by London, Lia
Saloma and a few others calmly kicked at each fallen man, knocking his weapon loose and retrieving it.
“Dag, we’ve got to get out of here.” I moved up to my hands and knees, heedless of the glass below, and plotted my path of escape.
Saloma saw me. “Brita!” She held up a hand to the others. “Hold your fire!” She carefully set the weapons she’d gathered at her feet, though she returned the lethal laser pistol to its holster beneath her scarves. All this she did with her gaze fixed on me. “Where’s your husband?”
I glanced back but didn’t see him in my peripheral vision. Hadn’t he followed me? “It’s okay, Dag!” I yelled. “They won’t hurt you!”
Dag stepped out into the sunlight and almost retched at the sight of the fallen masked men. Wisps of smoke seeped from their midsections, and their lifeless bodies reminded me how fragile human existence could be.
Saloma signaled for me to approach her, and we withdrew to the body of my father. I sank to the ground beside him, holding his hand in both of mine. For several minutes, I stared at his handsome face, still registering surprise. He’d been struck so many times his gypsy vests were soaked with blood. The metallic smell of it brought tears to my eyes, and grief pushed them out.
My father, the kindest man I’d ever know, lay dead. Dead for no reason but he was in the wrong place, wearing the wrong clothes, skin, and hair.
“I’m so sorry about your father.” Saloma’s voice remained respectfully low as she waved contemptuously at the red-masked men on the ground. “The Crimson Guard takes it upon themselves to drive gypsies to expulsion—or extinction when possible. We must defend ourselves.”
“Who started the fight?” It was a dangerous question, I knew. If she felt accused, she might lash out at me or Dag.
“You know as well as I do it’s a century-old battle.” Her face grew solemn. “But this time around, it was the Crimson Guard.” She met my eyes with an intensity that staunched the flow of tears. “The Gypsy Network demands respect and equality, but we do not attack unless provoked.” Leaning closer, she added, “But make no mistake. When provoked, we will wreak revenge until the fear of us ensures our safety and freedom.”
I swallowed. The proof of her statement lay behind me in the street.
“It’s time for you to make a choice, Brita Artemus of the house of Glenn.”
I flinched.
“Come now, I know my history. When your father, the gypsy, called out for his Dulcea, how could I not remember the famous colonist Princess Dulcea who married a gypsy?”
“You won’t reveal her?”
Saloma placed her hand on my shoulder. “Brita, she’s gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was one of the first to go down.” Saloma’s lips twisted. “I’m sorry.”
“No!” I bellowed, my lungs convulsing. “I have to find her. There might still be hope!”
She shook her head sadly at my father. “Do you see any hope here?”
“Where’s Dulcea?” I demanded. “Where’s my mother? You saw her get shot?”
She winced and cast her eyes in the direction of the burning building as the outer wall collapsed into the alley.
I jumped up, ready to go into the blaze to rescue my mother, but Saloma held me back. “Brita, she’s gone.” She wrapped her arms around me, muffling my sobs. “I’m so sorry, but she’s gone.”
A siren sounded, signaling the approach of firefighters.
Saloma let out a shuddering breath. “I’ve got to get out of here. You understand, don’t you?”
Tears and smoke blurred my eyes, but I nodded and pushed her away. She retrieved her weapons and ran across the street into the park, the band of gypsies following her.
I stared all around me at the horror. On this bright, sunny day, over twenty bodies lay strewn on the street and on the green grass. Black smoke billowed straight up in the absence of wind. Gulls soaring above stared down indifferently, and the Rik trees skirting the town watched with disapproval. Surely, hundreds of people hid behind doors and windows along the street, but none dared show themselves now.
Rising to my feet, I found Dag trembling in the lone upright chair of the outdoor café.
“I can’t stay on the Surface,” he croaked.
19 ~ Good-byes
What should have been a romantic first night of wedded bliss came instead with somber silence. We returned to the suite of rooms we’d rented and stopped in the doorway. Dag, I knew, was weary from the climb but also the fear of the events in Docking Bay. He had never witnessed anything more than a minor scuffle between residents on the Arxon. If the violence overwhelmed me, it had to be crushing to him. For a long time, we sat on the edge of my bed and wept. When we finally folded ourselves into a knot together, we slept long into the next morning.
With the Arxon still in short commute range, I ordered a shuttle transport for Dag in two days’ time. I didn’t want him to stay longer in case something else happened and scared him away from Surface life forever.
We spent a whole day contacting as many family friends as I could locate, which sadly didn’t include my aunt Rora. Maybe it was better if she didn’t know. She’d be even more afraid. Through each call, Dag sat beside me, giving me strength even as I knew his own waned. The trauma weighed him terribly, and hearing my gypsy friends commiserate was often frightening for him because they shared similar experiences of things they’d witnessed or heard in their areas.
I tried desperately to give him a normal Surface experience while we waited, taking him to the shops in Finca, strolling down the road near the woods, and enjoying the peace of this more secluded location, but Docking Bay was always nearby in his mind. In the afternoons, I left him resting at the inn while I found buyers for my parents’ camping supplies and least personal possessions. The rest I kept or donated to other gypsies by leaving them in the woods with a note that the supplies were for the taking.
On our last night in Finca, Dag’s voice lost its tremor, but his eyes were still shrouded with doubt. “Won’t you come back with me to the Arxon?”
“You know I can’t. We didn’t get me a ticket, and the Arxon’s almost out of range.”
“We’ll pay someone to give up their seat for you,” he suggested.
Torn, I searched my conscience for the right reply. “Dag, I’m yours now. Let me attend to the final arrangements for my parents. I owe them that respect. Let me mourn here and come to you ready to start my new life with you as the focus, not this tragedy.”
Dag tucked my loose curls behind my ear and kissed my forehead. “Shouldn’t I be protecting you? How can I keep you safe?”
“You can’t down here. I’ll have to manage, but I’m used to it. I promise I’ll come as fast as I can.”
He cupped my face in his hands urgently. “Don’t let anything happen to you. I want you whole and healthy.”
I closed my eyes and let him kiss me, let myself be in love instead of despair for one night.
OOO
Dag returned to the Arxon with most of my gypsy blends, including all the pearl powder. We hadn’t brought a SWaTT this time because we were together, so as he boarded his transport in Docking Bay, I felt a cold separation. How could we have come together so beautifully only to be divided almost immediately?
I reported to the morgue to identify the bodies of my parents. Local regulations gave precedence to those identifying colonist bodies, and consequently, I’d been forced to wait. The official in charge of these matters, a pinch-faced woman with stark white hair cropped short, led me into the first-floor vaults.
Consulting a digi-pad, she pulled massive drawers open one at a time, ready to add the names to the record as soon as I told her which ones I knew. But these were the men of the Crimson Guard. In the repose of death, they’d lost their menace, and I almost felt sad. They’d been sliced so suddenly by the laser pistol in Saloma’s hand, and it startled me to think of how she’d done such a deed with no sign of remorse.
>
I’d not given her name to the officials who took my eye-witness report, and I don’t think Dag ever even heard her name. She would be a wanted fugitive by now.
I shuddered and shook my head.
My clothes and name identified me as a stationary, so the woman was confused when I said none of the bodies present were my parents.
“But the other bodies we have are the gypsies. If they’re not claimed by tomorrow, they’ll be incinerated.”
I smirked at the irony. What constituted an insult to the colonists was the preferred rite of gypsies, though they performed their traditional memorials within a stone-ringed pyre.
“I understand. But perhaps I can check in case there was a mistake.”
She pursed her lips. “There were no mistakes.”
“May I see?” I persisted.
Her eyes grazed me from coiffed head to boot. “If you insist.” She led me down a flight of stairs and into a dimly lit vault room. The smell told me gypsy corpses did not warrant the standard refrigeration. Instead of lying in chilled drawers, a row of ten metallic tables held the bodies of the dead, each under its own sanitary sheet.
“I’ll wait for you upstairs,” she said, her voice muffled behind a hand that probably failed to block the stench.
“Understood. I’ll only be a moment.” I waited for her to disappear back up the steps. With sadness, I noted the tables had been pressed together to accommodate more bodies, some lying across the joining lines. So many had died at the hands of the Crimson Guard without cause.
Or was there a cause?
Had Saloma’s group created the animosity or merely reacted to it?
How could peace dwell in the face of so much fear and anger?
One by one, I lifted the shrouds and examined the faces of the dead. Handsome in their features regardless of age, the gypsies all wore tousled curls, some matted in blood or showing signs of second-degree burns. Their olive skin was further browned by the sun, and the lines on their faces showed how often they’d smiled or scowled. The lone female was an adolescent. What future happiness had she forfeited in that senseless battle?
Though I was specifically searching for him, seeing my father’s face drained the strength from my legs in one breath. Crumpling to my knees, I clutched the edge of the table and blinked the tears from my eyes.
“Oh, Claus. Father. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Forcing myself to my feet again, I drank in my last look at him. The curve of his ears like mine. The nose like mine. How he had smiled at me with laughter and kindness! Stroking his hair, I studied his face. “I want to have your vision. I want to see people as friends. How do I do that when there is so much prejudice?”
His oft-spoken words echoed in my mind. “No need to feel threatened unless your actual life is in danger. All the rest comes and goes with the wind and the tides of life anyway.” Unlike others, he never felt oppressed or belittled, not because it never happened to him, but because he didn’t let it bother him. He was content in his lesser station, even though he had once consorted with dignitaries as the husband of the Carenian Empire’s princess.
I found his hand. Holding it, I promised, “I’ll find a way. I’ll bring people together even if I have to make them do it.” Stooping to kiss his forehead, I whispered, “I love you. Claus. My gypsy father.”
I continued down the line of bodies, examining each one. As expected, my mother was not among them. She’d chosen the life of a gypsy and fate had given her the fitting final rites in the pyre of a burning building.
20 ~ The Network
As I packed my few belongings, I cradled my patchwork satchel with new reverence. It was my last connection to my father. Like my mother, he was ashes by now, every tiny fragment of him representing the innumerable blessings of each breath of fresh air and beautiful natural sight beheld over a lifetime.
Slinging the satchel over my shoulder, I glanced down at my bright gypsy skirt and vests. When I returned to Docking Bay to take the express transport back to the Arxon, I’d don my stationary clothes, but for now, I’d wear my mother’s clothes.
I took the stairs down from our suite, each landing adding another kilo of loneliness to my shoulders. No mother, no father, no clear identity. My future orbited the Granbo star in a giant, prestigious, sterile, boring city-station. Except for Dag, the prospect filled me with dread.
At the bottom of the stairs, I greeted the innkeeper. He raised his eyebrows at my attire but said nothing. I approached his desk and spoke through the holographic images swirling in a cone before him.
“I’m sorry about all the strangeness of our stay. So many comings and goings.”
The corner of his mouth drooped. “Not enough comings, I think. You seem to be losing companions by the day.”
I nodded. “And now it’s my turn. We paid in advance, so my early departure shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
“You’re leaving for good?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for making room for us.” The tremor in my voice threatened to give way to sobbing if I didn’t get out soon.
He shrugged. “You caused no trouble for me. Have a safe journey to wherever you’re going.”
With a wave, I trudged outside into the damp morning air. I knew some gypsy campgrounds lay not far to the east, so I lowered my head against the light drizzle and skirted the buildings to catch as much shelter as I could before launching into the woods. I’d need to sell the last few blends to make money for my transport ticket home, and these particular remedies were more popular with gypsies.
Rounding the last warehouse on the far side of town, I slammed into a broad chest. “Sorry!”
“I can’t decide if you look good or bad, but at least you look gypsy.”
I sagged with relief. Saloma stood beside a man who towered over me by a full head.
“This is Brita,” said Saloma to the man. “The one I told you about.”
I didn’t want to know what she’d been telling him. Hopefully not too much about my lineage or my marriage. Both might upset the wrong person.
“Hello,” I said weakly.
He struck out a hand. “I’m Jule.”
I shook his hand, stealing a glance up at his face. He was older than Saloma by half, I guessed. Lines gathered at the outer edges of his eyes instead of between them.
“Where are you headed?” asked Saloma, her tone soft.
“I was hoping to do some last-minutes sales. Are there any camps going by the river through the woods?”
“We just came from it.” Jule eyed my satchel with interest. “What’ve you got?’
The unusual bulge of the satchel probably threw him off, but without my backpack, I needed to consolidate. “Most of this is clothes and a cook kit, but I have some blends.”
“Anything from off-world?” asked Saloma. “We’ve got enough Rik stuff.”
“Of course. And some new recipes I learned from a woman I met on Tye.”
Saloma put her hands on her hips and looked up at Jule. “Well? What do you think?”
“I think our other errands can wait.” He grinned. “Let’s take her back.” With a friendly slap on my back, he ushered me into the encroaching forest.
For most of the walk, I held my peace and listened to Saloma and Jule chat comfortably with each other. Seeing her interact with another gypsy was interesting. I pondered the irony of her hatred towards stationaries for shutting gypsies out, yet she clearly favored being with her own kind, too.
“I was grateful my identity was not made public.” A hint of a smile played at her lips, and she nodded at me. “Thanks for that.”
“I hope you’ve returned the favor.” My throat tightened. Would it really matter anymore? Levia was dead. Dulcea was dead. No one knew where Rora hid.
“Of course.” She turned to the man. “Jule, would you be willing to run ahead and see if we can’t make a space for Brita in one of the tents?”
He set off at a jog, and I tried to decide if he was a helpful gypsy friend or
an obedient underling.
“Tell me,” said Saloma. “Are you planning to follow in your grandmother’s footsteps, or your mother’s?”
“Neither.” I hesitated. “Don’t I have to make my own path?”
She merely cocked an eyebrow at me.
“I have no ambitions for planet-wide power, if that’s what you mean, but I do wish we could all come together on more equal footing, as Levia tried to do.”
Saloma seemed pleased by this response. “I was a child when she died. The rumors flew all over the System. She’d been a figure of hope for many, a champion for the underprivileged.” Her lips twisted. “I wonder what would have happened if she’d succeeded. Would the power have corrupted her?”
My bias came from the stories of my mother, but I couldn’t believe Levia would have become a tyrant. “I think if someone’s going to get drunk on power, it will show up early in their character and interactions. They don’t have to literally rule a world before that takes hold of them.”
Saloma narrowed her eyes as if thinking this through, and we walked on in silence. Only the crunching of underbrush beneath our feet and the occasional faint twitter of birds disturbed the peace.
“Remember when you helped me in the lagoon after the fanep attack?” asked Saloma when we paused at the edge of a stream curling across our path. “Levia liked faneps. It’s a little strange, don’t you think?”
“They’re humanoid, if not verbal.”
“Almost like monkeys from the ancient world.”
Not knowing what she meant, I remained quiet.
“Why do you think she kept faneps?” she asked.
“I only heard about one, and I guess it gave her a special pearl or something.”
This piqued her interest. “Was it valuable?”
“In a manner of speaking. Apparently, Levia claimed it gave her extra strength and wisdom. I have no idea how that would work, though. Feels very mystic and mysterious if you ask me.”
