Free Conventions of War by Walter Jon Williams

other with crowbars to be the first to break into the apartment and steal it. Just before the Naxids arrived, when sad, dead Caro’s whole inheritance finally came into her possession, Sula bought the pot for fourteen thousand zeniths, a little more than half the total legacy, and much less than it was worth.
    Porcelain was one of her passions. She had never owned a valuable piece before, but she’d decided that, given that she was going to throw her life away on what was probably a futile effort to resist the Naxids, she might as well indulge herself in this one small thing.
    The rest she had invested more practically.
    She gazed with pleasure at the pot for a few luxurious moments, then went to the bathroom to wash and prepare herself for bed. Then, because she couldn’t stand the merest hint of untidiness, she cleaned away the thin, soft layer of dust that lay over the room. After she used a duster to brush the dust reverently from the ju yao pot, she retired to her bed.
    In the morning Resistance was everywhere: pasted to lampposts, sitting on tables at cafés, weighed down on doorsteps with scraps of iron or bits of crumbled old brick. She had a sweet red bean bun at a pastry shop and filled her mug of tea from the samovar that the customers used in common. Two women in line for the samovar were talking about the copy of Resistance they’d seen.
    â€œ Now I know what to do with that nasty Mr. Klarvash and his requests for data,” one said.
    Exulting, Sula walked the short distance to the larger apartment, and saw that the pot in the window had been moved to the position that meant Someone’s here, and it’s all clear . Even so, she entered via the back stairs, moving cautiously through the kitchen until she saw Spence sitting on the floor behind the little table, with the parts of the bomb spread out before her. Spence was staring at the video wall, and tears coursed unhindered down her cheeks.
    Sula froze. “What’s wrong?” she said.
    Spence turned her streaming eyes to Sula. “They’re shooting hostages. Fifty-five, eleven from each species. Because subversive literature was being distributed. And they’re shooting anyone they catch, and they say they’ve caught a number by now.” She reached for a handkerchief. “And it’s our fault!” she cried.
    Get a grip, Sula wanted to suggest. What do you think that bomb you’re building is for?
    Instead she stepped into the room and made soothing noises. “It’s not our fault. That’s all the enemy. It’s their fault, not ours. We’re not shooting hostages.”
    The video wall showed a group of Daimong being herded onto the execution ground. And if we’re lucky, Sula thought, if we’re really really lucky, the Naxids won’t stop shooting hostages anytime soon.

FIVE
    â€œI have always found tragedy to be the most human of the arts,” said Senior Captain Lord Gomberg Fletcher. “Other species simply don’t have a feeling for it.”
    â€œThere’s Lakaj Trallin’s The Messenger, ” said Fulvia Kazakov, the first lieutenant.
    â€œThe choral parts are magnificent, as one might expect with the Daimong,” the captain admitted, “but I find the psychology of Lord Ganmir and Lady Oppoda underdeveloped.”
    Captain Fletcher’s dinner stretched the length of the ship’s long afternoon. Every plate, saucer, cup, goblet, and salt cellar on the long table was blazoned with the captain’s crest, and the table itself sat in the midst of painted revelry. The walls were covered with murals of banquets and banqueters: ancient Terrans wearing sheets and eating on couches; humanoid creatures with horns and hairy, cloven-hoofed legs roistering with wine cups and bunches of grapes; a tall, commanding youth, crowned with leaves, surrounded by women carrying phallic staves. Statues stood in the corners, graceful seminude women bearing