Chapter 1: Open Horizons
The train slows to a rumbling halt at New Belmir City station and settles with a wheezing, whining hiss. Train guards dismount and leap to the platform; station guards take turns whistling and yelling directions outside.
It's been an hour's travel from the military convalescence base so far, and there's a long journey ahead of you. For now, your snug compartment is empty except for you. Mostly your fellow passengers are other military personnel and staff from the base, and they kept to themselves.
For your part: now that your condition's improved from your injury, you've been reassigned to this new bodyguard role rather than returning to your usual assignment. It's your first day back after a long winter of recovery.
They have no reason to want you to fail, and they're the experts. You've gone through physiotherapy, counseling, and all manner of other exercises to build up your strength. How difficult could your new assignment be?
New Belmir City station is the largest and busiest railway station in the country, so the quiet only lasts a moment. But as travelers embark and poke their heads into your compartment, they spot your tan-colored field uniform, nod to you, and leave you in peace. "Thank you for your service," one woman says, curtseying to you, before sliding the door closed and moving away.
Not every civilian would make that much fuss over a lone uniformed officer sitting on a train. Most Teranese adults have completed the mandatory Teranese Service, after all, and Teran hasn't been at war in over forty years—but sometimes they go the extra mile.
It'll be interesting to see how polite they all are once the train fills up.
Almost everyone goes through Teranese Service, and although you've stayed longer than most, it's a job like any other. There's no sense in being put on a pedestal. Besides, you've been doing this work since you were eighteen years old. You have few illusions about glamor or heroics, especially not now
With experience and specialized training, you'd been promoted several times. You led your team, too, and were well on your way to being awarded further responsibilities.
Late summer last year, the injury disrupted all that. Ordinary life before this feels like a distant memory.
You've mostly recovered now. The doctors at the base are excellent. But it's painful at times, and can affect your flexibility and motion.
It was clear that you couldn't return to your normal duties—even without the circumstances in which it all happened. Others were harmed thanks to your mistake, not just you. And now you're to babysit—your dossier says guard, but everyone knows what it is—the fourteen-year-old Catarina Roldan while she studies at boarding school.
But here, now: the train is rapidly filling up. From the reckoning of your pocket watch, your new charge and her parent were meant to be here with you ten minutes ago.
The Honored Fiore Roldan, Catarina's widowed parent, should be with her, making sure she's safe. But something could have gone wrong. Something you hadn't considered.
Clouds of steam are starting to billow past your window. Water on hot metal hisses from the engine. Down the other end of the train, carriage doors slam, and another guard blows a sharp whistle.
You remain in the compartment, waiting as more passengers step onto the train. If Fiore promised to come at this time, it shouldn't be too long. Traffic happens, packing takes time. These things happen.
It becomes a little harder to be matter-of-fact about it when a large group of newcomers in suits and gowns barge open the door. They look as though they're on their way to a wedding party or some other occasion.
One middle-aged man with graying hair waves a servant to drag over the group's cases. "Just here," he says, voice strident, and the servant starts hauling more trunks on top of yours.
You remain in place while the passengers stack their luggage higher and higher. Once it's packed in, though teetering, the man in charge nods with satisfaction and turns his attention to the compartment.
"Come on in!" he calls, beckoning the rest of the group.
They pile into the compartment. There are a lot of them, and between their frock-coats, padded shoulders, and puffed skirts, there is absolutely not enough room for them here. Particularly not if you account for Fiore and Catarina once they arrive.
"Do you think we can sit here?" says the man, shrugging off his jacket before you can answer.
Yes, but," says the man desperately.
A couple of his companions start arguing with him, one saying he's being ridiculous and the other complaining that there's no room for the board game they wanted to play. As the debate grows more heated, the man gives in. He shoos the group back into the corridor and their voices fade away.
Left in peace, you peer out of the window. The platform is still busy, though the crowd is thinning.
Then, at the carriage door, you spot her: Catarina Roldan.
Next
You have a gray photograph of her in your documents, and your CO provided you a description. It's not the same as seeing her in person, but you know her now. A stocky, frowning girl in her mid-adolescence, her dark skin is sweaty. Her tightly-coiled black hair was in braids in the photograph; today it's in two puffs. She's dragging a trunk that reaches past the height of her waist.
She startles as she looks up at you. Her dark brown eyes narrow. "The new bodyguard?" she says, then struggles as she tries to lift the trunk up the train steps.
Behind Catarina is the Honored Fiore in a light green coat, as dark as Catarina and broadly-built too, though taller, with long braids bundled into a bun beneath a wide-brimmed blue hat. She's wrestling with an even larger trunk, looking tense and worried. "Catarina—dear—can you hang on a minute?"
They're weighted for a low center of gravity so they don't tip over when standing, but Catarina's packed this particular trunk with something heavy on top. Paying attention to how whatever's inside shifts, you haul the trunk up the steps.
With an impressed noise, Catarina scuffles behind you to help Fiore with the second trunk.
The carriage door slams behind you as more whistles blow on the platform. A bell rings. Pistons spin; more clouds of steam puff over the New Belmir City platform.
You're on your way.
Next
Fiore and Catarina tumble into your compartment, both talking at each other at once. Catarina's telling Fiore that they could have missed the train altogether; Fiore's saying it would have been all right if the hackney carriage hadn't gotten stuck behind a bus, and perhaps if Catarina had gotten up earlier this would have been easier to navigate. Catarina plumps down onto a seat next to the window.
You sit opposite, while Fiore settles beside her. Fiore pushes the hat back from her face with a harried smile, and you get a proper look at her. She is close to your age, maybe in her thirties; there are small frown-lines between her brows.
She also looks exhausted already, and it's only the morning. "We're so sorry about the delay," she says breathlessly.
"Mama's sorry about the delay," Catarina mutters.
Fiore looks pained: torn between defending her timekeeping abilities and keeping the peace. After a moment's deliberation, she opts for the latter. "So lovely to meet you properly," she says with a bright tone. She nudges her daughter.
"What was your name again?" Catarina says. Fiore's pained look only intensifies.
Catarina nods absently. You did speak to her, and to her mother, on the hospital telephone, but right now she's more interested in digging through her satchel. She's not wearing the purple Ozera School uniform, but instead is in wide-legged blue pants and a cream turtleneck sweater with short sleeves. Fiore reaches to neaten the folds of the turtleneck, and Catarina tugs away with a grimace.
Fiore turns her attention to unbuttoning her light green pea coat. She casts about, looking for somewhere to put it.
Fiore takes some time poking around the compartment cupboards, and you can't help feeling a little sorry for her. Eventually, she unearths a cunning folding cupboard and coat hooks. When she hangs it up, the folds fall smoothly.
Beneath, she's wearing a formal, close-fitting lilac-colored dress with a suit-style collar that reaches her knees, shiny black shoes, and a pearly silver brooch on one lapel. There's little of the wild extravagance you'd expect from someone with a title, but perhaps the expense is in the fabrics.
The train rumbles onward.
You're carried smoothly through New Belmir City. Distantly upon Central Hill sits the gleaming Presidential Houses and the Parliament buildings; around here, though, it's tall town houses and ramshackle apartment buildings leaned up against each other.
"We so appreciate you and Field Marshal Alva making this happen," Fiore says. "I'm sure we'll both feel more comfortable knowing that you're around in case of any trouble."
Catarina doesn't answer. She's unearthed a large notebook and pencil, and has spread it out on the tiny table.
You know that Fiore Roldan was placed on the Honors list a few years ago for her classified scientific research. Now, Catarina's moving to Ozera School away from her watchful eye and Fiore's concerned that she could be at risk thanks to her fame. And though the place is meant to be a perfectly safe haven, Field Marshal Alva wants to keep Fiore sweet.
That's where you come in. Besides, the school's close to your old hometown. A perfect match. Field Marshal Alva has gone out of her way to help with the situation: both to set Fiore's mind at rest, and to give you a chance to recover the reputation you lost five months ago.
Fiore's dark gaze fills with sympathy. "Oh, I had no idea," she says. "Well—if there's anything Catarina or I can do to make life more straightforward, just give us a shout."
Catarina scrubs an eraser across her notebook, puts down her pencil, and looks up. For the first time, her expression is curious. "So what were you doing before? More babysitting?"
I was a First Specialist," you say. "Well, I still am one. I led a team of Intelligence officers."
It was more complicated than just that, of course. But there's no sense going into all the details now, especially with civilians. Besides, much of what you did in your former role—certainly how things ended—is at least confidential, and at most classified.
Catarina's tapping her pencil against the table. "So why aren't you doing that now?"
"Catarina," Fiore says. She glances at you apologetically. "Specialist . was injured and reassigned. So, please. Treat him with respect."
Catarina hunches in her seat and takes a while looking out of the window. "Sorry, Specialist .."
brief silence as the train continues. At the outskirts of New Belmir City, the railroad starts to cut through thick forest. The trees are close to the track, as though closing in.
"Anyway, I hope you're not in too much pain," Catarina mumbles.
Catarina, as you've already seen, does not have a poker face. She winces guiltily, but says nothing.
Fiore leans forward a little as though she would like to pat your arm or make some other sympathetic gesture, but then she holds herself back. While she busies herself fishing out papers from her satchel, Catarina picks up her pencil again. She shows you the page: it's full of lists of calculations, far more advanced than anything you did during school or training.
"Ozera School's one of the best," she says importantly. "They only take fifty students per year. My old school was getting boring, so this will be an actual challenge."
Catarina frowns at the page again, tapping the pencil against her bottom lip. "No. I think that's right. This isn't much compared to Ozera," she adds. "It'll be much more advanced there."
She lowers her voice, though Fiore looks absorbed in her notes.
"But even with getting hurt," she says, "you could have carried on doing whatever secret thing you were doing. If you're doing this work, surely…"
She trails off as Fiore glances over.
"It's classified, Cat," she says. Her voice is gentle, but firm. "And even if it weren't, it's personal."
The forest is thinning out now, and the early-spring sunshine shines into the compartment. Fiore rises and opens the window a crack, letting in a fresh breeze and the smell of soot from the engine. Field Marshal Alva has obviously primed her not to ask too many probing questions about what happened. Of course it's to be expected that Alva's remained discreet.