Bringing Stella Home

by Joe Vasicek

  “Please, make yourself comfortable,” said Zeline, motioning to a large couch in the center. “Would you like some juice?”

  “Um, yes, thank you,” said Sholpan, taking a seat. Zeline sat in a chair facing her.

  “Jahan!”

  A small boy peeked out from the inner doorway. Zeline smiled and reached out a hand to him. He hesitated a moment before running to her side and hiding his face behind her hand.

  “Jahan, get some juice for our guest.”

  The boy squinted at Sholpan, who smiled and waved. His cheeks flushed red, but he gave her an adorable smile before scampering away.

  “That is my son,” said Zeline, once he was gone.

  “He’s very handsome,” said Sholpan. “What was his name? Ja—Jo—”

  “Jahan. I named him after my grand uncle.”

  “I see,” said Sholpan. “Is he—I mean, is Qasar the father?”

  Zeline gave her a puzzled look. “Of course. Qasar is our husband, isn’t he?”

  Sholpan’s stomach dropped. “Ah, yes,” she said, her cheeks turning deep red. “That’s right. I forgot.”

  Zeline laughed. “You’ve never been a fourth wife, I take it?”

  “No,” said Sholpan, trying to hide her discomfort. “In fact, I’m not used to being a wife at all.”

  “I see. You seem so young, I would hardly think otherwise.”

  Zeline is the opposite of Lady Borta in almost every way, Sholpan thought to herself. I might have a chance to make friends with this woman.

  Jahan came out again, carefully carrying a tray which was almost as big as he was. On the tray sat two small glasses full of white, syrupy juice.

  “Thank you,” said Zeline, smiling as she took the tray from her son’s unsteady hands. Jahan gave one momentary glance at Sholpan before scampering off.

  “He’s a little shy,” said Zeline, offering the tray. “But he’s very well-mannered.”

  “He certainly is,” said Sholpan, taking one of the drinks. The juice was strong, sweet, and very thick. Zeline took one for herself as Sholpan set her glass down on the table.

  “How old is he?” Sholpan asked. “He looks so young. Is he your only child?”

  She only meant to start a friendly conversation. Instead, Zeline’s lips tightened, and the expression on her face grew cold.

  “Why are you so interested in my children?” she asked. From her tone of voice, it was clear that Sholpan had crossed a line.

  “I—I just wanted to know,” Sholpan answered. “Jahan is so adorable, I thought—”

  “I have borne Qasar three children,” said Zeline. “Jahan is my oldest, and if he’s half the man his father is, he’ll be commanding his first ship before your firstborn learns to speak.”

  Sholpan frowned in confusion. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “You must be very proud of him.”

  “Indeed.”

  An awkward silence fell upon them. Sholpan shifted uneasily where she sat.

  “How old was Qasar when he commanded his first ship?”

  “Barely twelve standard years, by your time,” said Zeline. “That was when he was betrothed to Borta. His first ship was too small for him to raise a family, so he organized a war party and spoiled the planetborn between Tsakari and Urunghai.”

  Sholpan blinked. “Too small for him to raise a family?”

  “Yes—it was barely more than a gunboat. His father gave it to him to win an honorable name for himself.”

  “When he was twelve?”

  “Why not? His father was eleven when he won his first battle. Many of the Generals weren’t much older than that when the Uniting took place.”

  Sholpan was stunned. Qasar was younger than me when he led his first raid, she thought to herself.

  “Is that when he captured the Lion of Tenguri?”

  “No. He won this ship in his second raid, while Borta was pregnant with their firstborn. That was nearly fifteen years ago, as you count them.”

  Fifteen years—Sholpan was barely a toddler at that time. She was still wearing diapers, and her future husband was already terrorizing the starlanes.

  “When did Qasar take his second wife?” she asked.

  Zeline raised an eyebrow. “After Borta? Not long, but his second and third marriages were both political. Neither of them gave him sons, however, so after he’d built a sizable fleet, he sent them back.”

  “Sent them back?”

  “Yes,” said Zeline. “Sent them back to their fathers’ ships. It sparked a war with one of the families—a war which Qasar won.”

  Sholpan swallowed. Didn’t bear sons, she thought nervously to herself. The thought made her rub her stomach and wonder with some apprehension whether she carried a son yet in her own belly. She didn’t know which would be worse—to bear children so soon or not.

  “How many sons does Qasar have?” she asked.

  “Alive? About ten. Borta herself bore him seven, but most of them are dead.”

  Sholpan’s eyes widened. “How did they die?”

  “In battle.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  “That’s—that’s terrible.”

  “Better to die honorably in battle than to be murdered on one’s own ship,” said Zeline. She gave Sholpan a meaningful look.

  Sholpan’s hands began to shake. “If you’re talking about Borta’s death,” she said, “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Perhaps,” said Zeline, “but Gazan doesn’t think so.”

  “Gazan?”

  “Yes, Borta’s firstborn. Don’t you know of him?”

  I do now.

  “Her firstborn? Why doesn’t he have his own ship yet?”

  “Because he hasn’t yet taken a wife. Besides, the Lion of Tenguri is more than ample enough for all of Qasar’s family.”

  Not when some of them are trying to kill each other, Sholpan wanted to say. Instead, she only nodded.

  “So Gazan blames me for his mother’s death?”

  “Of course. Whom else would he blame?”

  Sholpan didn’t know how to answer that. She had to admit that from Gazan’s point of view, her innocence was questionable.

  “What do you believe?”

  Zeline shrugged. “We’re content to believe what Qasar wants us to believe.” She turned and took a sip of her juice.

  So Gazan is the key, Sholpan thought to herself. This war is between him and me—the others probably don’t want to get involved.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Zeline gave her a funny look. “Thank you for what?”

  “For—for your hospitality,” said Sholpan, recovering quickly. “It was good to meet you.”

  “Indeed,” said Zeline. “And you as well.”

  From her flat tone of voice, however, Sholpan doubted the sentiment was sincere.

  * * * * *

  Sholpan found Gazan on the bridge the next day. When she arrived, a pair of lightly armored soldiers stood in front of the door, blocking her path. Undaunted, she pressed forward—as Qasar’s wife, she’d let no underling stop her.

  “Do you have business here, milady?” the older one asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I need to speak with Prince Gazan. Is he here?”

  The soldiers conferred for a moment. Sholpan drew in a breath and did her best to seem confident.

  “The prince is on the bridge,” said the first one. “If you wish to speak with him, I’ll bring him out.”

  “I’d rather not speak with him out here,” Sholpan said quickly. “Our business is…private.”

  The soldiers eyed her uneasily for a moment, as if unsure what to do. Sholpan stared at them as if they were idiots, willing them to let her pass. To her surprise, it worked; after a few awkward moments, they shuffled aside and let her through.

  The bridge was much larger than she had expected, with enough stations to seat at least thirty people. Dozens of displays and indicator panels had been added to the ori
ginal civilian design, but even with the numerous modifications, the place didn’t feel tacked together. The additions were welded in place, not taped or glued, and the wires running along the floor were carefully bundled.

  For all its size, however, the bridge was surprisingly empty. Sholpan saw only three men in the room; two seated on the far side, with the third one standing next to them. The first two wore the light armor characteristic of the lesser officers, but the third—a young, beardless man—wore a gray robe almost identical to Qasar’s.

  That must be Gazan, Sholpan told herself. She took a deep breath and stepped forward.

  “Milady,” said one of the officers, “what are you doing here?”

  “Looking for my husband’s son,” she said, looking each them in the eye in turn. “Would any of you be him?”

  “The bridge is no place for a woman,” said Gazan, staring at her with unfeigned contempt. “Do you not know where your husband is? Or have you fallen out of favor so quickly?”

  Sholpan ignored the insult and did her best to smile. “You are Borta’s son Gazan, I take it?”

  The prince sneered. “Yes,” he said. “I am the late Borta’s son. You would do well to remember it.”

  “Ah,” said Sholpan, bowing graciously. “I hope you’ll forgive me—I’m afraid I’m new to the ship.”

  “I can tell.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Don’t mock me,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

  Sholpan swallowed. It’s now or never.

  “Master Gazan, would you care to join me for coffee on the observation deck? I think it would be good for us to get to know each other a little better.”

  Gazan narrowed his eyes. “When?”

  “Whenever is convenient for you, Master—”

  “Two hours.”

  His quick answer caught her by surprise. “Two hours? Well, ah, certainly we can—”

  “Is there a problem with that?”

  “No problem, Master Gazan, no problem at all. I’ll be pleased to see you then.”

  “As will I.”

  Sholpan bowed again, much more awkwardly this time. The three men’s eyes followed her as she turned and left the bridge, hoping that she hadn’t just set up a duel.

  * * * * *

  Two hours later, Sholpan nervously paced the main observation deck. With Engus and two other servants busy setting the small table in the center of the room, she had nothing to do but wait. The spaciousness of the room felt oppressive to her, and the starfield, though magnificent through the enormous windows, comforted her little.

  The two hour mark came and went. Engus draped a towel over the platters of sweetcakes and stood idly next to the other servants, frowning. He clearly thought that the whole affair was a waste of his time. At least he has to obey me now, Sholpan thought to herself. That was one of the perks of being Qasar’s wife—one of the few perks.

  The hiss of a door broke her away from her thoughts. A figure stood silhouetted in the open doorway, lit from behind. Sholpan swallowed and drew herself up—even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew who it was.

  “Master Gazan,” she said. “Please, come in.”

  Without a word, Prince Gazan stepped inside. The door hissed shut, and the darkness on the far side of the room shrouded the young man’s face. His heavy boots echoed in the silence, each footstep sharp and distinct. He walked slowly, taking his time.

  “Welcome,” said Sholpan as he stepped into the light surrounding the table. She gave a short bow.

  He stopped and stared at her without returning the gesture. His eyes shifted to the table, then to the servants, then to her again.

  “Please,” she said, “come in and eat. Make yourself at home.”

  “I don’t make it a general practice to put myself at ease in the presence of my enemies,” he said softly. “Neither should you.”

  “I don’t see any reason why we should be enemies, Master Gazan.”

  He scowled. “Is that what you said to my mother?”

  That’s certainly not what she said to me.

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” she said instead. “Truly, I am. Believe me—I know what it feels like to lose the ones you love.”

  Gazan’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

  “I know it won’t alleviate your suffering, but I promise you, I had nothing to do with her murder. My servant Narju acted entirely on his own. He believed that your mother was a threat and did his best to defend me.”

  “A loyal servant, then?” he said, his voice dangerously low.

  “Yes.”

  Gazan smiled. “Then let us test the loyalty of your new ones, shall we?” He turned to the servants. “Leave us.”

  Sholpan’s blood ran cold. “No,” she commanded. “Stay here.”

  The younger two glanced nervously from her to Gazan, unsure what to do. Engus, however, turned and made for the door.

  “Engus!” she said in a loud, commanding voice. “Where are you going? Come back!”

  But Engus ignored her. As he reached the door, he turned and barked orders at the others. They both gave her a sheepish look, then turned and ran after their superior.

  “No—wait! Stop!” she shouted, her voice becoming frantic. “Tariq, Zaid! I order you to stop at once. Can you hear me? I order you to come back!”

  Neither of them acknowledged her.

  I should run now, Sholpan thought to herself. If I hurry, I can reach the door before it closes—before they leave me alone with Gazan.

  Even as the thought came to her mind, however, Sholpan knew that it wasn’t an option. If word reached the other wives that she had run from Gazan like a frightened little girl—that Gazan had ordered her own servants, in her presence, against her own command—they would walk all over her for the rest of her life.

  She stood her ground and swallowed. Across the room, the door hissed shut.

  “You’re still here,” Gazan observed. He moved towards her, hands clenched into fists.

  “Yes,” said Sholpan, struggling to keep her voice even. “As I said before, Master Gazan, I don’t see any reason why we should be…”

  Her voice trailed off as Gazan stepped closer. “You killed my mother, you bitch.” His eyes glowed with hatred.

  “N-no,” Sholpan stuttered, stepping away from him. “I promise you, I had nothing to do with it.”

  He kept coming, faster now. She edged around the table, trying to keep it between the both of them.

  “Pl-please,” she said, unable to hide her fear any longer. “Please don’t do this.”

  In a single movement, Gazan lifted the edge of the table and flung it to the side. The coffee and pastries spilled across the floor, while the tableware shattered into thousands of tiny shards. The sudden noise exploded in her ears, and her legs all but gave out from sheer terror.

  And then, to her surprise, Sholpan’s mind cleared.

  “Think carefully about what you’re doing, Gazan,” she said in a calm, even voice. “We don’t have to be enemies. I lost my mother, too—my mother and all of my family. I know what it feels like, and I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

  “Why should I believe you?” he hissed.

  “Because I’m risking my life to say it.”

  For a few moments, Gazan said nothing. Then, without warning, he shouted and charged. Sholpan barely had time to scream before he was on her.

  The first blow knocked her clean off her feet. Time slowed as she fell through the air, pain blossoming across the side of her face. She landed on the floor with a loud crack, and for a moment her vision swam with stars.

  Whatever had held Gazan back before, it was gone now. He pulled her up and struck her again and again. She screamed and tried to shield herself, but a blow struck her square in the right eye, making the world go red. A powerful kick connected with her stomach, and she doubled over in pain.

  “Stop!” she cried. “Please, stop!”

  Gazan struck he
r all the harder, filling her world with pain. The taste of blood filled her mouth, and her breathing came in short, uneven gasps. After a few more blows, he paused long enough to grab her blouse and tear it off her body. Sholpan tried to fight him off, but she was too weak to stop him. Rough hands pinned her face up against the floor, then reached for her skirt and pulled it down.

  He’s going to rape me, she realized. She closed her eyes, powerless to do anything else.

  Then, to her surprise, he stopped. For a long while, he knelt over her bruised and broken body, strangely hesitant. A moment later, he was gone.

  For the next long while, Sholpan passed in and out of consciousness. She didn’t know how long he had beat her, or how long she lay on the floor after he’d left. Somehow, she managed to make it to the door, stopping to check herself over.

  Bruises covered her arms and legs; her left knee was too weak to support her body, the right side of her face was swollen, and several of her ribs felt like they were broken. When she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, it came away bloody. Her clothes were in tatters, bloodstained and ruined.

  What just happened? she wondered as she glanced back at the room. The wreckage of the food and dinnerware lay as still as an alien landscape. Outside the windows, the magnificent starfield bathed the scene in cold light.

  Chapter 21

  “What do you mean, you want to cancel our contract?” said James. “We know Stella’s alive; we know where she is; we even have the Hameji transport—”

  “I lost half my men in the last battle, Ensign. I’m not going to risk losing any more.”

  James clenched his fists as a feeling of sheer helplessness swept over him. “We don’t need to risk the whole crew,” he argued. “We just need a couple of men to put together a team—”

  “I’m not going to risk ‘a couple’ of my men,” said Danica. “I have an obligation to my crew, and I’m going to keep it.”