by T S Hottle
The woman translating what was said for the hew-maans sounded strange babbling in their language. It almost distracted Laral from the moment at hand.
“I have never had to concern myself with that issue,” said Laral. “I do not permit my indentureds to leave Realm space.”
“And yet,” said Brac, emerging from an entrance near the dais and strolling toward Laral, “you said before this very Council that you considered my brother’s concubine your property.”
“Wherever she is,” said Laral, “she belongs to me. And she is my property.”
“Even if Kai placed her in custody of the human Katergarus?” asked Fulsaad. “And sent her to Metis as Katergarus’s possession?”
Brac wore that smirk of his, the one that told the worlds that he was rich and drunken and idle and no one could do a damned thing about it. “The humans do not recognize indenture. Slavery, they call it. They’re quite self-righteous about it, actually. I understand even those who find a way around the ban get a bit pious about it.”
As the translation finished for the humans, the crowd on that side of the room broke into laughter.
“Prove this,” said Laral. “Show me the deed.”
Another cone of light appeared from the holographic array above, almost lighting up Laral as well. In front of his face hung the image of a document outlining Tishla’s agreement to submit to become Kai’s property in exchange for her education, the chain of ownership that led to the hew-maan Marq, and an electronically-added addendum nullifying the deed as Marq Katergarus took her to a planet called Metis.
“Are we sure this deed was nullified before my challenge?”
“I am more than sure.” This voice was female. And familiar.
Tishla, dressed almost like a female Warrior but stopping just shy of usurping the garb of the Warrior Caste, emerged from the entrance opposite where Brac had entered. She carried a sword.
Lattus Kai’s sword.
“I am Lattus Tishla. I agreed to become Lattus Kai’s concubine and bear him a child in exchange for my honors in genetics.” She turned to the dais, crossed her left arm across her chest, and bowed to the Sovereign. “Our Master, if it pleases Thee, the conditions for my Freedom and my obligation to Master Kai have both been met. By giving me to…” She pointed at the hologram of Marq Katergarus. “… That and sending me with him to the entity known as the Compact, I have been Freed. However, before this happened, Kai knelt with me every day.” She smiled. “Several times a day he tasted me when my fertility peaked. As a result, he sent me away pregnant. I carry his twins.”
For the first time since he was a squire undergoing his first trials to become a Warrior, Laral Jorl felt real fear. “How do we know the hew-maan Katergarus did not get her pregnant?”
The translator had barely finished repeating Laral’s words when the hew-maans groaned. One even shouted, “Seriously? They don’t teach biology on your planet?” That, in turn, caused a ripple of laughter from the Gelt side of the room.
Unfortunately, it also brought a couple of laughs from the dais.
The Sovereign rapped on the table before him. “Silence.” He repeated this in the hew-maan language. “General Laral, as you can see, there have been some changes on Hanar in your brief time at Cyal. The surviving humans here have been integrated into this world. You are not only in the custody of the House of Lattus but of these aliens themselves. Who told you this world was not a legal colony under our laws or the humans’?”
Laral pointed to Katergarus’s hologram. “That one. He assured us that…”
“Both you and Lattus Kai have been exceedingly stupid. Kai I can understand. He was given a water-logged acidic bath for his first possession, and the Lattus family does not have the expertise nor the inclination to create a mining colony. However, you, General, knew better. You took the word of an alien whose species we were barely aware of only three turns ago, and instigated a military operation. Hence, if Lady Tishla, the true heir to the House of Lattus, is willing, We will place this planet under her protection. You will cede ten thousand troops of her choosing to serve as this protectorate’s defense…”
“Protectorate? Those people were conquered. We should have exterminated the-…” He stopped when the translator said the hew-maan word for “exterminated.” Were it not for the Warriors ringing the room between the crowds and Laral, Tishla, and Brac, the hew-maans might have charged him.
“Lady Tishla,” said the Sovereign. “The choice is yours. You may continue your challenge against General Laral, or you may agree to cede Hanar and Cyal to him.”
“I press my challenge, my Sovereign.”
“You expect me to carve up this child, this pregnant child, with a boy’s knife?” asked Laral. “I’d win my challenge only to become a pariah.”
“Maybe you should quit lusting after your friends’ concubines,” said Brac.
“Silence,” said the Sovereign. “General, your challenge against Lattus Kai has been lawfully contested by his heir.”
“She is property!”
“Not under the laws of indenture. Now, accept Lady Tishla’s challenge, or forfeit all your holdings.”
Laral felt himself deflate, his shoulders and head sagging. “I accept the challenge.” He looked up and glared at Tishla. “It will be a pleasure to butcher you, little girl.”
“Lady Tishla,” said Hereesh, an admiral who once served as Laral’s squire, “the laws of the Warrior Caste do not allow General Laral to do battle with a pregnant woman. Do you have a champion to stand in your place?”
“I have selected,” said Tishla, “and he has consented. I choose Laral Umish.”
“My oldest son?” Laral hated everyone in the room.
***
Laral returned to the dwelling where they had held him to find it dark. The place disgusted him, a hew-maan dwelling. He refused to say, even silently, the name of the Tianese properly. He could still smell their stench everywhere in the “house.”
What a joke, calling this a house. It barely qualified as a peasant’s shack. And yet these hew-maans had clung to them so fiercely, Brac and Tishla gave some of them back. What was that little whore up to?
A knock came, and a hew-maan guard entered, escorted by a Gelt enforcer. “This,” the hew-maan said, not even bothering to attempt the Mother Tongue, “came for you on the last transport.” He held up a small device and rubbed his thumb across the surface of it. The back of Laral’s hand tingled indicating a new message received by the chip in his wrist. “Whoever sent the message also sent you a package.”
Laral gazed at the hew-maan, bile rising in his throat. After I refute the claim, I’m going to make sure an accident happens to you vermin on your “safe passage” to Metis, the Sovereign be damned.
The Gelt enforcer handed him a small box. The enforcer crossed his fists over his chest and bowed. “Sire.”
Not even “My Lord.” Laral decided he would kidnap Tishla when all this died down and put her to her proper use. In the meantime, Laral returned the salute, not even making eye contact with the hew-maan. “Dismissed.”
When the guards left, Laral fingered the back of his hand, expected the nano-tattoo to render a text or a video message there. Instead, the lights darkened in the house’s main room as a cone of light appeared from the holo projector. The image of Umish appeared within.
“Father,” he said. “By now you know I have agreed to stand in Lady Tishla’s place. I have sent this message to tell you why.”
Looking into Umish’s face was like looking a mirror of his younger self. Like Umish, Laral once shaved off all his hair. He also had sported the facial tattoos of the Sovereign’s Elite. Having them removed upon attaining his Third Degree in the Warrior Caste had been a rite of passage. Would Umish survive long enough to undergo the process?
“I have seen the original agreement you made with Lattus Kai,” said Umish. “You agreed to accept Essenar as payment for the worlds now known as Hanar and Cyal. The contracts were
binding, and breaking them is a Blood Crime.”
They were not. Umish had a lot to learn about the real rules between Castes. If he survived tomorrow…
“You have brought shame upon the family and the Caste,” said Umish, now snarling like a young Warrior hunting his prey. “To allow you to live without answering for it is to allow our shame to continue. So, father, before The Sovereign, before Council, either I will kill you in honorable combat, or I will deny you an heir.”
Tishla would pay for killing Laral’s son, using his very own hand as the weapon.
“There is, however, an alternative, father. You will find it in the package I’ve sent along. Until we meet in combat, farewell.” Umish did not even salute before the hologram faded.
Laral opened the package sent along with the hologram. Inside lay a shock pistol, a common sidearm among some of the Realm’s lesser troops. It was an odd weapon, even for the Gelt. One shot would be nonlethal, but successive shots in short order became more powerful. On Gelt Warriors, three or four shots would rupture most of the internal organs. Unless…
Suicide stories among conscripts and peasant troops frequently featured someone putting a cold shock pistol into one’s mouth and firing. The contained energy, even at nonlethal levels, would cause the brain to swell up and explode the skull. Laral had never seen it, but he knew some of the stories were true.
A slip of the fibrous paper the hew-maans favored lay at the bottom of the box. Someone had written a note in a clumsy attempt at the written version of the Mother Tongue.
Laral,
I cannot imagine what you must be going through. Tomorrow, you will either be dead or a pariah, having murdered your own son over a silly pregnant girl. I can’t imagine how you will face your Sovereign if you survive. So I got you something that might help.
When I brought you the original tuber, I said only the first one was free. That’s just good business among my people. However, there are exceptions. Please accept this gift. I heard this was your favorite model.
- Marq Katergarus
Laral examined the shock pistol. It had a full charge.
They found his headless body the next morning.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The original version of this novella was edited by Stacy Robinson, who is rapidly becoming one of the foremost experts on the Compact Universe. She’s why there's a Tishla novella.
The Marilynists
Seeds of War Arc Book 2
The Marilynists
Copyright 2015, TS Hottle
Cover Design: Clayborn Press, LLC
Cover Image Credit: Clayborn Press
Published by Clayborn Press, Phoenix, AZ
The following work is Copyright 2015, TS Hottle, All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written consent from the Publisher. For information please contact Clayborn Press:
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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This Edition published in July, 2018 by Clayborn Press, LLC
Printed under authorization, all rights reserved.
Originally published as part of The First One's Free (2015), and Before Amargosa, (2016).
For Margaret Hancock, fellow Central Command warrior.
T he slim black missile made a screeching noise as it scraped against the side of its hole. Around it, workers shouted at the crane operator to stop. The missile, really a ship-mounted torpedo left in a cave for storage, swayed precariously on the cables lifting it. Large rocks surrounded the opening in the ground where it had lain hidden for decades.
Douglas Best put a wet handkerchief over his face as the hot wind blew a cloud of dust up the mountain, momentarily obscuring the missile from his sight. The crew foreman, clad in a white desert suit and facemask, rushed over to him.
“I’m sorry, Minister,” he said to Best. “You may want to leave. We think we punctured the fuel tank lifting it out.”
Best would have sighed, but sighing would have meant a mouthful of sand. “How many more of these things do we have?”
“Including this one?” said the foreman. “Seven. If this one blows, you’ll have to chase that warhead all over the Mother’s creation to find it.” He smiled through his mask. “At least it’s not armed.”
Best took little comfort in that.
The crane lifted again, and the missile made a groaning noise that turned Best’s insides to jelly. He decided to heed the foreman’s advice and walked back to the awaiting tracker. Luxhomme was waiting inside.
“You could have been out there supervising,” said Best. “Has this outfit ever handled weapons of mass destruction?”
Luxhomme, a gaunt man with a pencil-thin mustache, smiled that strange little smile of his. “I am supervising. It was you, Minister, who insisted on coming to the site in person. By the way, until the crops begin to take, you might want to carry a facemask with you next time you come. 978-0765309402d is not the most forgiving planet.”
Best marveled that Luxhomme had memorized the planet’s name, a catalog designation from a forgotten survey some forty years earlier. It sounded almost musical with the lilt in his voice. He had told Best he was Etruscan, but the accent suggested someplace else. Metis maybe?
“You heard what my colleagues have named the star, haven’t you?” said Best.
“I believe an imam serving in your legislature proposed the name ‘Hell’ as a joke,” said Luxhomme. “Funny thing about legislative pranks. They sometimes get passed into law.”
“Tell me about it.”
Luxhomme rapped on the glass partition between himself and the driver. “Take us back to the inn.” To Best, he said. “So here we are on a desert planet orbiting a star about to be called Hell. Maybe they’ll call the planet ‘Perdition.’”
“That’d be original,” said Best. The Compact, the loose confederation of human worlds and their colonies, had no fewer than two dozen planets called “Perdition,” mostly airless rocks or volcanic hells sharing a system with some more hospitable and better named world. “Let’s go all the way back to our roots. We’ll call the satellite ‘Moon’ and, just to keep it consistent, this place ‘Planet.’”
Best watched the landscape change as the tracker jostled down the side of the mountain, the broad expanse of desert plain opening up before them. In the distance, Best could make out dark patches in the sand, perfect squares of gray interrupting the relentless tan of this world. “Mars won’t supply us bots to tend the farms,” he finally said. “They want too much money.”
“Strange how a socialist world wants money when they supposedly have no use for it,” said Luxhomme.
“Socialism costs money,” said Best. “Even where money ‘doesn’t exist.’” He leaned back into his seat and closed his eyes. He really did not want to talk to Luxhomme. The man made his skin crawl. Best only suffered him because it was Luxhomme that had proposed the plan to convert old military reserves into colonies. 978-0765309402d had been just such a planet. Best’s native world of Jefivah had no colonies of its own. The conversion of the military depots had provided a way to get three of them for free.
Well, not free. Behind them, a company contracted by Luxhomme’s JunoCorp struggled to keep an antiquated missile from spewing chemical fuel a
ll over the mountain peak he and Best now descended. In the distance, the dark patches indicated where desert kelp, an invention of JunoCorp itself, grew in seemingly impossible conditions. Above, a ship hired by Luxhomme’s employers waited in orbit to take the nukes off-world.
That last part bothered Best. “I still don’t entirely understand. Why wouldn’t the Navy just establish a presence here? It’d be cheaper, and the military could keep control of the weapons without going to the expense of hauling them across interstellar space.”
Luxhomme gave his thin little smile. “Oh, come now, Mr. Best. We’ve been over this before. The Polygamy Wars. Since then, no colony may keep weapons of mass destruction, only the core worlds.”
“Jefivah is a core world,” said Best. “Humanity’s oldest interstellar settlement.”
“With a low population and factional tensions that keep it from becoming… How shall I put this?”
“A real world?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
But you’re thinking it, thought Best. He’d heard the jokes. Even Earth people made fun of the planet. “The Appalachia of the Stars” they called it. How low was your standing when Earthers made fun of your world?
The tracker descended the mountainside into the settlement below. The town still consisted largely of “tuna can” landers and quickly extruded buildings. However, one building in particular caught Best’s eye, a white structure of concrete and imported wood. It had to be imported. Best had seen the surveys of this planet. Not a single tree existed here, not even near the poles. However, it wasn’t really the building itself that caught Best’s eye.
Out front, a headless statue rose thirty feet into the air. Ceramic and painted, it depicted a curvaceous woman struggling to keep her white dress from billowing up in some phantom wind. A crane stood just to the left of the statue and was hoisting the head into place, that of a blonde with the most orgasmic look on her face.
