guy Gavriel Kay

The sun loomed high and large across the horizon, past the zenith, far to the west as it began to set. Its heat was still brutal and warm; it soaked the earth in its balmy rays. Andra lay underneath a generator, flashlight in her mouth, as she worked on the generator that had failed the day prior. Her work colleague, having spent a while in her position, sat on a wall, his dark skin drenched in sweat. He held a flask of water, taking deep gulps of it - thankfully kept cool by its container.

“I think I got it,” Andra said, sliding out from underneath.

“Okay,” Joseph said, “I’ll give it a go.”

Joseph, tall, lumbering man as he was, walked towards the controls for the gargantuan 3D printer that seemed to pierce the heavens with quiet confidence. The middle aged technician, crooked over the controls, played with the buttons for a few moments. Nothing happened.

“Nothing, lass,” he shouted.

“Let me try this,” came the reply.

Andra placed the flashlight back into her mouth and slid under again, the oppressive heat greeted her once more. Perspiration clouded her vision, but she was intimate enough with the wires intricately decorated before her that it did not hold her back. She carefully worked with the delicate electronics in front of her, making sure the connections she was working with were maintained; she eliminated what she determined to be superfluous ones and created new ones where required.

Satisfied, she rolled out for a second time.

“Try now, Joseph,” she called.

WIthout hesitation, the old Kropotkiner diligently keyed away at the console. His tongue stuck out of his mouth in concentration, his fingers furiously moving. The enormous 3D printer whirred into life like the morning call of the birds. Its musical humming broke through the silence between the two workers. The cumulus clouds above were stitched patchwork across the sky. It was as if the God above had taken a brush, delicately dipped it in white paint, and thrown the flecks on a canvas. They drifted softly and directionless, absent of worry. Joseph’s eyes raised to them, passed the machine that touched the heavens. He took a deep inhale of air, as if seeking to steal some part of them deep within himself.

“Come on out, Andra,” he shouted over the din, “Our work is done.”

Andra rolled herself out, the sun blinding her as she did so. She exhaled deeply and wiped some sweat and dust from her eyes. Her safety glasses lay somewhere to her left. Andra pushed herself up before standing upright. Her bones creaked and she groaned, placing a hand on the small of her back. She heard a chuckle from Joseph. He had laid out sandwiches on a small blanket on the wall he was sitting on. A cool flask with two cups stood next to them. He ushered her over with one of his soft, large hands.

Andra scrutinised her colleague as she walked over. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and his prominent bushy moustache had matted with perspiration. His eyes, the dark brown pools, were relaxed, resplendent in the sunlight. His wrinkles and soft smile, never far from his face, de-aged him making him look far younger than his seventy-two years around the twin moons. Joseph’s body was still muscular and in good shape, his shoulders large and rounded. Even sitting on the wall comfortably, his back was as straight as a young communard marching to celebrate Independence Day. An image of him trooping down the boulevard draped in the Red and Black came easily to Andra. Indeed, peeking up from under his collar was a hammer and sickle tattoo, faded and proud.

Andra took her place on the wall next to Joseph and lifted one of his sandwiches. Cheese and pickle relish on brown bread. Not her favourite, but she ate gratefully. She chewed with her mouth open, pieces of food fell carelessly from her mouth. There was a small piece of pickle on her thumb, she quickly sucked it clean as she lifted the flask and pointed it in Joseph’s direction. He nodded, the sweat on his face blinding. Andra diligently poured Joseph water, small droplets spilled out from the sides. He gratefully took it and sipped before setting it down at his feet. It was his turn to groan now. Having also poured her own, she splashed some onto her hands and cooled the back of her neck. The water dripped down the back of her work suit. It soothed her. Andra drank the rest of her cup in one generous gulp. She poured another.

“Good work today,” Joseph said.

“Thank you,” Andra replied softly, a trace of a grin appeared at the corner of her mouth. “It’s fulfilling work.”

“All labour is, kid,” Joseph replied, placing a large calloused hand on her shoulder.

The two sat for a few moments in silence, their eyes plastered on the horizon, looking past the machine they had fixed. The machine sat on the periphery of a much larger industrial complex, dozens of similar machines stood behind it, exactly spaced, like birthday candles. Beyond that, lay a prairie, the lush verdant grass baked brown in the hot Kropotkin summer. A toothy mountain range lay at the limit of their sight, its jagged peaks rubbed soft by the blurring of their vision. The sun lazily hung between a gap in the range, its orange hue fading gently as it began its deserved slumber. Behind them, unnoticed, the twin jewelled moons began their ascent to guide the faithful.

“It’s quite a sight,” Joseph said, “isn’t it?”

Andra said nothing, her eyes transfixed on the scene before her.

“And to think, it’s all ours,” Joseph continued. “We own this land, we use it for us and what we need and we needed this.”

“Needed what?”

“Silence,” Joseph said, “beauty. The ability to reflect.”

Andra turned to look at him.

“Do you see that depression, about 45 yards to our left?” Joseph said, gesticulating with a meaty finger.

“Yeah,” Andra replied.

“That’s a natural gas deposit, and we won’t touch it.”

“Why not? Don’t you need more resources?”

“We do,” Joseph said softly and with creeping indignation, “but the risk to this environment was deemed too much, so we left it.”

Andra’s gaze never left him, an eyebrow raised.

Joseph smiled at her, his eyes large and sorrowful, almost pitying.

“You’re not from here,” he said, “I don’t expect you to get it - I’ve grown up with this way of thinking.”

“It just seems to me to be a waste,” Andra said, “especially with the shortages.”

“Some things are worth making sacrifices for,” he said, “we can always find more gas.”

He stopped and surveyed the prairie again, drinking in its details.

“There is only one prairie that looks like this,” he said, “in the whole galaxy and we’re lucky enough to be looking at it.”

“I’ve seen plenty like this,” Andra replied.

His smile returned.

“Find joy in the mundane, Andra,” he said, “thousands of canvases have been filled with paint to reproduce what we’re seeing.”

She shrugged her shoulders and took another bite of her sandwich. Andra’s feet dangled from the wall she sat on and she kicked them back and forth. Joseph simply leaned back on the wall with his hands held together as he pressed his arm against it; his feet crossed over the other. His boots were covered in mud, now clay from the heat. The sweat continued to drip from his face, small droplets landing in the cup of water he had forgotten about at his feet.

Sullenly, Andra’s thoughts drifted to Josh, his occasional chats-cum-lectures on things. He’d mentioned off-hand once about coming to Kropotkin, but he never spoke about it too much. Sometimes, when it came up, she thought she could see ephemeral light in those dead, sunken eyes of his. Gone forever, those half-formed thoughts she was not privy to. Lost to the abyss of space. An ache, once sharp and piercing, lay dull and deep in her heart. Her hand instinctively reached for her chest and gripped her clothes. If I hold tight enough, maybe the ache will stay, she thought. It didn’t. Like all things under the sun, it was transitory and as quickly as it arrived, it had sailed away leaving nothing behind. Not even a ripple upon a still sea.

“Thinking of someone?” Joseph asked quietly.

Andra nodded.

“Important to you?”

“Yeah,” she said, her gaze averted from her companion. “My brother, I guess.”

“He’s gone?”

“He is,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Joseph said, “I know loss, too.”

“It’s okay,” she replied, “he’s been gone a long time.”

Joseph placed his hands back on her shoulder and gave a hard squeeze.

“Huh,” Andra said, “he’s been dead longer than I knew him.”

“Ah,” Joseph breathed.

“I only knew him briefly, in the grand scheme of things,” she began, “but he left an impression.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died right at the beginning of the Created Crisis, I don’t know how,” she said. The half-lie came effortlessly to her.

There was a pregnant pause as Joseph waited for more. Andra took a moment and gulped in a deep breath of air.

Flashes of standing in one of the Infinity’s many hangers returned to her. The immaculately presented Spartans, Frendsen typing away. The crack and shimmer of the Beckett coming out of slipspace. The excitement of seeing Josh, of being able to make sense in a galaxy inverted and strange. And finally, the crushing hammer to her chest when she saw Amy broken and half-dead and learning that Josh was gone and full dead.

“I still remember being told,” she said finally, “it’s not really something you forget, is it?”

Joseph smiled sympathetically at her. She still did not see it.

“Everything changes when something like that happens, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Joseph replied.

“You must have lost people during the Revolution, right?” Andra asked, turning to look at him, “how did you do it?”

Joseph sighed.

“I was lucky,” he began, “I didn’t fight during the Revolution, not that I didn’t believe in it, I did. I’m an ardent Communist, but I didn’t fight. Most of my friends and I did ambulance work, picking up wounded Comrades and taking them somewhere safe.”

He paused.

“One day, a rocket hit our station,” he swallowed hard, “most of my friends died that day. I was lucky to not join them.” “How did you keep going?” She implored.

“I wish I had something better to say for you than I don’t know, because I don’t know,” he said, “I just did. I had to live and keep going so my friends didn’t die for nothing.”

He pointed to his chest, pressed his finger hard against his sternum.

“It doesn’t hurt like it used to,” he said, “and that saddens me, but what good does it do to always mourn? To remember their death more than their life?”

Andra looked away and up. The stars had begun to show, their soft glow peeking through the dusk purple sky.

“But this,” Joseph said again, pointing first to the Printer and then the pristine view in front of them, “this is what they died for.”

He paused again, searching for the right words.

“No, this is what they lived for. This is what we all lived for, fought for. What I am still living for. Death was only the final act of their life, the smallest and most insignificant. But they are not dead, this world is alive and they are alive in his world. Everyday we live as we chose, they stay alive. The dead are only dead if we let him be dead, they’re with us forever in our actions, our choices. We Kropotkiners keep our dead alive through our work, with our hands.”

She didn’t believe him. Josh was dead, forever. He may have been a teacher, one whose legacy she embodied, but she rejected a lot of even his teachings. Josh was dead and nothing would ever change that. He was static now, his views, his thoughts, his feelings hazily immortalised in memory. Because of that, she would always love him - no, the idea of him. The Josh in her heart and memory was not the real Josh, but a refraction of him, distorted to be perfect. She knew, deep down, that had he lived, she’d have stopped loving him eventually. He was a lot of things, a lot of positive things, to her but he was an anchor. Merlin’s broken ribs, Josh’s final demonstration of love, was proof of that.

At the end of everything, memory is all that remains. The final, foggy gift that belongs only to those remembering. Andra’s Josh was hers, and would only ever be hers, forever. Maybe she was destined to revulsion had Josh not died, but she would never know. Maybe, in some way, Joseph was right, maybe people kept living after death as some half-formed motivation to honour them. It made her feel good. In truth, and she didn’t know it, but the Josh that she remembered was more Andra than Josh, a false construction created to ease the burden of grief. Andra couldn’t even remember his voice. His face clouded, malleable, smooth. His armour was all that she could faithfully reconstruct and only because she had seen it worn upon the body of his killer. Did that mean Amber kept Josh alive too? It was almost too perfect; forced to fight and continue a struggle he didn't believe in.

She was barely older than a child when her mentor passed - she was not the same woman when he knew her, and she knew it. Josh had never known this Andra, with all the tribulations behind her. Still, she was grateful to have known him. She was alive because of him. She looked up at the burgeoning stars, competing with the sun to illuminate the heavens. Their soft incandescence was beautiful. She had had many conversations with Kropotkiners, each of them had a special affinity with the stars, each of them talked about spreading their freedom to the stars. They were special. Josh had loved the stars, had spoken about them at length. Maybe he was up there, part of that constellation, finally in a community that wanted him. It was a nice thought, a comforting one, even if she didn’t accept it herself. Still, it did not keep a warm smile from creeping across her face.

“Come on,” Joseph said, standing up and knocking his cup over, “we should get back.”

“No Joseph,” Andra replied, “you go on. I’m going to tidy this all away, look things over.”

“You’ve done enough today, Andra, come on.”

She shook her head.

“Suit yourself,” came the reply, “you did well today. Make sure you rest after.”

“I will,” she said, “the busy work helps me clear my head.”

“Mine too,” Joseph replied with a smile, “see you soon.”

He turned and began the lonely walk back to the train station. The night sky was out in full force now, dark and serene like a calm sea. She watched him as he went, his physical body passed into silhouette before being engulfed in a wave of darkness. The smell of the pine trees and grease and oil mixed together. It was now a familiar scent to the young woman. The oil and grease on her hand, the sweat from her body, were the perfume of her labour - a smell she now relished. She sighed and looked up once again. Josh’s soul winked at her in the many constellations above. She winked back. Is this what you found here, she asked him in her thoughts, is this what you loved so? The empty, silent abyss had no reply for her, nor was she listening for one.

Andra’s boots scuffed along the tarmac and crunched as she reached the gravel, she leaned down and picked up her safety glasses, brushing the dirt from them. She methodically walked around the former worksite, the flashlight clipped on her work suit illuminating all before. The silver tools glistened like stars trapped on earth. Diligently inspecting every one as she picked them up before, satisfied, placing them softly into their right place in the shared toolbox. Occasionally, she spat on them and rubbed them clean with her thumb. Her mind often went clear during these rituals. An old soldiering habit picked up during downtime, when thinking about the horrors of the missions past would consume anyone’s soul. It helped her now, mind swimming as it was with images of Josh. Sometimes, Merlin appeared but as quickly as they emerged from the waves, a whirlpool would drag them down.

She moved to the console Joseph had been working on. She unlocked the computer and keyed in the diagnostic software. A moment of uncertainty came rushing over her. In the quiet of the night, the whiffs of her breath floating freely before her, other, more destructive, training habits tried to kick in. The walls of her brain fighting strongly to hold them back. She felt the claustrophobic MJOLNIR helmet pressing in on her temples. Memory took over. The static of coms crackled in her ears, her heart spiked as adrenaline coursed through her body. The terminal before looked like dozens, scores, hundreds!, of ones she had been in front of before. Merlin broke through the waves, gasping, his face replaced by the helmet she knew so well, the helmet holding the person she had loved, fought beside. As he emerged from the waves, he took a combat position, covering her, his body seemed calm but to Andra it was screaming, begging her to hurry up. They’re coming they’re coming, quickly Andra, do it now, we have to go!

Instinctively, without thought, without consideration, she pushed herself back from the console with enough force to knock her on her backside. She was now drenched in perspiration. Her breathing ragged and staccato. It always came back to her. No matter how much she tried to put it behind her, her old life, that old Andra, that Josh poisoned Andra returned. The intense urge she’d felt to sabotage that console, like she had done on many planets prior, had almost driven her to do so here. Can I ever escape that? She thought. Can I ever rebuild what I have torn down? She shook her head. It was vanity to think like that, and she knew it. What choice had she had? What agency was really hers?

And then, it clicked. For the first time in her life, it clicked.

Kropotkin offered her choice. This is what Josh had found here, the agonising realisation that choice existed in this galaxy and these people had chosen to build, as flawed as it was. She remembered once, when Josh was in one of his moods full of black bile, she had sought out Frendsen. She had spoken to him about Josh’s moods, why they were as violent and tumultuous as they were. Frendsen had been cagey at first, not given much away but she questioned him about Kropotkin, Josh having off-handedly mentioned it that day and Frendsen relented, his consummate professional demeanour cracked ever so slightly. Kropotkin had changed Josh, Frendsen said, he didn’t know how or why, but he’d never been the same. Josh had always been difficult, he had offered, but the years following the Kropotkin excursion had seen a sullen man overcome with melancholy. Frendsen had never asked, Andra knew he had never thought to ask, as good a commander as he was, that was all he had ever been. Andra had needed more from him like Josh had.

How wild it was to her that under these twin moons and the twinkling, happy souls of the departed above would bring her such a revelation. Kropotkin was not to Andra what it had been to Josh. It was isolationist, angry, too angry for her, but these people had made this choice had they not? They chose to be the way they were, they actively cultivated it. And in some small way, she had chosen to be a part of it. To build. That was her choice, her penance. She knew she did not have to take on this arduous electrician work, there was a plethora of easier jobs offered to her. The building, the contribution to something larger than oneself was liberating to her.

Fighting had been her contribution to the galaxy. In Joseph she had expected a hardened, militant and violent revolutionary - he seemed the type, his politics matched up. Instead, she had found a quiet, thoughtful man with a deep connection to his soul and souls of those around him. There was not one violent bone in his body but he had contributed to what he saw as the liberation of this world without hurting another. He stood in stark contrast to her. Andra’s mouth felt dry, she smacked her lips together. Realisation followed realisation. Without meaning to, this world, its people, had confronted her with what she knew - she had fought back. She saw the flaws on this world, was at times disgusted with its outlook on the larger human community but she couldn’t deny the community within that existed.

A birdsong took her out of her thoughts. Looking for another, she thought wistfully.

She stood up, dusted herself off and made her way to the train station.

The world kept spinning, the stars kept their vigil, and the silver light of the moons guided her home.

Part Three: The Farmstead and the Goddess

"Even graveyards could be haunted by the things that made graves."

― A Desolation Called Peace, Arkady Martine

The wind is cool, the air misty with the light rain as it falls delicately upon the windows. The sky grey, the god’s gifts hidden behind pregnant clouds. The scene is crestfallen, summer has ended and autumn has begun its march. The trees, once verdant, become a kaleidoscope of colour, of deep oranges and reds, a homily to the retreating warmth of the sun. Rays of weak, pathetic light struggle to break through the heavy clouds and everything is covered in a sickly dark hue. Life goes on. Hard months lie ahead. Farm equipment continues its task, unphased and uncaring by the turning of the seasons. The harvest is ready to be plucked but the woman inside this house, staring longingly out the windows, is not ready for the droplets of rain. Music plays. A cup of tea, not sweetened for once, is held in her black calloused hands. The steam spirals upwards in complicated patterns before it is blown into eternity by the soft breath of its creator.

She sips. The tea is still scalding. She swallows regardless and sighs. The interior of the house is austerely decorated. Straight lines, black and white furniture everywhere except for the brown coffee table standing shakily in the middle of the room between two modern sofas. She has made it, her first finished attempt at something. It is poorly made objectively speaking, but she has kept it and displayed it. She made this, it says to the all too infrequent guests, she made this and she is proud. The woman places her mug on a coaster, the sheen of a new coat of oil twinkles off the faint sun. She takes a seat on the sofa, and lifts one of the many books placed there in decoration and occasional reminders to study. She opens the book, she cannot remember where she is, but a quick flurry through the pages, and a half focused scanning of the words before her, she finds it.

She cannot focus. The events of the day ahead weigh heavily on her mind. A reconnection of something brutally, bluntly severed years ago. A destruction and attempted restiching of her own. She does not fully understand her reasons for reaching out, the person represents a life she has long left behind outside of the occasional whispers she seeks from the stars. The words in front of her are hazy, nondescript. She finds that before she knows it, she’s halfway down the page without remembering a thing that has been written before her. She puts the book down. She rummages through her pocket on her left side and grips a malformed carton, pulling it out. She opens the top, three cigarettes left, and takes one and hastily brings it to her cracked, dry lips. Barren from too many years without love. She finds her lighter and ignites it. She takes a deep inhale, the smoke going further and further into her lungs. They are full, but not sore. She holds her breath, letting her battered bronchioles fill up. Then, she exhales, the smoke covering the room.

She flicks her ash into her half-drunk mug. The cinders float like buoys upon a turgid sea. There is still time to avoid what’s coming, she thinks. Whether she believes it or not is immaterial. It has been agreed, her yet to arrive guest knows where she is. There will be no peace until it’s done. Another inhale, smaller this time. The smoke filters outwards softly, gently. This is how a door she left open closes. This is how she finally leaves herself behind and embraces what she has now. Her soul fermenting in the putrid past. Eyes ahead, through the window, into the farm, seeking the future that is pulling her away from the past. Yet, the past approaches as it always does - the past is inescapable. The future is the past’s child and a parent has a vested interest. The woman, body covered in scars, stares at the crops intently. Focusing on the wheat as it sways and dances in the wind. Her mind is still cluttered with inertia, the trepidatious thoughts still dominating like a cyclone.

This was your decision, she reminds herself sternly. The quiet life was yours, you could have maintained it, she scolds. Some doors must be closed forever lest the ghosts come in. And Kropotkin is full of ghosts, they rise from the soil like the steam of a warm summer rain. She takes another sip, cigarette smouldering in her hand. The ember sears her skin, she does not notice. Her knuckles ashen from gripping the mug so tightly. She expects a loud, almost violent, confrontation. Not physical, but verbal. The damage she has inflicted on one who looked up to her still stings to this day, one of many regrets that stalk her. A chance for damage to be undone should the possibility exist. She hopes it exists. As before, the future is hers to grasp and shape how she wants it - that is what Kropotkin has taught her, difficult though it may be. What can be made can be unmade. Must be unmade in this case.

She stands up, her heartbeat quickens. Her augments hear footsteps outside as they crunch on stone and squelch on wet mud. Her breath ragged but a deep gulp of air steadies it. She tries to grab her carton of cigarettes but they fall clumsily from her hands. The footsteps have stopped, the person is outside the door. She can almost hear the heartbeat of her guest; smell the rain and the wheat sticking to the clothes. There is a timid knock on the door. Knock knock knock. She tries to compose herself - return the self-assurance that has dominated her life, the fake transitory confidence required to keep herself alive; to maintain any shred of personhood. She takes a step towards the door, her foot is heavy, it’s an eternity before it lands and she’s closer. The next step is easier, the one after even easier. She reaches the door, her hand clasps the handle. It’s icicle cold. Another breath, another attempt to resurface herself. She pulls it down and swings it open. The past has arrived, and it has a familiar face.

*

The rain gently drummed off the top of her cap. Her overcoat sung to her in the rhythm of the cascading shower. The edge of the farm, her destination, was nondescript. In keeping with the utilitarian construction ethos of Kropotkin. It was unusual in its isolated surroundings. Pine forests dominated, the small plot of land an affront to the pristine, an attack on the aesthetic. Andra has had to walk some distance for the bus stop down the road. It hadn’t been raining when she got off, but it was a torrent now. She looked up at the clouds. It was mid-morning. Small droplets landed on her face and she savoured them. Summer had been warm, oppressive. This rain felt like a miracle.

“Okay,” she sighed as she prepared to take her first step.

She hadn’t quite believed it when Joseph had reached out to her two weeks ago. A small letter had been in his hand. For you, he had said and then left. She remembered the grip of his soft hands on her shoulder as he had passed it over. In messy cursive there had been three distinct paragraphs: an address, a wish for Andra to come visit and a signature: Hera. Andra’s throat had seized up at the name. Cold spikes of adrenaline had coursed through her veins, turning her blood to stone. She remembered standing idle for what had felt like an eternity, the hustle and bustle of Kropotkin continuing all around her as she came to terms with this piece of paper. In the end, she had gone home, not laboured that day. She had sat in her small apartment with the lights off and stared at a wall for hours. Thoughts racing through her.

She had known Hera had been on Kropotkin, but she had not known she had stayed. Rumours of Hera’s arrival on the planet had reached her all those years ago as she had worked with Stray after the brutal assault on Baran’s Keep - a battle Hera had played a small role in. The two had never exchanged goodbyes, Andra barely heard about her leaving from Stray - he had simply mentioned she was considering going to Kropotkin. She had pleaded with him for more information but he had revealed none. Andra had not heard anything since leaving Stray’s service about her former teacher. It was like Hera had disappeared from the pages of history, erased and damned like the old overthrown Roman emperors of old. Hera had become a ghost, an echo in Andra that she had sealed away for almost a decade. Left to the necropolis of her mind where all unpleasant memories resided, waiting for an excuse to come haunting out.  

The wind pushed the rain ever harder into Andra’s face, but she kept her vigil looking at the sky above. The trees now joined her overcoat in song. She could not understand why Hera would extend an olive branch to her. When they had worked together after Josh’s death, she had been cruel; unexpectedly and uncharacteristically so. During Andra’s training with Hera and Josh, she had been a calming figure, someone who had soothed the team, especially Merlin, after Josh’s outbursts, his punitive trials and tests. Never had Andra expected to find this woman she had looked up to, whom she had spent days on end at her bedside, to be so officious, and so wicked to her. She was sure something had died in Hera with Josh, but to hear Hera talk about the man who was glued to her hip for so long it seemed like Hera had been reborn after his death, twisted though it was. Andra had never understood it, the only glimpse of what Hera was pre-Josh had been an off-hand comment in a letter he had written to her about why he had broken Merlin’s ribs.

Time healed all wounds and as actions and feelings passed into the dreamlike haze of memory, pain dulled and lost its significance. Or so Andra half-believed. The wounds Hera left, Hera’s inability to soothe Andra’s own loss still stung, maybe not as pointedly as before, but she had needed help and received nothing but the cool apathy that had engulfed Hera and the Created dominated galaxy. Andra was different now, a woman grown with a kaleidoscope of experiences that had enriched and diminished her in equal measure. A journey she still scarcely believed she had made but she was grateful for it. There was a quiet strength in her now, a strength that Josh had seen partially and one she had always known was there, waiting for it to come out. She had achieved all this herself, through her grit and determination and desire to be better than what was initially offered to her. It was that self-belief that allowed her to stand here on the precipice between the present and the always too near past.

Andra took a breath and savoured the last few drops of rain hitting her exposed face. She took a step and headed through the open gate, her boots squelching through the muddy path that led up to the farm. She focused on her surroundings to keep her mind at bay. Small wooden markers delineated the road from the forest of the world it ran between. The path was full of puddles sunken into the ground from footsteps, the tracks of automated machinery ran parallel. It was as spartan as expected, profoundly so in contrast with the august majesty of the trees that hemmed it in. Andra felt small, but safe. The world protecting her from the troubles that may lie ahead. It took her a few minutes to walk the path. Her eyes darted from tree to tree. She caught squirrels as they jumped from branch to branch. The soft cooing of birdsong provided soothing music for her travels. I am a part of this world and the world is a part of me, she thought. Kropotkin was not the only planet to give her this sense of belonging, but it was a feeling that never failed to strike a chord with the young woman when she so rarely experienced it. There really was life outside of the UNSC and the armour she had so frequently adorned.

Andra took another moment to survey the farm before her when she entered into it through another open gate. It was small. There were no farm animals, at least none that she could see. Instead, there were several fields of crops ready to be harvested. She could see and hear the automated machinery tending to them. Each field was cordoned off, the path leading between them. Behind the fields a house stood. A small, two storey building made from the same alabaster she had seen the cities built from. It housed a small roofed porch, a rocking chair stood alone. Beside the house, an enormous apple tree bloomed proudly. Even from the distance she was from it, Andra was drawn to the apples hanging heavily from the branches like oversized rubies. Despite being a philistine in matters of farming and agriculture, Andra deduced that this was a well-maintained farm. Small gestures of love and care shimmered like starlight to her. She approached one of the wooden fences of the nearest crop field and saw the new coat of wax applied recently that was now being washed away.

There was only one way forward for Andra, through the mud and rain to her destination. I’m here now, she thought, only one thing left to do. She marched, head held high, like a proud Empress ready to inspire her people. The crops danced in the wind and cheered as she walked past, their supplication paid for by their tips being blown away like rose petals thrown in a triumph. She focused on the apple tree; its fruit, her guiding stars. Her eyes forever fixed to the defiant, shimmering red. Anything to distract her from the task ahead, the daunting door grew ever larger in her vision. Still, Andra marched forward, the winds of her past forcing her towards the door. Without realising it, she found herself facing the door. Her eyes scrutinising every grain and warping of wood before her. She took one final breath, one final moment to calm herself to knock on the door. She rapped it hard three times and took a step back.

Almost instantly, the door opened. Andra’s eyes grew in fear, recognition, and eventually dimmed. Hera stood before her. Her skin darker than she remembered, sunlines dominated her eyes and forehead. Hera’s eyes burned brighter than before, but softer. Less drained by the world around her. The two locked eyes, not blinking, staring past the exterior, examining the interior. Andra found her heart swelling uncomfortably and broke her gaze, her eyes drawn to a half-empty carton of cigarettes lying on the floor. The only glimpse of Hera’s mask being false. Hera took a stride forward, Andra unconsciously took one back but was quickly drawn into a deep embrace. Her face pressed into the muscular crook of Hera’s neck.

“I’m so glad you came,” Hera said softly.

Hera pulled away from the embrace and held Andra’s face between her two calloused hands. They rubbed hard against her soft cheeks.

“Come in,” Hera said, leading her in.

Andra followed and passed the threshold. Hera’s house was much nicer than her temporary apartment, sparkled with more personal flourishes than one saw in most homes on Kropotkin. There was a mixture of cigarette smoke and incense from a candle lit on the windowsill. Its smoke barely perceptible against the grey of the world outside. Hera bent down to pick up the carton on the ground and took one of the cigarettes out and lit up, before ushering Andra onto one of the seats opposite her. Andra sat down awkwardly, her legs stiffly pressed together, her body locked upright.