Heart of a Traitor

by Aaron Lee Yeager

  Nariko forced her face to remain expressionless, but her mouth still opened slightly in shock.

  “You may speak,” Miho said at length.

  “Sir, it was an immoral offer and I was not honor bound to accept it,” Nariko explained. “Wielding the sword would have cost me my soul.”

  I know that wasn’t the real reason, but it’s not like I could ever admit it.

  “No one said you had to wield the sword,” Miho retorted pragmatically. “You could have simply taken it and then locked it away without ever drawing it and without ever wielding it.”

  Nariko paused for a moment. She searched for a way to spin the situation, an explanation that would leave her in a favorable light. But, try as she might, she couldn’t find one.

  “Your answer, Shosa?” Miho asked again.

  “I...I’m afraid that option did not occur to me,” Nariko explained unsteadily.

  “Of course it didn’t,” Miho insighted. “You were blinded to alternatives because you wanted an opportunity to insult Gual’Du’Har. You searched for it and when the opportunity presented itself, you took it. You placed your pride above everyone else in the division and nearly shattered our efforts on the crusade for the last eleven years.”

  She can see right through me. I feel like such a failure.

  Nariko locked down on her thoughts and stood up straight. She reminded herself that she was a Senshi and rebuked herself for not acting like it.

  “We did fulfill the contract, did we not?” Nariko asked formally.

  “Yes,” Miho answered, steepling her fingers.

  “And we did obtain the objective, did we not?” Nariko asked again, forcing herself to feel like a warrior again.

  “Yes, we now have our second sample. It took a lot of persuasion, but Gual’Du’Har finally gave us a flask of pure blood from his superior, Demon King Neroli Denunci, the Luminarch’s fourth child.”

  “And I was instrumental in the success of the campaign, was I not?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Then may I ask why I am being rebuked instead of commended?”

  Miho put the data slate down and looked directly into Nariko’s good eye.

  “Because you seem to have forgotten that you are not the only one here seeking redemption,” she elucidated.

  “Excuse me, sir, but our crusade is for the end of the curse. We have done nothing that requires redemption,” she corrected.

  Miho held Nariko’s gaze, searching her to see if she really believed what she had just said. Nariko looked coldly back at her, forcing herself to believe it was true.

  I am not going to back down from this. No matter what you say.

  Miho’s face changed to an odd expression for a Taisa. A gentle disappointment, almost motherly.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Miho said at last.

  “I do, sir,” Nariko replied squarely.

  Miho picked up the data slate again and continued tapping on it.

  “First, to repair relations with Gual’Du’Har, I informed him that you reconsidered what a generous gift Osi’Rah had offered you and have graciously accepted Dral’eth. You’ll find that the sword has already been delivered to your quarters.”

  “Ryokai,” Nariko affirmed halfheartedly with a salute.

  Miho stopped tapping her data slate and handed it to Nariko, who took it dejectedly.

  “Second, you are to be transferred to the Seventh Division, effective immediately,” Miho said gravely.

  Nariko’s mouth dropped open. “Not Fukamora’s division,” she huffed.

  The stories about the Seventh were so widespread among the six proper divisions that they even had their own titles. “The Stalling at Joured,” when Taisa Fukamora spent so long negotiating with the attractive emissaries from the capital that confederate reinforcements had time to arrive and break the siege. “The Dragon’s Free Ride,” when the Seventh spent an enormous amount of time and resources upgrading faulty power cables on the Steel Dragon’s armor, only to have them leave without paying for it. Some of the stories were so outrageous that Nariko couldn’t even take them seriously, such as Fukamora taking an alien concubine and wagering their warship in a game of poka.

  Nariko balled her fists as the full weight of what was happening came crashing down upon her.

  This is a disgrace I cannot bear. Please...I cannot be stripped of my pride. Please...it is all I have left.

  Nariko’s hand involuntarily reached for her pistol at her side.

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” Miho explained, “Your transfer will act as a cover for your insertion. Inami Fukamora has become more and more unstable over the years. She has not even bothered to attend the last two council summons. We fear that the curse has driven her insane.”

  Miho paused for a moment to let the gravity of it settle in. The Third Division had been all but annihilated when its former Taisa had fallen to the curse.

  “At the end of this cycle all seven divisions will be gathering for the tri-centennial commemoration of the crusade, at which time Inami will be removed from her position. You are to gather additional evidence of her incompetence for us to bring against her,” Miho finished.

  Nariko straightened again and put her hands at her sides.

  “A dishonor taken in secret carries no real weight,” Nariko quoted, her keen red eye reading an inscription on Miho’s desk. “While a false disgrace taken publicly does,” she said, adding her own second half to the catechism.

  Miho closed her eyes in frustration.

  “You seem to misunderstand the severity of this. This is no false disgrace. You are stripped of your rank as Shosa and are demoted to the rank of Gunsho. You are to depart immediately. Taisa Fukamora has already secured your passage onboard a privateer fleet headed in that direction.”

  Nariko stood there for a few moments, furious, quite unable to respond.

  Chapter Six

  The Belly of the Carrion

  A fact is a measure of water. It takes the shape of whatever container it is placed in, but has no true shape of its own.

  To reject the deception of fact and search after truth is to embrace the very essence of humanity.

  -Book of Cerinţǎ, Chapter 2, verses 17-18

  Nariko watched stoically as the sleek silver whale shape of the Chijiriki, the Second Division’s battle cruiser, grew smaller and smaller against the backdrop of the stars. She held her grief in check, assuring that her expression belied nothing of her inner thoughts.

  Officially, the reported reason for the demotion was her unauthorized use of the binding power. Miho had mercifully omitted the incident with Gual’Du’Har.

  I refuse to believe that she did that out of charity. She must have done me this ‘favor’ so that someday she can ask for a favor in return.

  The shuttle was taking Nariko up to the quarter-zenith jump point. Theoretically, a ship could make an ether slip from anywhere, but close proximity to gravitational fields put tremendous stress on the hull and sails. So it was common practice to enter and exit at either the zenith or nadir points, points in space above and below the disc of the system where the gravitational forces of the system balanced out with the rest of the galaxy and became as close to zero as possible.

  The fact that these privateers are using the quarter-zenith point tells me that they are either reckless, or care little for the spirits of their machines. Maybe even both. When she was stressed, Nariko always found it oddly comforting to calculate things.

  A privateer fleet was legitimized piracy, an autonomous private enterprise, given permission by the administration of Terra to raid and engage in piracy against the enemies of the Interstellar Confederacy. The Carrion operated in the northern spiral of the galaxy, which was dominated by the squabbling Gunoi tribes.

  As they approached the rendezvous point, Nariko could distantly make out the fiery wreckage of destroyed ships. They were nothing but slowly spinning, building-sized pieces of twisted metal surrounded by disch
arged atmosphere and corpses. Nariko quickly identified them as the remnants of crude Gunoi vessels, created by carving out large asteroids and fitting them with engines and filling them with whatever foul contraptions the Gunoi used to keep their craft pressurized and powered.

  In the center of the wreckage field hung about a dozen human ships of various design, corroded and disheveled. Starlight occasionally flickered off of small shuttlecraft bringing payloads back from the Gunoi ships.

  Nariko’s brow furrowed. What kind of human would pick up Gunoi filth and call it treasure? Still, more dead Gunoi is always a good thing.

  Nariko’s shuttle docked with the largest of the Carrion ships, the Scavenger. She gathered her things near the inner seal of the airlock. A duffle bag of uniforms and black null-suits, a wooden crate and the demon sword Dral’eth, which she had wrapped in several layers of cloth to prevent accidental contact. All of her personal possessions in the world. Such was the life of a Senshi, simple and efficient. Nariko knew they wouldn’t have the facilities she required for her prescribed daily training regimen, so she would have to improvise.

  Nariko slung Dral’eth over her shoulder and onto her back with her rifle, holstered her pistol on one hip and placed her hand on the hilt of her sword on the other. Entering a ship so fully armed like this was very strange, even threatening.

  Hopefully it will encourage them not to talk to me.

  She shifted her vision into the infrared. The bright silhouettes of two people awaited her on the other side, one on each side of the door. Their stances were relaxed and casual, so Nariko left her weapons deactivated.

  The two men who greeted her were Bribson Yangib, an older man with thick leathery skin, etched with tattoos and scars and Dargner Rylwag, a young man who was thin to the point of emaciation. From the poor maintenance on his cybernetic plugs, Nariko could tell he was probably only a first degree.

  Surprisingly good etiquette from the ship’s Preot to send a member of our order to meet me.

  Dargner lifted up his thin hands and made with them the first three radians, the joint, the vacuum and the piston.

  “Sfinţtenie spre aparat,” he chanted solemnly.

  “Gata eà a mĭnca teologie,” Nariko responded as she returned the radians to him. She then made the behest of the machine spirit with her hands. His eyes grew wide in wonder and Nariko knew she must seem far too young to have achieved the fourth degree.

  Nariko nodded in affirmation and stepped onto the ship.

  “Religious nuts,” Bribson mumbled under his breath as he maneuvered a wooden dolly over to wheel the crate around.

  “Did you know this ship had been mothballed early in the third century before being discovered by the great explorer Ferdinan,” Dargner explained as he led them through the dark corridors, “a famous explorer. That means the ship itself is kind of famous. Don’t you think that is shiny? I think so.” The walls were anything but shiny. Most were stained black with dripping lubricants. The floors were covered in exposed cabling and conduits, which no one had bothered to place back in their recesses. Nariko found the conditions highly disrespectful to the machine spirits and more than once she had to fight the urge to stop and begin tidying things up.

  This whole place smells like sauerkraut and feet.

  “After a brief service in the Confederate Navy as a light destroyer, it was sold to the Jurton collective in the wealthy Arduran sector before being purchased by a private owner who is currently our captain. Don’t you think that is interesting? I think it is,” Dargner prattled on.

  Bribson grunted indignantly every time the dolly got caught on a cable. “Gonna get me a lascutter and tear out all of this cursed black pasta,” he finally gritted out. Several corridors had lost power completely and were illuminated by oil torches which had been crudely welded directly to the bulkhead. Nariko was careful not to brush up against the walls and stain her uniform.

  “Without replacement parts we have been unable to perform the rites of reanimation on some of the energy ducts,” Dargner mentioned. “Don’t you think that is awful? I think so.”

  This guy is awfully chatty for a Technologist. I wish he’d just shut up.

  The lights flickered and the walls of the corridor shook violently as if they were about to come apart. From the metallic taste in her mouth, Nariko could tell that they had entered ether space.

  Making me travel in squalor like this. Who does this Inami think she is?

  The corridor opened up and they entered the main banquet hall where the spoils of the recent victory were being enjoyed by the motley assortment of men. Barrels of Gunoi fungus-beer were being distributed and several large beasts of indeterminate origin were being cooked over an open fire pit that had been created in the center of the hall.

  “Naturally this hall was not designed to have a fire pit in it,” Dargner explained, waving his hand to clear the fumes in front of him, “so we cut a passage through the bulkhead so that most of the smoke could channel into the cargo deck above us. Isn’t that clever? I think it is.” He led Nariko through the walkways between the crowded tables, where bones and discarded pieces of food were tossed thoughtlessly, left for the dogs and rats. Finally they reached the head table where the Carrion leaders sat.

  Don Kielter was a bear of a man. His beady eyes shone out brightly from the small band of flesh between his massive beard and his long, unkempt hair. Bits of food and grime decorated his whole person.

  Nariko could detect the aggression in the air before she even saw the bodies slumped over the table. Davones Idjo, the captain of the Geller by his insignia, pointed a bloody cutlass at the Don as his slipshod words left his toothless mouth.

  “I didn’t sign the articles and join this romp of yers just to eat Gunoi filth,” he hissed. The drunken men around them grumbled in accordance.

  Don Kielter took another bite of the gristly meat and looked at the man sharply as he chewed.

  “You’ve never heard of Ardura, have you, Davones?” Don Kielter said, pointing a dirty finger at him. “The first thing you learn when you live in the slums is to never steal anything you can’t run off with. You have to pick your prey with care, ‘cause you make one mistake and you’re dead. Sure, we could have attacked a traitor warship instead, but we would have lost three-quarters of our ships doing it. Then what would we have? A battleship full of swag and not enough time to load it up before the rest of the traitors fell upon us. Would you have been happier then, I wonder?”

  Don Kielter sat back and let his point sink in.

  “You grew up a merchant’s son, Davones, so you’ll keep your opinion on stealing to yourself from now on,” Don Kielter ordered. “Now that we’ve got a year’s worth of food, we’re gonna start raiding like you’ve never seen before and we’ll end up with twice as many ships and men when we’re done. So just keep your toothless hole shut.”

  The other captains reluctantly backed down, but Davones wouldn’t. “And how do ye expect to do any better than before?” he questioned.

  Don Kielter smiled, revealing his perfectly straight white teeth. “Because I got us a special weapon this time,” he chuckled.

  Don Kielter began retelling one of his favorite gang-war stories from Ardura. From the expressions of the men nearby, Nariko could tell that they had heard this whopper many times before.

  This guy’s authority is hanging by a thread.

  While Don Kielter told his story, Nariko was approached by a slave with a heavy metallic collar around her neck. She held out a plate of gristle and fat, which gave off a musty smell.

  “I’m fasting,” Nariko excused.

  When the Don finished his story, Dargner stepped forward.

  “I’m pleased to announce that Neareko Aymeno has arrived,” he said proudly.

  Nariko winced. She hated it when foreigners tried to pronounce her name. Several of those present regarded the bandages over her right eye apprehensively.

  “Welcome aboard the Scavenger, Miss Aymeno,” Don Kielter
said, raising his hands in greeting. “Your quarters have already been prepared. This you see is but an impromptu squabble. Once we’ve put a sector between us and Uragan space, we’ll have a proper victory celebration,” Don Kielter shouted the last part, eliciting drunken cheers from the men in the hall. “We would be honored if you and your escort would join us.” Don Kilter bowed deeply.

  Nariko thanked him, but did not bow in return. Respect was for equals.

  “I decline the invitation,” Nariko responded, finding no reason to hold back the disgust from her voice. She spun around and began walking out of the hall.

  Why is the Luminarch trying my patience like this? I gotta get out of here before I put a sword through one of these guys.

  “Will your escort be joining us, then?” Don Kielter shouted.

  “I do not have an escort,” Nariko barked, “and I resent your presumptuousness.”

  As Nariko walked away Don Kielter and the other captains looked at each other expectantly.

  “I assumed she would be traveling with someone,” Davones cackled.

  “As did I,” Don Kielter said wolfishly.

  A few minutes later, Nariko was taken to her damp, filthy quarters, where her crate had already been delivered. Unceremoniously tossing Dral’eth into a corner, she looked at her chronometer and sighed. She had missed midday prayers entirely. She debated doing them late. After all, no one was around to notice, but it bothered her to do them wrong, even if she wouldn’t get caught.

  After completing her prayers, Nariko put herself to work. She opened the crate and pulled out her cultiva tank. Teasing open a rusty wall access panel, Nariko began scrying the spirits running through the cables beneath. They told her of misuse and disuse, the two deadly sins of Technologist theology. She found no attempts at hidden surveillance in her quarters, which both relieved and surprised her at the same time. Unfortunately, none of the power lines running near her room would be adequate for what she needed.

  “I’m sorry, you don’t deserve this,” Nariko apologized to her pistol as she caressed it affectionately. She opened its housing and began the ritual of uniting. Twenty minutes later, with the pistol attached to the base by various cables, the tank hummed to life. The clear liquid inside glowed a faint blue, with small bubbles of metal forming and dissolving again along the inner walls.