Free Earth Awakens (The First Formic War) by Orson Scott Card, Aaron Johnston Page B

stone, rubbing it between his fingers to clean it of dirt. In the school of learning, the whare w ā nanga, a student swallowed a small pebble, a whatu, in the initiation ceremony. It was believed that by swallowing the stone, a student established the conditions whereby mana could flow into that person in the form of knowledge.
    Mazer placed the stone on his tongue, took a drink of water, and swallowed.
    It was not foolishness, he told himself. He had done this eagerly as a child, swallowing the water so quickly that some of it had gone down the wrong pipe and sent him into a fit of coughing. Mother had watched from the front row of the cultural center, beaming with pride. And hadn’t he felt stronger after the ceremony? Hadn’t he flexed his arms and told Mother that, yes, he could feel it now. He was stronger. And she had laughed and taken a knee in front of him and told him how proud she was of her little warrior. Mazer had felt such a rush of love in that moment, that the memory of it, even now, caused his cheeks to burn. If that wasn’t mana, he didn’t know what was.
    A jeep came to a stop in front of his tent, tires squishing in the mud. Mazer watched as Captain Shenzu of the People’s Liberation Army got down from the driver’s seat, approached Mazer’s tent, and stepped inside. Shenzu’s camouflaged field uniform was a mottled mix of browns and greens with his rank on his collar and the red star of the Chinese military embroidered on his upper right sleeve. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.
    “General Sima requests your presence,” Shenzu said in English. “Please put on a shirt and come with me.”
    Mazer’s shirt lay on his cot. He had removed it before his meditation and exercise. Prior to the crash, he could do a hundred push-ups without slowing his pace or breaking much of a sweat, but now he could barely do twenty without the pain in his abdomen lighting up like a flare.
    He got to his feet and picked up the shirt.
    Shenzu winced and gestured to the red, jagged scar across Mazer’s midsection. “That’s a nasty cut, Captain. And recent by the look of it.”
    Mazer pulled the shirt down over his head and covered the scar. “Our HERC was shot down near Dawanzhen by a swarm of Formic fighters. I was the lucky one.”
    Shenzu’s expression softened. “And your crew? Patu, Fatani, and Reinhardt?”
    Shenzu knew their names of course. It was Shenzu who had come to New Zealand before the war and convinced Mazer’s superiors at the New Zealand Special Air Service to conduct a joint training exercise with the Chinese military. And it was Shenzu who had handpicked Mazer and his crew for the task. The deal was simple. Mazer and his team would teach Chinese pilots how to fly the HERC—a new experimental anti-grav aircraft—and the NZSAS would get a few free aircraft for their trouble.
    “My crew died on impact,” said Mazer.
    Shenzu looked genuinely regretful. “You have my condolences, Captain. They were good soldiers.”
    “Thank you,” said Mazer. “And yes, they were.”
    A silence stretched between them until Shenzu said, “I suppose I am partly responsible for their deaths. I brought them to China, after all.”
    “You didn’t know what was coming,” said Mazer. “The Formics killed them, not you. Though you did threaten to shoot us down.”
    Shenzu nodded. “You and your team had stolen a HERC, expensive government property you had no authority to fly off base.”
    “We were helping civilians,” said Mazer.
    “My superiors were afraid your flight path would be seen as an act of aggression against the Formics and instigate a conflict. There are still some officers who believe that’s what happened.”
    “Is that what you think?” Mazer asked.
    Shenzu hesitated then shook his head. “No. The Formics had already killed hundreds of civilians when they landed. Threatening to shoot you down was a mistake.”
    “What about arresting me and Captain O’Toole?” asked Mazer.