ReDawn (Skyward, #2.2)

Unity selected their stringer—Havakal, one of their strongest offensive players. Independence had started with their best players in the hopes of building momentum—it was easier to perform at your best when you already felt like you were winning. Unity had saved their better players for last.

“They’re hoping to prey on our overconfidence,” I said. “But the Independence team will know that’s what they’re doing.”

“Yes,” Rinakin said. “But it may still work.”

I looked around at the cloud of blue and yellow pennants waved by the thousands of spectators gathered on their balconies. The colors were about even, which should have been a comfort. But they hadn’t been even in the Council balancing, when Unity swept the Council seats, demolishing the Independence majority. I’d been gone for nineteen sleep cycles—missing the balancing entirely.

    I’d left hoping to discover the secret that would free my people from Superiority control. If I had succeeded and returned before the balancing, the wind might have swept in our favor, but I’d returned with nothing, only to find us closer to bondage than ever.

I glanced over at Rinakin. He’d intimidated me at first, but though he expected a lot of me, he was never discouraging, only intense. In fact, there was an intensity about him even when he was relaxed. Rinakin wasn’t a cytonic himself, though he’d mentored most of the UrDail cytonics as we’d come into our powers.

The other cytonics were all working with Unity now. And because the Superiority designated us as “dangerous,” they’d agreed to use their cytonic abilities only under Council supervision.

We were dangerous to the Superiority. I would give them that.

Rinakin kept his focus on the hologram above. I’d attended games with him before, but when I’d been in training there had always been some lesson I was meant to learn, some larger goal.

Today we were here to keep up appearances. To prove I wasn’t hiding from the Council and their questions since my return four sleep cycles before.

Even though I was.

The private balcony did afford us an opportunity to talk out of earshot of others. That was a luxury on the populous trees of ReDawn. “At least people are still flying our flag,” I grumbled.

“Yes,” Rinakin said. “But most of them have forgotten this is more than a sport.”

    “They remembered when they cast lots in the last Council balancing.”

“That too is a sport,” Rinakin said. “They vote for their team, and some switch sides when their current team is losing.”

He was right, depressing as that was. Even most of my own family had switched sides in the balancing, voting for Unity instead of Independence. “But that doesn’t make any sense. If enough people change their votes it causes the other team to lose.”

Rinakin’s bone ridges arched. “That’s politics,” he said.

It shouldn’t be. The decisions of the Council determined everything, and when the balance of representatives shifted, so did the policies. The current Council was a Unity majority, with only a few Independence delegates remaining, so Unity chose the delegates who negotiated trade agreements with the Superiority.

The Superiority set the terms, of course. The Superiority always set the terms. But at least when the Independents were in control of the Council, they didn’t grovel at the feet of the Superiority hoping to be treated like favored pets.

Unity scored, and the hologram switched to a series of messages from sponsors—a transportation company showing off the interior of their new luxury ships, and the vineyards on String with a new limited juice flavor they hoped we would try. At the end of the endorsements, a familiar face dominated the air at the center of the branches.

Nanalis, new Council President and Unity High Chancellor. Her booming voice addressed the crowd from the speakers built into the floors of the balconies.

    “Greetings, citizens of ReDawn,” Nanalis said, her voice proud and confident.

“What is this?” I muttered to Rinakin. “Unity is taking out endorsements now? That’s not allowed, is it?”

“They’re supposed to give us equal time,” Rinakin said. “But the Council recently decided to waive that requirement so long as the message isn’t overtly political.”

I wasn’t sure Nanalis was capable of a message that wasn’t overtly political. She continued to speak—no doubt this message was prerecorded. Many Council members attended the games to see and be seen, but the Council President was often too busy.

Nanalis thanked the pilots for their hard work and preparation. “You represent the best of us, and it is because of you that our future is bright.”

I supposed it wasn’t out of line for the Council President to congratulate athletes. But then she went on.

“We call ourselves Unity and Independence, but we all enjoy the benefits of both freedom and peace. The real enemies are those who seek to divide ReDawn, who threaten our peace, who put the prosperity of all denizens in jeopardy.”

Unity was always calling us divisive for disagreeing, as if they weren’t doing the same by disagreeing with us. But of course, as they liked to say, the opposite of division was Unity. As if their choice of a name left us no other option but to fall in line with them. “She called us the enemy,” I said. “How exactly is that apolitical?”

    “That’s why I argued against this in the last session,” Rinakin said. “Who is to determine what is ‘overt’ and what is not?”

As Nanalis made her final remarks, pennants waved all around the stadium, both blue and yellow. Everyone seemed to agree with her, Independence and Unity alike.

Everyone but us.

“Progress for ReDawn!” Nanalis declared. “May her enemies be swiftly silenced for the good of us all.”

Hairs rose on the back of my neck as voices sang out from all around the stadium, joining in a great rumbling chorus. They were cheering for pretty words that would destroy us.

Progress for ReDawn. It was what we all wanted, of course.

But some of us thought it mattered what we were progressing toward.