Unreconciled

by W. Michael Gear

  At the wailing siren, Taglioni straightened, looked around. The piercing note rose and fell, an involuntary shiver running through Kalico’s flesh and bones.

  She said, “That’s a quetzal or mobber alert. Now, pay attention. It means that either a quetzal is in the compound, or a flock of mobbers has been spotted flying this way. If it’s mobbers, the siren will continue to sound. Your first priority is run like a striped-assed ape to your dome and lock your door.”

  “I saw images of a quetzal on the holo. What’s a mobber?”

  She pointed to the scars. “Five of them did this to me in less than twenty seconds. When you hear that siren, don’t hesitate. Don’t stand around like a gaping idiot. Drop whatever you’re doing and run. Flat out. Get undercover, out of sight, where you’re supposed to be, and don’t come out. And for God’s sake, don’t try and ‘help’ the search teams. You’ll just get somebody killed. Somebody who’s a lot more valuable and important when it comes to keeping people alive than you are.” She glared into his eyes. “We clear on that?”

  To her surprise, he took her warning without getting his back up. She figured he’d bristle, make some remark about being a Taglioni. Instead, all he said was, “Clear.”

  “Some things might turn out to be worse than your Irredenta.”

  “So, you’re telling me I might have just left one kind of hell for another?”

  “Welcome to Donovan.”

  At the sound of the two short blasts of the siren, and then the repeat, she said, “That’s the all clear. After you hear that, you can come out.”

  She signaled Inga for a refill of Taglioni’s mug. After he’d taken a swallow and had that mellow look on his lean face, she casually asked, “So tell me. Now that you’re here, what specifically do you want?”

  For couple of seconds Taglioni stared thoughtfully at his beer. A puzzled look grew behind his yellow-green designer eyes. “You know, Supervisor Aguila? I don’t have a clue.”

  She searched his face for any hint of guile. But to her surprise, the guy really seemed to mean it.

  She cocked an eyebrow. Was he playing her? After all, she had a real live Taglioni on her hands. Close cousin to Miko. Not the sort she could allow to wander out into the bush and be eaten by a quetzal.

  So, what the hell was she supposed to do with him?

  Especially when she couldn’t get that last image of his leering face out of her head. Leopards, the saying went, didn’t change their spots.

  13

  The pounding was like someone was pumping hydraulic fluid inside Dek’s head in a bid to explode his skull. Worse, his mouth was dry, his tongue like a senseless lump. He tried to swallow, gagged when his tongue stuck in the back, managed to conjure enough saliva, and finally got some moisture down his throat.

  He blinked, squinted against the light pouring through a square window in the side of a dome. Pus and blood, but that was bright!

  Straightening, he pushed back an old-fashioned blanket and sat up. Didn’t recognize his surroundings. Where the hell . . . ?

  And it came back.

  Donovan. Port Authority.

  The last thing he remembered was Inga’s tavern. Eating another meal of beans, peppers so hot they left him crying and wiping his nose. But the taste. The marvelous taste. It made it all worth it after years of ration.

  And beer.

  He remembered beer. Lots of it. Wonderful beer. And then whiskey. Tasty and . . .

  His stomach twisted. Tried to squeeze itself inside out.

  Easy. Just breathe.

  Somehow, he staggered to the small bathroom, figured out how to operate the sink, and stuck his head under the flow. Then he scooped water into his mouth with cupped hands.

  He used the toilet, stepped into the shower, and turned the water on hot. To his surprise, it didn’t stop after thirty seconds like the ones on Ashanti.

  When he stepped out, no vibradry slicked the water from his skin for recycling. Took a moment to realize the old-fashioned towel wasn’t a quaint decoration but the real thing. Fascinating. He’d never used a real towel before.

  He was wondering if he was supposed to rehang it on the rack when a woman said, “Thought you might like a cup of tea. Mint is the local favorite.”

  He spun around, startled. The woman stood in the doorway, a cup in her hand. He fixed again on her eyes. So large and dark. The almost inhuman angles of her face gave her an exotic look.

  “Talina Perez,” he reminded himself. “I remember you from last night. But . . . Damn. It’s all a bit fuzzy. Think I’m sick. Maybe some local fever. Head hurts like it’s about to split.”

  She grinned, handed him the cup. “It’s called a hangover. Sorry, but no pills. We get over it the old-timey way here.” She gestured. “Not that I mind naked men traipsing around my house, but I’ve laid out a couple of your suits. Me? I’d go for the coveralls.”

  He stumbled out of the bathroom, caught a hint of the mint tea, and found the temperature just right. He sighed as he let the taste spill over his tongue. “Of all the things I’ve missed. Taste is the one. Damn! I feel terrible. This is a hangover? That’s, like, for the drunken and ignorant masses.”

  She was watching him through those incredible alien eyes. “I forget that you’re a Taglioni, and then you can’t help but remind me.”

  He figured she was probably right about the clothing, so he chose the secondhand overalls. Once dressed, he followed her out to the main room, separated as it was from the utility kitchen by a breakfast bar with four stools.

  By the door two rifles were racked. He did a double take. Rifles? In her house? But then, a gun belt with pistol and knife, hung on the couch back.

  The smell reoriented all of his thoughts as he climbed onto one of the stools and stared at the plate she set in front of him. He took a moment to inhale the fragrances of real food. “What is this?”

  “Breakfast tamales. Reuben Miranda has a farm on the southeast side. He grows the corn and chilis. The meat is from something we call chamois. We have an annatto tree in the greenhouse. Some of the other spices, like turmeric there, come from local herb gardens in the green houses. I make my own recado.”

  Dek picked up the fork and—despite the queasy feeling in his stomach—ate as if it were the last meal in the universe.

  She was watching him, seemed to be seeing right through him.

  “So, how did I get here? The last thing I remember, the Supervisor passed me off to some big guy for safekeeping. Is that right? And how did I get drunk in the first place?”

  A crooked grin bent her lips. “Kalico wanted to know what you were really here for. There’s an ancient saying that in wine, there is truth. In beer, with whiskey-shot chasers, there is a window to the soul.”

  “She got me drunk to discover if I was a threat?”

  “In your previous encounters with Kalico, you didn’t exactly endear yourself to her.”

  He toyed with his fork. “She’s right to despise me.”

  “Loathe is probably a more accurate term. She told me that when it came to a choice between suppurative pus and you, she’d take the pus any day.”

  Dek winced, studied the woman through a pain-slitted eye. “Okay, I probably deserve no better. But why all the suspicion about my motives?”

  “The last high-ranking official to arrive by ship was Tamarland Benteen. Yeah, the one from the history books. He tried to take over Port Authority and got a lot of people killed. We’re a little gun-shy when it comes to mucky mucks.”

  “Mucky mucks? Is that a . . . what?”

  “Means the high and mighty. And the way Kalico tells it, the last time you and she were face to face, you acted like a toilet-sucking prick.”

  “That was my usual operating parameter back in those days.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I had to beco
me someone else.” He smiled, wished his head would stop hurting. “This hot and spicy food. Is that the best thing for my stomach?”

  “Trust me. It is.”

  He took a long moment to really study her, trying to put his finger on what made her so . . .

  “It’s quetzal,” she said. “I’m part quetzal. Infected with their genetic material. That’s what you were wondering, isn’t it?”

  “I, uh, sorry. I guess I was just—”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “Double sorry then.” He forced his thoughts away from the thousand questions that popped into his head. Tried to access com through his implants, but couldn’t. “Something’s wrong. I can’t access the net.”

  “No net to access. You’re on Donovan. It’ll take a while, but some people claim they like the silence in their heads once they get used to it.”

  “That big guy I was drinking whiskey with last night?”

  “Step Allenovich. Kalico tasked him with keeping you out of trouble.”

  “He kept calling me ‘Skull.’ Referred to me as soft meat.”

  “You just came off a ship.”

  Dek took a deep breath, trying to remember. “How did I get here?”

  “Step and I alternately walked, dragged, and carried you. Be glad you tossed your guts in the avenue last night. If you hadn’t, that hangover would be making you consider a single gunshot to the head as a viable remedy.”

  “This is your place?”

  “Yep.”

  “You slept on the couch?”

  “Yep.” She arched a thin brow. “Not the first time.”

  “So . . . where do I live?”

  “You remember Shig from last night?”

  “Short guy. One of the Corporate Administrators?”

  “Nothing Corporate about him. He’s like a third of the government, such as it is. He said that if you’d like, you’re welcome to his study. It’s a small dome out back of his place. Sits in his garden. Has a charming view of the perimeter fence.”

  “I can bunk down with the contractees. I don’t need anything fancy.”

  “We’re a market economy. Yes, I know you have Corporate credit. Which is meaningless here. We transact business with real currency, plunder, and trade. You’ll get a period of grace, but you’re going to have to figure out a way to support yourself.”

  “Like . . . what?”

  “What can you do? Hunt? Mine? Farm? Medicine? Security?”

  “I can fix things. I like to joke that I could qualify for a Ship’s Tech I rating. And there’s hydroponics. But you have farms here.”

  “Well, you’ve got a couple of days to figure it out.” She frowned slightly. “What?”

  He realized that he was staring again. “Sorry. I’ve just never met a woman that was so . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “You seem so competent. Exotic. In control and somehow invincible.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “Wow! You should be locked in here with me and the quetzals. It’s chaos. Their thoughts popping into my head, one bunch trying to get me killed, another trying to find a bridge with humanity. Their memories get all mixed up with mine. And the physical changes? My face and eyes? I miss the old me.”

  “I’m new here, so I can tell you that the way you look? Well, you’re doing just fine. Remarkable in fact. And before I make a fool of myself, let me say thank you for taking care of me last night.”

  “You’re welcome.” She frowned. “Not exactly what I was expecting given the stories I’ve heard about the vaunted Taglionis.”

  To change the subject he asked, “So, what happened to Benteen? I remember something about him. He killed one of my great uncles. Assassination.”

  “He’s locked up on board Freelander. We needed a jail so we sealed him into the ship’s astrogation center. You guys on Ashanti aren’t the only ones to employ that option. We left him with hydroponics and water recycling. As long as he doesn’t screw it up, he could live his life out in there. You’ve heard about Schrödinger’s cat? He’s our Schrödinger’s assassin. You don’t know if he’s alive or dead until you unseal the AC and look inside.”

  “Screw vacuum. Isn’t Freelander supposed to be, like a ghost ship, or something?”

  “No supposing. You set foot on that bucket of air, and weirdity happens. You see things. Parts of that ship are still tied to wherever it went; it’s leaking part of itself back to that place. Every hair on your body will stand on end.”

  “Thanks, but I had enough of that living with the knowledge that the Unreconciled were eating people, and only a sialon hatch was between me and their next meal.”

  Again she turned those unusual eyes on his. “We have a saying here. People come to Donovan specifically to leave, to find themselves, or to die. Why have you come?”

  He sopped up the last of the bean juice with a tortilla. “Maybe I came to eat your breakfasts. I swear, after ten years of ration and weak spinach tea, I’m in heaven.

  “As to the rest, Officer Perez, if those are my only choices, all I can tell you is that I’m not leaving. So that means I’m either going to find myself, or I’m here to die.”

  CONFRONTATION

  I am like a man balancing upon a precipice. Within hours I am to be face to face with this Supervisor. My stomach flutters, and I want to be sick. Since the Harrowing and Cleansing, this is the first real trial.

  The universe expects me to look into a demon’s eyes, and not quail. I am the warrior who must face down evil, ignore its lies and deceit. She cannot see so much as a flicker of weakness, or know the churning anxiety gripping my heart.

  I must be invincible. A pillar of belief. Any doubt has to be discarded as a distraction given the great responsibility now looming before me.

  “Faith fills the hollows of the soul,” Callista whispers. She lies on her bed, curled in a fetal position. Her spasming fingers flutter where they’re positioned before her mouth. She’s a frail thing, little more than a living skeleton, but today the universe has left her coherent. I assume for my benefit.

  “Faith fills the hollows of the soul,” I repeat, taking strength from her words.

  The anxiety and uncertainty fade.

  The other two Prophets, Irdan and Guan Shi, blink vacant eyes, their lips moving soundlessly.

  At that moment First Will Petre enters the Temple. He glances uneasily at me. In his hands he carries two containers. One filled with white paste, the other, smaller, with a charcoal-black concoction made from burned cloth.

  “They’re ready,” Petre says.

  He places the containers beside the box of jewelry and the blue makeup I keep for my third eye.

  “The com device?”

  “Inserted through the hole they drilled in the main hatch. As you ordered, I’ve had your throne carried into the corridor.”

  I swallow hard, clench my teeth. Petre cannot be allowed to see so much as a crack in my armor. “Send me Svetlana.”

  He inclines his head and steps out.

  “The true life whispers in the flesh,” Callista murmurs. “Like leaves in a wind. Whispers . . . around in a bowl they go.”

  I take a deep breath.

  Svetlana, my second wife, steps in; her light brown hair is pulled back, her dark eyes wary.

  I untie my waist wrapping and let it fall so that I am naked. “Prepare me.”

  She steps forward. “How, Messiah?”

  “This Supervisor, she’s the embodiment of evil. She’s everything the universe calls on us to defeat. Irdan told me, ‘Go forth in white.’”

  “In white?”

  I point at the container. “White is the color of good, symbolic of purity.” I raise my arms. “It will be my armor. Paint it all over me.”

  “You’re facing her naked?”

  “She w
ill be dressed in finery. Is there any more powerful way to emphasize our differences? I go naked before her, a mark of ultimate humility. Representative of the fact that I am clad only in truth.”

  Svetlana uses her fingers, rubbing the white paste onto the patterns of scars and over my skin.

  When she is finished, I indicate the small jar filled with black grease. “For my eyes and lips. I want this woman to see a living skull. To know that we are the living dead. That I am not facing her alone, but as the repository of all the souls and bodies inside mine.”

  Svetlana’s expression remains grim as she attends to my eyes and lips. I even let her blacken my teeth to enhance the effect.

  As she paints, I feel the righteous strength of Revelation swelling within me. I begin to pulse with the universe. One with its purpose.

  She finishes by painting the eye in my forehead in bright blue.

  When I face her, I see a startled look. A hesitation, and she bows before me, obviously upset.

  “Wife?” I ask.

  “You are someone else,” she whispers. “What next, Messiah?”

  “The jewelry,” I tell her. “I want to wear as much as I can. The emblems of the dead. Actual mementos of the lives for which we are responsible. The rings, necklaces, and bracelets are the physical presence of those for whom I speak.”

  I inhale as I feel the dead pulse within me.

  As I begin to don the jewelry, it is as if each piece burns against my flesh.

  “Yes!” Guan Shi cries from her bed. Her eyes—sharp for once and seeing this world—focus on the polished gold and silver. “Today . . . rises . . . the glory . . . all the sunshine . . .”

  Finally I am done.

  The universe fills me.

  “Let us go and engage the enemy,” I say jauntily.

  But down deep, I pray I am good enough, strong enough, to carry this off.

  Believe, Messiah. You must believe!

  14

  The shuttle thumped, rocked, and was slammed sideways as the grapples clamped onto it. Not the best docking Talina had ever experienced, but then Ensign Naftali was ten years out of practice.