Tongana settled in the trench, nesting into the depression her feet had made. She drew out her projector and considered adding another entry to her journal, but decided against it. The emissary of Mauve had promised not to invade for two more days, but that promise was worth very little. Everyone needed to be vigilant.
Tongana peered out across no-man's-land at the wall of trees that had been spared from the slash-and-burn, some of them singed by the hot air. Even after ten years of living here, Tongana had never looked at Bonde Wakulima as a battlefield. Now she was looking, and she saw that the jungle was everything a guerilla could want. It had limited visibility, lots of life signatures that could fool scanners, top cover and rough terrain that admitted only foot soldiers. Automatic weapons, night vision and armored fighting vehicles were a devastating advantage on the flat beaches and the savannah, but in the jungle they were less helpful.
Beaches reminded her of her past. Not her army days, thankfully, but back into her childhood. She remembered standing on the beach of Mu Ko Island, feeling the tide ride up the sand and tickle her toes as she gazed at the orange sky reflected in the sea.
She remembered squealing against the cold water, but not moving. She remembered her mother coming out to scoop her up and carry her inside, saying, "Tongana, you silly seagull, what were you doing out there?" She remembered having no answer, giggling all the way back to her house.
That had been at the temporary settlement, back when the sea levels were still rising. Now Mu Ko was underwater, along with Phum, Noa Thuam and the other Vietnamese-built colonies. When the sea levels stabilized, an era of Venusian prosperity had been supposed to begin. Instead, the Sino-African Commonwealth withdrew its support, and the Pan-Asian federation fell apart. In the vacuum of power, Tongana's parents had been willing to follow anyone who had the bravado to think they could set up a government. In the space of just twenty years, Atanua Mons had gone from being the Colony of Atanua, the Atanuan National Congress, the Atanuan Free State and finally the Democratic Republic of Atanua. Wars marked every transition of power-- wars that Tongana had fought in as soon as she was old enough. For two and a half decades, that had been her life: wars to stop things from getting worse, with only dead-end jobs in between.
Arriving in Bonde Wakulima, Tongana had believed that she would never have to pick up a weapon again. But now war had found her.
On days like these, faith was only small comfort. She knew about the good creator, Ahura Mazda, and the destructive spirit Ahriman who opposed him, but it seemed that Ahura Mazda had very little representation on the battlefield. Through it all, though, Tongana's mandate stayed the same: good words, good thoughts and good deeds.
"Tongana," said Sami, on the radio, "Look sharp. Someone from the Mauve clan is coming out, and the mayor's going to meet her in no-man's-land. It's on your quadrant."
Tongana straightened up. "The mayor is parleying with Mauve?" It sounded no more believable coming from her own mouth. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I'm telling you now. And it's not Mauve herself, just one of the clan."
Tongana gave a little grunt. This militia had a strange relationship with regulations. Everyone took their duty seriously, but there was no discipline.
Tongana kept watching the forest until, finally, the mayor emerged from between two fields, tall and proud in her stair-step-patterned yellow dress. Four women marched with her, all heavily armed and armored.
One of the mayor's entourage produced a board and laid it across the trench as a bridge, allowing the five to cross in single file. Fearlessly, the mayor stepped up to the outer edge of no-man's-land and waited.
Tongana waited as well, watching the front through her twenty-three-year-old binoculars.
Minutes passed, and Tongana commanded herself to stay patient. At last, a figure appeared from the jungle. Like her compatriots from yesterday, this newcomer was clothed in dark purple, with long, flowing hair that was dyed pink. She wore body armor splashed with pink paint that matched her hair, with bandages wrapped around her shoulders to make them bulkier and a crimson, elbow-height cape broadening her silhouette.
The bodyguards were not long in coming. Ten of them, walking in two staggered rows of five, drew up behind her, each with her gun held diagonally across her chest and wearing mottled dark red armor pads. One had a rose emblazoned over her heart, another had fangs on her helmet and one more had an implausible number of kill marks carved into her shoulder pad, but other than that, their armor showed no variation.
The mayor and the long-haired woman stood face to face. Tongana watched them through the scope of her rifle. Unable to hear them, she watched as the pink-haired emissary became animated, bellowing like a thunder goddess, and gesturing with claw-gloved hands, her hair and cape flaring out behind her. Through it all, the mayor stood straight as an old tree, fists clenched at her side.
At last, the mayor held up a palm, gently shook her head and turned to leave. Mauve's woman laughed cruelly at her back, then turned and disappeared back into the jungle.
Tongana kept watch for five more minutes before she was satisfied. Then she fell against the far wall of the trench, heavy with sweat. The only thing scarier than a fight was to expect a fight and not get it.
She spent the rest of her shift staring listlessly at the jungle, her nerves still sizzling. When she heard footsteps coming from her side, she picked herself up.
"Your shift's over," said Handel, "My turn." Even after the excitement of the parley, he sounded as glum and bitter as when she had met him five days ago, when she had convinced him to join the militia.
"You missed a big moment," said Tongana, climbing out of the trench. "The mayor just talked with the Mauves."
"Did anyone shoot?" he asked.
"No. I had my weapon hot, but it didn't come to that."
He gave a humorless chuckle. "Lucky you. When it's time, promise me you'll pull the trigger."
Tongana felt a rare simmer of anger. "I've fought in five wars for three different factions," she said coolly. "I know when to shoot."
"Good enough." He plopped himself against the trench wall, folded his arms in front of him and proceeded to ignore her.
Tongana left no-man's-land. Her work was done for the day. The peaceful air and the musk of crops calmed her nerves, with only the pounding of distant machinery from Mari Maldashi's mine to intrude.
Back at her house, a sturdy old one-story brick box with broad windows, Tongana sighed with relief as she opened her frail wooden door to the house she had come to love. Inside it, she cracked open her refrigerator and took out a package of meat and a dozen containers half-full of vegetables. After taking a moment to set her projector on its stand and cue up the local news, she began scooping yams, maize and shredded amaranth into a pot.
There was no new crisis on the news. The top spot displayed a transcription of the negotiations that had just gone on, which held no surprises for Tongana. Beneath it were some photographs of Mauve's emissaries and even video footage, but none of them gave her any new information.
Beneath those was a headline that caught her attention: "Western Plane leaving for Bonde Wakulima. More bandits to come?" Tongana selected the story and read. A cargo plane had just departed from the city of Khatarā, taken a flight path that passed suspiciously close to Bonde Wakulima and arrived at its destination with an empty cargo hold. Khatarā was infamously corrupt, even by the standards of the western continent; the plane could have easily borne something illicit.
Tongana weighed the possibility that the plane had carried reinforcements for Mauve. Mauve was a cautious tactician who nonetheless had no qualms about dividing her forces, but she never used planes-- not that Tongana knew of.
She poured herself a bowl of stew, sat down andbegan to eat. She refused to look up at the news, or even out the window. Shewould face the war, but not before she finished her stew.
